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Which utter'd from its wondrous clock
The only thought she had of Time.
The Sexton's Daughter.
For now came trooping up the hill The young and old, the faint and strong;
The white-frock'd men the sunshine fill,
And girls, a many-colour'd throng.
The sires of all from age to age
And in the porch, or on the green, And in the pause between the prayers, She marked each various face and mien
With eyes that softened theirs.
She marked the mild gray head serene, Or happy look of youthful glow,
Would stamp upon her infant thought A fear ill understood. 43.
She turned from these and blushed, and heard
With deeper sense the prayer and praise,
And oft some strange but holy word Her soul in vague delight could raise. 44. The child between her parents knelt,
Who prayed the more to God above, Because so close to them they felt The dearest gift of heavenly love.
And well that heart the mother
Which he but as from far could prize ;
Of passion's sad Sublime;
The war of Will and Doom may bring,
Heavy and stern came down the blow
And many books had Henry read,
7. With these he dwelt, because within His breast was full of silent fire. No praise of men he cared to win, More high was his desire ; 8. To be, to know whate'er of Good To man below is given; And, asking Truth as daily food, Seek little more from Heaven. 9.
To him the friend of all his days
And each upon the other gazed,
Few moments they together stayed, And few the broken words they spake, And parted so, the man and maid, Their separate paths alone to take,
For he was weak and oft in pain ;
And she had lived in cities wide,
And peopled earth's commotion.
And books had she a precious store,
Or undiscovered realms for him. 13.
A surgeon had the husband been, Who left this young and widowed bride;
He left her while her leaves were green,
But ah! they withered when he died. 14.
When pained below he looked above, Yet scorned no flower of nature's sod.
And when to fill the ripening man
Though small the help 'twas hers to give,
For deep not wide her best of lore,"Still, still," she said, " by Conscience
"My son, for these to toil is good,
And Peace and Truth from Heaven Devoutest peace around she shed, The calm without the trance of sleep.
He knew not if he slept or woke,
And showed his mother's grassy tomb.
And when the toilsome day was past,
A flitting wish and soon recalled;
And o'er it floated, borne in air,
Her looks like summer lightning spread,
And filled the boundless heavenly deep;
He knew not how, but soon was gone The phantom shape that blessed his eyes;
The churchyard Yew-tree, black and lone,
Stood up against the starry skies.