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'Tis fit, though all have something to deplore, That he, who joined them once, should keep to part
The wretched father, who, when he had read
The days were then at close of autumn, — still, A little rainy, and towards night-fall chill; There was a fitful, moaning air abroad; And ever and anon, over the road, The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees, Whose trunks now thronged to sight, in dark varieties. The people, who from reverence kept at home, Listened till afternoon to hear them come; And hour on hour went by, and nought was heard But some chance horseman, or the wind that stirred, Till towards the vesper hour; and then 'twas said Some heard a voice, which seemed as if it read;
And others said, that they could hear a sound
But of the older people, few could bear To keep the window, when the train drew near; And all felt double tenderness to see The bier approaching, slow and steadily, On which those two in senseless coldness lay, Who but a few short months - it seemed a day, Had left their walls, lovely in form and mind, In sunny manhood he, she first of womankind.
They say that when Duke Guido saw them come, He clasped his hands, and looking round the room, Lost his old wits for ever. From the morrow None saw him after. But no more of sorrow:On that same night, those lovers silently Were buried in one grave, under a tree. There side by side, and hand in hand, they lay In the green ground:- and on fine nights in May Young hearts betrothed used to come there to pray.
FEAST OF THE POETS.
T'other day, as Apollo sat pitching his darts Through the clouds of November, by fits and by starts, He began to consider how long it had been, Since the bards of Old England had all been rung in. "I think," said the God, recollecting, (and then He fell twiddling a sunbeam as I may my pen,) “I think — let me see
- yes, it is, I declare, As long ago now as that Buckingham there : And yet I can't see why I've been so remiss, Unless it may be - and it certainly is, That since Dryden's fine verses and Milton's sublime, I have fairly been sick of their sing-song and rhyme. There was Collins, 'tis true, had a good deal to say ; But the rogue had no industry, - neither had Gray: And Thomson, though best in his indolent fits, Either slept himself weary, or bloated his wits.
But ever since Pope spoil'd the ears of the town
ing, See what kind of set I can muster worth treating. So saying, the God bade his horses walk for’ard, And leaving them, took a long dive to the nor'ard : For Gordon's he made; and as Gods who drop in do, Came smack on his legs through the drawing-room
window. And here I could tell, if it was'nt for stopping, How all the town shook as the godhead went pop in, How bright look'd the poets, and brisk blew the airs, And the laurels took flow'r in the gardens and
to — what shall I say? To a gallant young soldier returning in May ?