XIII.

TO A SEXTON.

LET thy wheel-barrow alone-
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still

In thy Bone-house bone on bone?

"Tis already like a hill

In a field of battle made,

Where three thousand skulls are laid.

-These died in peace each with the other,

Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!

From this platform eight feet square

Take not even a finger-joint:

Andrew's whole fire-side is there.

Here, alone, before thine eyes,

Simon's sickly Daughter lies,

From weakness, now, and pain defended,

Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardener's pride
How he glories, when he sees
Roses, Lilies, side by side,
Violets in families!

By the heart of Man, his tears,

By his hopes and by his fears,
Thou, old Grey-beard! art the Warden
Of a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear,

Let them all in quiet lie,

Andrew there and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.

And, should I live through sun and rain
Seven widowed years without my Jane,
O Sexton, do not then remove her,
Let one grave hold the Lov'd and Lover!

XIV.

Wно fancied what a pretty sight
This Rock would be if edged around

With living Snowdrops? circlet bright!
How glorious to this Orchard-ground!
Who loved the little Rock, and set
Upon its Head this Coronet ?

Was it the humour of a Child?
Or rather of some love-sick Maid,
Whose brows, the day that she was styled
The Shepherd Queen, were thus arrayed?
Of Man mature, or Matron sage?

Or Old-man toying with his age?

I asked-'twas whispered, The device
To each or all might well belong :

It is the Spirit of Paradise

That prompts such work, a Spirit strong, That gives to all the self-same bent Where life is wise and innocent.

XV.

SONG

FOR THE

WANDERING JEW.

THOUGH the torrents from their fountains

Roar down many a craggy steep,
Yet they find among the mountains
Resting-places calm and deep.

Though, as if with eagle pinion
O'er the rocks the Chamois roam,
Yet he has some small dominion
Where he feels himself at home.

If on windy days the Raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,
Not the less he loves his haven
In the bosom of the cliff.

VOL. I.

T

Though the Sea-horse in the ocean
Own no dear domestic cave;
Yet he slumbers without motion
On the calm and silent wave.

Day and night my toils redouble!
Never nearer to the goal;
Never never does the trouble
Of the Wanderer leave my soul.