I brave the worst;" and while we stood like fools Embracing, all at once a score of pugs And poodles yelled within, and out they came, Trustees and aunts and uncles. "What, with him!" "Go" (shrilled the cotton-spinning chorus), "him!' I choked. Again they shrieked the burthen "Him!" Again with hands of wild rejection, "Go! — I turned once more, close-buttoned to the storm Nor cared to hear? perhaps; yet long ago The light cloud smoulders on the summer crag, то AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. "Cursed be he that moves my bones." Shakspeare's Epitaph You might have won the Poet's name, But you have made the wiser choice, And you have missed the irreverent doom Of those that wear the Poet's crown; Hereafter neither knave nor clown Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. For now the Poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him, ere he scarce be cold, Begins the scandal and the cry: "Proclaim the faults he would not show; Ah, shameless! for he did but sing A song that pleased us from its worth; No public life was his on earth, No blazoned statesman he, nor king. 164 TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. He gave the people of his best; His worst he kept, his best he gave. My Shakspeare's curse on clown and knave Who will not let his ashes rest! Who make it seem more sweet to be Than he that warbles long and loud TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE ILLYRIAN Woodlands, echoing falls Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, With such a pencil, such a pen, And trust me while I turned the page, My spirits in the golden age. For me the torrent ever poured And glistened,-here and there alone By fountain-urns;-and Naiads oared A glimmering shoulder under gloom From him that on the mountain lea "COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD." COME not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head, And vex the unhappy dust thou would'st not save There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; But thou, go by. Child, if it were thine error or thy crime, Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie : THE EAGLE. A FRAGMENT. HE clasps the crag with hooked hands; The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; THE TALKING OAK I. ONCE more the gate behind me falls II. Beyond the lodge the city lies, III. For when my passion first began, IV. To yonder oak within the field V. For oft I talked with him apart, Until he plagiarized a heart, And answered with a voice. VI. Though what he whispered under Heaven I found him garrulously given, |