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He had one daughter.—Many years Have fleeted o’er me, since my tears Fell on that form of quiet grace, That humble brow, and beauteous face. She parted from this world of ill When I was yet a child : but still, Until my heart shall cease to beat, That countenance so mildly sweet, That kind blue eye, and golden hair, Eternally are graven there. I see her still, as when she stood In the ripe bloom of womanhood; Yet deigning, where I led, to stray, And mingle in my childhood's play; Or sought my Father's dwelling-place, And clasped me in her fond embrace; A friend—when I had none beside; A mother—when my mother died.
Poor Ellen ! she is now forgot Upon the hearths of this dear spot ; And they, to whom her bounty came, They, who would dwell upon her name With raptured voice, as if they found Hope, comfort, riches, in the sound, Have ceased to think how Ellen fled :Why should they sorrow for the dead ? Perbaps, around the festive board, Some aged chroniclers record
Her hopes, her virtues, and her tomb;
There came a dark, infectious Pest,
I was the inmate of her home, And knew not why she did not come To cheer my melancholy mood; Her father wept in solitude; The servants wore a look of woe, Their steps were soft, their whispers low; And when I asked them why they sighed, They shook their heads, and turned aside.
I entered that forbidden room !
But when her accents did not bless-
And saw that soul was wanting thereI sat me on the ground, and wept !
“Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here! They grow still, too, from all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here!"--Shakspeare.
The sun hath shed a mellower beam, Fair Thames, upon thy silver stream, And air and water, earth and beaven, Lie in the calm repose of even. How silently the breeze moves on, Flutters, and whispers, and is gone! How calmly does the quiet sky Sleep in its cold serenity! Alas! how sweet a scene were here For shepherd or for sonneteer; How fit the place, how fit the time, For making love, or making rhyme! But though the sun's descending ray Smiles warmly on the close of day, 'Tis not to gaze upon his light That Eton's sons are here to-night; And though the river, calm and clear, Makes music to the poet's ear, 'Tis not to listen to the sound That Eton's sons are thronging round.
The sun unheeded may decline,
Stay, Pegasus,—and let me ask,