Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust; And whirled in the round as the wheel turned about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust. This verse, little polished, though mighty sincere, And no mortal yet knows if this may be true. If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, EPIGRAMS. To John I owed great obligation; Yes, every poet is a fool; By demonstration Ned can show it: Prove every fool to be a poet. Nobles and heralds, by your leave, Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, The son of Adam and of Eve: Can Stuart or Nassau claim higher? 9155 more ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE, an English poet, daughter of "Barry Cornwall;" born at London, October 30, 1825; died there, February 2, 1864. She became a convert to Roman Catholicism in 1851. Early in 1853 "Household Words" received a poem bearing the signature "Mary Berwick." The author was requested to send e; and she soon became a frequent contributor. It was not until nearly two years after that Dickens learned that "Mary Berwick" was Adelaide Procter, the daughter of one of his oldest literary friends. With the exception of a few early verses, a little volume entitled "A Chaplet of Verses," published in 1862 for the benefit of a charitable association, all of her poems originally appeared in periodicals edited by Dickens, who prefixed a biographical introduction to a complete edition issued shortly after her death. A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. GIRT round with rugged mountains In her blue heart reflected Shine back the starry skies; Float silently and slow, You think a piece of Heaven Lies on our earth below! Midnight is there; and Silence, Upon her own calm mirror, Upon a sleeping town: For Bregenz, that quaint city Upon the Tyrol shore, Had stood above Lake Constance Her battlements and towers, Have cast their trembling shadow Of how the town was saved, one night, Far from her home and kindred A Tyrol maid had fled, To serve in the Swiss valleys, And toil for daily bread: And every year that fleeted So silently and fast, Seemed to bear farther from her She served kind, gentle masters, Her friends seemed no more new ones, Their speech seemed no more strange; And when she led her cattle To pasture every day, She ceased to look and wonder She spoke no more of Bregenz, Yet, when her master's children She knelt before God's throne, And so she dwelt: the valley The golden corn was bending While farmers, heedless of their fields, The men seemed stern and altered, One day, out in the meadow With strangers from the town, Some secret plan discussing, The men walked up and down. Yet now and then seemed watching A strange uncertain gleam, That looked like lances 'mid the trees That stood below the stream. At eve they all assembled, Then care and doubt were fled; With jovial laugh they feasted; The board was nobly spread. The elder of the village Rose up, his glass in hand, "The night is growing darker, Felt death within her heart. Before her stood fair Bregenz; The faces of her kinsfolk, The days of childhood flown, The echoes of her mountains, Reclaimed her as their own! Nothing she heard around her And in her heart one cry, That said, "Go forth, save Bregenz, With trembling haste and breathless, With noiseless step, she sped; Horses and weary cattle Were standing in the shed; She loosed the strong, white charger, That fed from out her hand, She mounted, and she turned his head Towards her native land. Out-out into the darkness Faster, and still more fast; "Faster!" she cries, "O faster!" Shall not the roaring waters Their headlong gallop check? The steed draws back in terror, She leans upon his neck |