And it wasn't the same old comfort when he call'd around to
On a branch of foreign travel he was sure at last to tree us:
All unconscious of his error, he would sweetly patronize us,
And with oft-repeated stories still endeavour to surprise us.
And the sinners got to laughing; and that fin'lly gall'd and stung us
To ask him, "Would he kindly once more settle down among us? Didn't he think that more home-produce would improve our souls' digestions?"
They appointed me committee-man to go and ask the questions.
I found him in his garden, trim an' buoyant as a feather;
He press'd my hand, exclaiming, "This is quite Italian weather;
How it 'minds me of the evenings when, your distant hearts
caressing,
Upon my benefactors I invoked the heavenly blessing!"
I went and told the brothers, "No, I cannot bear to grieve him;
He's so happy in his exile, it's the proper place to leave him.
I took that journey to him, and right bitterly I rue it ;
But I cannot take it from him: if you want to, go and do it."
Now a new restraint entirely seem'd next Sunday to infold him, And he look'd so hurt and humbled that I knew some one had told him.
Subdued-like was his manner, and some tones were hardly vocal; But every word he utter'd was pre-eminently local.
The sermon sounded awkward, and we awkward felt who heard it:
'Twas a grief to see him hedge it, 'twas a pain to hear him word it:
"When I was in-" was, maybe, half a dozen times repeated,
But that sentence seem'd to scare him, and was always uncom-
pleted.
As weeks went on, his old smile would occasionally brighten,
But the voice was growing feeble, and the face began to whiten :
He would look off to the eastward with a listful, weary sighing;
And 'twas whisper'd that our pastor in a foreign land was dying.
The coffin lay 'mid garlands smiling sad as if they knew us;
The patient face within it preach'd a final sermon to us:
Our parson had gone touring on a trip he'd long been earning,
In that wonder-land whence tickets are not issued for returning.
O tender, good-soul'd shepherd! your sweet smiling lips, halfparted,
Told of scenery that burst on you just the minute that you started! Could you preach once more among us, you might wander without fearing;
You could give us tales of glory we would never tire of hearing.
HERE unmolested, through whatever sign
The Sun proceeds, I wander; neither mist,
Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me,
Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy.
Even in the Spring and playtime of the year,
That calls th' unwonted villager abroad
With all her little ones, a sportive train,
To gather kingcups in the yellow mead,
These shades are all my own. The timorous hare,
Grown so familiar with her frequent guest,
Scarce shuns me; and the stockdove unalarm'd
Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends
His long love-ditty for my near approach.
Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm
That age or injury has hollow'd deep,
Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves
He has outslept the Winter, ventures forth,
To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun,
The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play.
He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,
Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush,
And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud,
With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm,
And anger insignificantly fierce.
The heart is hard in nature, and unfit
For human fellowship, as being void
Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike
To love and friendship both, that is not pleased
With sight of animals enjoying life,
Nor feels their happiness augment his own.
The bounding fawn that darts across the glade
When none pursues, through mere delight of heart
And spirits buoyant with excess of glee;
The horse, as wanton and almost as fleet,
That skims the spacious meadow at full speed,
Then stops and snorts, and, throwing high his heels,
Starts to the voluntary race again;
The very kine that gambol at high noon,
The total herd receiving first, from one
That leads the dance, a summons to be gay,
Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth
Their efforts, yet resolved with one consent
To give such act and utterance as they may
To ecstasy too big to be suppress'd;-
These, and a thousand images of bliss,
With which kind Nature graces every scene
Where cruel man defeats not her design,
Impart to the benevolent, who wish
All that are capable of pleasure pleased,
A far superior happiness to theirs, -
The comfort of a reasonable joy.
LOVE, BEAUTY, TRANQUILLITY.
MAID of my Love, sweet Genevieve!
In Beauty's light you glide along;
Your eye is like the star of eve,
And sweet your Voice as Seraph's song.
Yet not your heavenly Beauty gives
This heart with passion soft to glow:
Within your soul a Voice there lives!
It bids you hear the tale of Woe.
When sinking low the Sufferer wan
Beholds no hand outstretch'd to save,
Fair, as the bosom of the Swan
That rises graceful o'er the wave,
I've seen your breast with pity heave,
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve!
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!
She lean'd against the armèd man,
The statue of the armèd knight;
She stood and listen'd to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.
I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story,-
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.
She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he woo'd
The Lady of the Land.
I told her how he pined; and, ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love
Interpreted my own.
She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face!
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