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Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;
Her speech, until the stars of night
But in the branches of the oak
One night, my Children! from the north
There came a furious blast;
At break of day I ventured forth,
The storm had fallen upon the Oak,
And struck him with a mighty stroke,
The little careless Broom was left
To live for many a day.”
TO A SEXTON.
LET thy wheel-barrow alone-
In thy bone-house bone on bone?
In a field of battle made,
Where three thousand skulls are laid;
These died in peace each with the other,— Father, sister, friend, and brother.
Mark the spot to which I point!
Andrew's whole fire-side is there.
Here, alone, before thine eyes,
Simon's sickly daughter lies,
From weakness now, and pain defended,
Whom he twenty winters tended.
Look but at the gardener's pride-
By the heart of Man, his tears,
Thus then, each to other dear,
Let them all in quiet lie,
Andrew there, and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.
And, should I live through sun and rain Seven widowed years without my Jane, O Sexton, do not then remove her,
grave hold the Loved and Lover!
TO THE DAISY.
'Her divine skill taught me this,
IN youth from rock to rock I went,
Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy;
Thee Winter in the garland wears
Whole Summer-fields are thine by right;
In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
Nor grieved if thou be set at nought:
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
Be violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
The Poet's darling.