- To mark its eddying foam-balls prettily distrest ་ By ever-changing shape and want of rest; Or watch, with mutual teaching, The current as it plays In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps Or note (translucent Summer's happiest chance!) XVIII. BEGGARS. SHE had a tall man's height or more; Her face from Summer's noontide heat A mantle, to her very feet Descending with a graceful flow, And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. Her skin was of Egyptian brown: Its own light to a distance thrown, Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles. Advancing, forth she stretched her hand -- I left her, and pursued my way; A pair of little Boys at play, The taller followed with his hat in hand, the land. The other wore a rimless crown, Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face. Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed unfit Wings let them have, and they might flit Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween, To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green. Each ready with a plaintive whine! Said I, "Not half an hour ago Your Mother has had alms of mine." "That cannot be," one answered, "she is dead":— I looked reproof, — they saw, but neither hung his head. "She has been dead, Sir, many a day.”. "Hush, boys! you 're telling me a lie; It was your Mother, as I say!" And, in the twinkling of an eye, "Come! come!" cried one, and, without more ado, Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew ! 1802. XIX. SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING. COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER. WHERE are they now, those wanton Boys? For whose free range the dædal earth Was filled with animated toys, And implements of frolic mirth; More fresh, more bright, than princes wear; For what one moment flung aside, Another could repair: What good or evil have they seen They met me in a genial hour, Of discontent, and check the birth Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife, Since parting Innocence bequeathed Soft clouds, the whitest of the year, Sailed through the sky; the brooks ran clear; The thoughts with which it then was cheered; Kind Spirits! may we not believe Destined, whate'er their earthly doom, 1817. XX. GYPSIES. YET are they here, the same unbroken knot Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light, Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours are gone, while I' Have been a traveller under open sky, Much witnessing of change and cheer, The weary Sun betook himself to rest ; |