The mother turn'd-a way-worn man, "Am I so changed?—and yet we two My thoughts are dim with clouds of care- "Life hath been heavy on my head; Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled, -She gazed-till thoughts that long had slept, She fell upon his neck, and wept, And breathed her brother's name. Her rother's name!-and who was he, That came, the bitter world to flee, A stranger to his own? -He was the bard of gifts divine, To sway the hearts of men; He of the song for Salem's shrine, He of the Sword and Pen! TO THE POET WORDSWORTH, THINE is a strain to read amongst the hills, Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken To the still breast, in some sweet garden-bowers, Where summer winds each tree's low tones awaken, And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay. Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, When night hath hush'd the woods with all their birds, There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet As antique music, link'd with household words. While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might move, And the raised eye of childhood shine in love. Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews True bard and holy!-thou art e'en as one THE SONG OF THE CURFEW. HARK! from the dim church-tower, Sadly 'twas heard by him who came Sadly and sternly heard As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow, Which had cheer'd the board, with the mirthful word, And the red wine's foaming flow Until that sullen, booming knell, Flung out from every fane, Woe for the wanderer then In the wild-deer's forests far! |