So serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng; So would I seem amid the young and gay More grave than they, That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the holly-tree. Poor outcast, sleep in peace! the wintry storm Blows bleak no more on thy unsheltered form; Thy woes are past; thou restest in the tomb; I pause, and ponder on the days to come. THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. WHAT! and not one to heave the pious sigh? Not one whose sorrow-swollen and aching eye For social scenes, for life's endearments fled, Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead! Poor wretched outcast! I will weep for thee, And sorrow for forlorn humanity. Yes, I will weep; but not that thou art come To the stern sabbath of the silent tomb: For squalid want, and the black scorpion care, Heart-withering fiends! shall never enter there. I sorrow for the ills thy life hath known, As through the world's long pilgrim age, alone, Haunted by poverty, and woebegone, Unloved, unfriended, thou didst jour And hear all nature's melodies. The primrose bank shall there dispense Faint fragrance to the awakened I to the woodlands bend my way dome to pray Now tell us what 'twas all about, Where storied windows dim the Now tell us all about the war, doubtful day. With Liberty she loves to rove, Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipt dale; Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove, Or with the streamlet wind along the vale. Sweet are these scenes to her; and when the night Pours in the north her silver streams THE CATARACT OF Lodore. "How does the water To second and third To them and the king. From its sources which well Through moss and through brake, In its own little lake, And away it proceeds, In sun and in shade, Here it comes sparkling, The cataract strong Its caverns and rocks among; Around and around With endless rebound: Smiting and fighting A sight to delight in; Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and going, And running and stunning, And foaming and roaming, And dinning and spinning. And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And guggling and struggling, And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning; And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hurrying and skurrying, And thundering and floundering; Dividing and gliding and sliding, And falling and brawling and sprawling, And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering; Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping, and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending All at once, and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, And this way, the water comes down at Lodore. I fear no care for gold, I clip high-climbing thoughts, Since sails of largest size The storm doth soonest tear, I bear so low and small a sail As freeth me from fear. I wrestle not with rage While fury's flame doth burn; It is in vain to stop the stream Until the tide doth turn. But when the flame is out, And ebbing wrath doth end, I turn a late enragèd foe Into a quiet friend. And, taught with often proof, Spare diet is my fare, My clothes more fit than fine; I know I feed and clothe a foe, That pampered would repine. I envy not their hap Whom favor doth advance; To rise by others' fall I deem a losing gain; No change of Fortune's calm Can cast my comforts down: And when, in froward mood, |