ON HER MODELLING A BUST OF THE AUTHOR.
Ah, Marian mine, the face you look on now
Is not exactly like my wedding day's :
Sunk is it's cheek, deeper-retired it's gaze,
Less white and smooth it's temple-flattened brow.
Sorrow has been there with his silent plough,
And strait, stern hand. No matter, if it raise
Aught that affection fancies it may praise,
Or make me worthier of Apollo's bough.
Loss, after all,--such loss especially,
Is transfer, change, but not extinction,-no;
Part in our children's apple cheeks I see;
And, for the rest, while you look at me so,
Take care you do not smile it back to me,
And miss the copied furrows as you go.
WHO NEVER FOUGHT EITHER FOR BUONAPARTE OR THE ALLIES.
'Tis like thy patient valour thus to keep,
Great Kosciusko, to the rural shade,
While Freedom's ill-found amulet still is made
Pretence for old aggression, and a heap
Of selfish mockeries. There, as in the sweep
Of stormier fields, thou earnest with thy blade,
Transformed, not inly altered, to the spade,
Thy never-yielding right to a calm sleep.
Nature, 'twould seem, would leave to man's worse wit
The small and noisier parts of this world's frame,
And keep the calm green amplitudes of it
Sacred from fopperies and inconstant blame.
Cities may change, and sovereigns; but 'tis fit,
'Thou, and the country old, be still the same.
TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET.
Green little vaulter in the sunny grass
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When ev'n the bees lag at the summoning brass ;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass ;
Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,
One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
Both have your sunshine; both though small are
strong
At your clear hearts; and both were sent on earth
To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,
In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.
WRITTEN UNDER THE ENGRAVING OF A PORTRAIT
OF RAFAEL, PAINTED BY HIMSELF WHEN HE
WAS YOUNG.
Rafael! It must be he; we only miss
Something which manhood gave him, and the fair ;
A look still sweeter and more thoughtful air ;
But for the rest, 'tis every feature his,
The oval cheek, clear eye, mouth made to kiss,
Terse lightsome chin, and flush of gentle hair
Clipped ere it loitered into ringlets there,
The beauty, the benignity, the bliss.
How sweetly sure he looks ! how unforlorn!
There is but one such visage at a time;
'Tis like the budding of an age new born,
Remembered youth, the cuckoo in the prime,
The maid's first kiss, or any other thing
Most lovely, and alone, and promising.
WRITTEN ON A PIECE OF PAPER WHICH HAPPENED TO BE
HEADED WITH A LONG LIST OF TREES.
There, Bess, your namesake held not sceptred hand
Uņder a canopy, so full and bright,
Not even that which Spenser hung with light,
And little shouldering angels made expand,
When she sat arbitress of fairy-land.
Fancy a sun o'er head, to make the sight
Warm outwards, and a bank with daisies white,
And you're a rural queen, finished and fanned.
And now what sylvan homage would it please
Your Leafyship to have? bracelets of berries,
Feathers of jays, or tassels made of cherries,
Strawberries and milk, or pippins crisp to squeeze?
No, says your smile,-but two things richer far,
A verse, and a staunch friend ;-and here they are.
|