A POET'S EPITAPH.

Art thou a Statesman, in the van
Of public business trained and bred?
-First learn to love one living man;
Then mayst thou think upon the dead.

A Lawyer art thou ?-draw not nigh; Go, carry to some other place

eye,

The hardness of thy coward

The falsehood of thy sallow face.

Art thou a Man of purple cheer?

A rosy Man, right plump to see? Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near: This grave no cushion is for thee.

Art thou a man of gallant pride,
A Soldier, and no man of chaff?
Welcome !-but lay thy sword aside,
And lean upon a Peasant's staff.

Physician art thou? One, all eyes,
Philosopher! a fingering slave,
One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave ?

Wrappt closely in thy sensual fleece
O turn aside, and take, I pray,
That he below may rest in peace,

Thy pin-point of a soul away!

-A Moralist perchance appears;

Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:

And He has neither eyes nor ears;

Himself his world, and his own God;

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling

Nor form, nor feeling, great nor small;

A reasoning, self-sufficient thing,

An intellectual All in All!

Shut close the door; press down the latch;

Sleep in thy intellectual crust;

Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch

Near this unprofitable dust.

But who is He, with modest looks,

And clad in homely russet brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.

He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noonday grove;
And

you must love him, ere to you

He will seem worthy of your love.

The outward shows of sky and earth,

Of hill and valley, he has viewed ;

And impulses of deeper birth

Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart,
-The harvest of a quiet eye

That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

But he is weak, both Man and Boy,

Hath been an idler in the land;

Contented if he might enjoy

The things which others understand.

-Come hither in thy hour of strength; Come, weak as is a breaking wave! Here stretch thy body at full length; Or build thy house upon this grave.

A FRAGMENT.

Between two sister moorland rills

There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flowrets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.

And in this smooth and open dell
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a cottage hut;
And in this dell you see

A thing no storm can e'er destroy,
The shadow of a Danish Boy.

In clouds above, the Lark is heard,

He sings his blithest and his best ; 淹

VOL. II.