Robert Southey.

1774-1843.

THE DEAD FRIEND.

NoT to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Descend to contemplate

The form that once was dear!

The spirit is not there

Which kindled that dead eye,

Which throbbed in that cold heart,

Which in that motionless hand
Hath met thy friendly grasp.
The spirit is not there!
It is but lifeless, perishable flesh
That moulders in the grave;

Earth, air, and water's ministering particles,
Now to the elements

Resolved, their uses done.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul, Follow thy friend beloved;

The spirit is not there!

Often together have we talked of death;
How sweet it were to see

All doubtful things made clear!
How sweet it were with powers
Such as the cherubim

To view the depth of heaven!
O, Edmund! thou hast first
Begun the travel of eternity!
I look upon the stars,

And think that thou art there,

Unfettered as the thought that follows thee.

And we have often said how sweet it were,
With unseen ministry of angel power,
To watch the friends we loved.
Edmund! we did not err !

Sure I have felt thy presence! Thou hast given
A birth to holy thought,

Hast kept me from the world unstained and pure. Edmund! we did not err !

Our best affections here

They are not like the toys of infancy;

The soul outgrows them not;

We do not cast them off;

O, if it could be so,

It were, indeed, a dreadful thing to die!

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my soul,
Follow thy friend beloved!

But in the lonely hour,

But in the evening walk,

Think that he companies thy solitude;

Think that he holds with thee

Mysterious intercourse;

And, though remembrance wake a tear,
There will be joy in grief.

GOOD THE BEGINNING, GOOD THE END.

HERE we see

The water at its well-head, clear it is,

Not more transpicuous the invisible air;

Pure as an infant's thoughts; and here to life

And good directed all its uses serve.

The herb grows greener on its brink; sweet flowers Bend o'er the stream that feeds their freshened roots; The redbreast loves it for his wintry haunts,

And, when the buds begin to open forth,

Builds near it, with his mate, their brooding nest;
The thirsty stag with widening nostrils there
Invigorated draws his copious draught;
And there amid its flags the wild-boar stands,
Nor suffering wrong nor meditating hurt.
Through woodlands wide and solitary fields
Unsullied thus it holds its bounteous course;
But when it reaches the resorts of men,
The service of the city there defiles

The tainted stream; corrupt and foul it flows

Through loathsome banks and o'er a bed impure,
Till in the sea, the appointed end to which
Through all its way it hastens, 'tis received,
And, losing all pollution, mingles there

In the wide world of waters.

So is it

With the great stream of things, if all were seen;
Good the beginning, good the end shall be,
And transitory evil only make

The good end happier. Ages pass away,
Thrones fall, and nations disappear, and worlds
Grow old and go to wreck; the soul alone
Endures, and what she chooseth for herself,
The arbiter of her own destiny,
That only shall be permanent.

Mrs. Southey.

THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF.

THERE is a tongue in every leaf,
A voice in every rill;

A voice that speaketh everywhere,

In flood and fire, through earth and air! A tongue that's never still.

'Tis the Great Spirit wide diffused Through everything we see, That with our spirits communeth

Of things mysterious Life and Death, Time and Eternity!

I see Him in the blazing sun,
And in the thunder-cloud:
I hear Him in the mighty roar,
That rusheth through the forest hoar,
When winds are piping loud.