And brid-maids singing are; And hark the little vesper-bell Which biddeth me to prayer. O wedding-guest! this soul hath been O sweeter than the marriage-feast, "Tis sweeter far to me To walk together to the Kirk With a goodly company : To walk together to the Kirk While each to his great father bends, and babes, and loving friends, And youths, and maidens gay. Old men, Farewell, farewell! But this I tell To thee, thou wedding-guest! He prayeth well who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best who loveth best The Mariner, whose eye is bright, He went, like one that hath been stunned And is of sense forlorn : A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn. THE FOSTER-MOTHER'S TALE. A NARRATION IN DRAMATIC BLANK VERSE. But that entrance, Mother! FOSTER-MOTHER. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale No one. MARIA. FOSTER MOTHER. My husband's father told it me, Poor old Leoni !—Angels rest his soul ! He was a woodman, and could fell and saw With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool A pretty boy, but most unteachable- And so the babe grew up a pretty boy, And never learnt a prayer nor told a head, But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes, And whistled, as he were a bird himself: To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them, A friar, who sought for simples in the wood, A grey-haired man-he loved this little boy, The boy loved him—and, when the friar taught him, He soon could write with the pen; and from that time Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle. So he became a very learned youth. But, Oh! poor wretch-he read, and read, and read, He had unlawful thoughts of many things: But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, Of all the heretical and lawless talk Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seized His love grew desperate; and defying death, MARIA 'Tis a sweet tale And what became of him? FOSTER MOTHER. He went on ship-board, With those bold voyagers who made discovery And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis supposed LINES ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND, IN ANSWER TO A MELANCHOLY LETTER. Away, those cloudy looks, that lab'ring sigh, The peevish offspring of a sickly hour! Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's pow'r, When the blind gamester throws a luckless die. Yon setting sun flashes a mournful gleam Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train; Wild, as th' Autumnal gust, the hand of Time Bears on its wing each hour a load of fate. To-day may rule a tempest-troubled state. Nor shall not Fortune, with a vengeful smile, And haply hurl the pageant from his height, There shiv'ring sad, beneath the tempest's frown, LINES WRITTEN AFTER A WALK BEFORE SUPPER. Tho' much averse, dear Jack, to flicker, |