In her cerements enfolded Pale and beautiful she slept, While around her faithful maidens Precious things their memories cherished, Words and actions of the dead; And, when talking of her virtues, How they turned and blessed the maid! All her innocent intentions, Loving-kindness to the poor; How she with her little dainties Then a memory of her beauty, Eye of brightness, blushing cheek, Broke upon their mental vision, Moral worth and spirit meek. Like a rose in richness breaking, So their lovely creature grew; Like a sunset ever changing Into deeper beauty too; When an angel passed and saw her In her purity and love, And attracted by her graces, Took her to her home above. She hath left thee, classic Hyefield, All thy shades of sylvan sweetness, When on earth, she loved its flowers Flowers were coffined with the dead; Now a group of English daisies Watch and weep above her head. VOL. I. L BLANCHE. ADDRESSED TO HER BEREAVED PARENT. HER soul was made of love-dear lamb, sweet dove; Her mother's joy, she loved her mother most; Dost think her dead, fond weeper? Look afar: That came to bid thine earth-bound heart be riven From this poor world, and follow her to Heaven. BEAUTY. I'm seen upon the verdant hill, I revel in the rich parterre, And in the odorous gale. I light the dew-drop's sparkling gem, Recline upon the rosy cheek, I'm linked to Hogarth's wavy line, To colour, and to form ; To man, to beast, to fish, and bird That rides upon the storm. When mental worth with graceful form Doth visit sorrow's den, To dry the tender orphan's tear, You best can see me then. The poet worships at my shrine ; The painter feels me near; The sculptor owns my charms divine; Taste is my son and heir. I mould the rapt musician's ear, Impel the author's pen; And give to orators the fire That burns within their brain. I've slain the stoutest warrior's heart, Inspired the wise and good; And when I reach their inmost soul, I am best understood. I'm heard, too, in the circling strain And in the warblings of the lark, I'm felt upon the warm sleek breast Of battle-prancing steed; And on the damask-cushioned throne Where mitred bishops read. |