There stands the tottering tower I climbed, There flows the stream I've trysted through, The very nook where first I poured And stood with gladness in my heart, Than I have visions now. I went unto my native vale- At every door strange faces, where Was as the voice of rooks; My native vale, farewell! farewell! My father, on thy hearth The light's extinguished-and thy roof No longer rings with mirth; There sits a stranger on thy chair; And they are dead and gone Who charmed my early life-all-all Keir with thy pasture mountains green, Where some had toiled the day, and shared And charm ten thousand hearts--although I stood within my native vale, And saw the long and yellow corn, I heard the fair-haired maidens wake And joyed to see the bendsmen smile, I thought on mine own musings-when And said, "alas!" and named my name, FLOWERS FOR MARY'S GARLAND. ANONYMOUS. I WILL not call thee fair, Mary, I will not say thy song is sweet Dear Mary Gray! I will not hurry from the throng I hear the beauty of thy song, Why need I pour my hymn around The pillow of thy rest? I think that thy heart's bird hath found A greener nest! I have no bloom of laughing youth My offering to be; I only bring my earnest truth, My glowing heart to thee. The wine of tears is in my cup Turn not thy face away ; Thy smile will make me drink it up, Sweet Mary Gray! VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND. MOORE. ALL as he left it!-even the pen, Just fallen from his gifted hand. Have we then lost him? scarce an hour, All powerless now-like talisman, Found in some vanish'd wizard's halls, Whose mighty charm with him began, Whose charm with him extinguish'd falls. Yet though, alas, the gifts that shone Who does not feel, while thus his eyes Before him, in succession grand? Grand, from the Truth that reigns o'er all; Th' unshrinking Truth, that lets her light Through Life's low, dark, interior fall, Yet softening, as she frowns along, O'er scenes which angels weep to see,Where Truth herself half veils the wrong, In pity of the misery. True bard! and simple, as the race When stooping from their starry place, How freshly doth my mind recal, 'Mong the few days I've known with thee, One that, most buoyantly of all, Floats in the wake of memory; When he the poet,* doubly grac'd, Who in his page will leave behind, Friend of long years! of friendship tried Through many a bright and dark event; * Rogers. |