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My lodging is the cold-cold ground;
But I will to the grave and weep,
Where late they laid my mother low,
All in her shroud as white as snow.
All underneath the church-yard tree,
Not a leaf of the tree which stood near me was stirred,
Nor a farewell note from a sweet-singing bird,
The sky was cloudless and calm, except
In the west, where the sun was descending; And there the rich tints of the rainbow slept, As his beams with their beauty were blending.
And the evening star with its ray so clear,
Had lit up its lamp, and shot down from its sphere Its dewy, delightful splendour.
And I stood all alone on that gentle hill,
Far off was the Deben, whose briny flood
How lonely and lovely their resting-place seemed!
When, at morn or at eve, I have wandered near,
It has sometimes seemed like a lonely sail,
A white speck on the emerald billow;
But no image of gloom, or of care, or of strife,
He was one, who, in youth, on the stormy seas,
Who, borne on the billow, and blown by the breeze, Had deemed lightly of death or of danger.
Yet in this rude school had his heart still kept
And here, when the bustle of youth was past,
He lived, and he loved, and he died too ;— O! why was affection, which death could out-last, A more lengthened enjoyment denied to?
But here he slumbers! and many
Who love that lone tomb, and revere it; And one far off, who, like eve's dewy star, Though at distance, in fancy dwells near it.
TO MY DAUGHTER, ON THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH-DAY.
Hail to this teeming stage of strife-
Lamb of the world's extended fold!
Fountain of hopes, and doubts, and fears!
Sweet promise of ecstatic years!
How fainly would I bend the knee,
And turn idolater to thee!
'Tis nature's worship-felt-confest
Far as the life which warms the breast!
In trackless woods, and boundless plains,
Dear babe! ere yet upon thy years
But little reck'st thou, O my child!
And the dark mystic sphere behind!