. Poems . g she should see his face no more! j And oh, how changed at once—no heroine a weak woman worn with grief and darling Mother! Twas but now she smiled;And now she weeps upon her weeping child!—But who sits by, her only wish belowAt length f. Ifilled—and now prepared to go?His hands on hers—as through the mists of night, \She gazes on him with imperfect sight; \ Her glory now, as ever her delight! j 91 To her, methinks, a second Youth is given;The hght upon her face a hght from Heaven! An hour hke this is worth a thousand passedIn pomp or ease—Tis present to the last!Y
. Poems . g she should see his face no more! j And oh, how changed at once—no heroine a weak woman worn with grief and darling Mother! Twas but now she smiled;And now she weeps upon her weeping child!—But who sits by, her only wish belowAt length f. Ifilled—and now prepared to go?His hands on hers—as through the mists of night, \She gazes on him with imperfect sight; \ Her glory now, as ever her delight! j 91 To her, methinks, a second Youth is given;The hght upon her face a hght from Heaven! An hour hke this is worth a thousand passedIn pomp or ease—Tis present to the last!Years ghde away untold—Tis still the same!As fresh, as fair as on the day it came! And now once more where most he loved to be,In his own fields—breathing tianquillity—We hail him—not less happy, Fox, than thee!Thee at St. Annes so soon of Care , sincere, and artless as a child!Thee, who wouldst watch a birds nest on the spray,Through the green leaves exploring, day by 92 How oft from grove to grove, from seat to seat,With thee conversing in thy loved retreat,I saw the sun go down!—Ah, then twas thineNeer to forget some volume half divine,Shakspearcs or Dry dens—thro the chequered shadedBorne in thy hand behind thee as we strayed; > And where we sate (and many a halt we made) j To read there with a fervour all thy own, ^ And in thy grand and melancholy tone, > Some splendid passage not to thee unknown, j Fit theme for long discourse—Thy bell has tolled!—But in thy place among us we beholdOne who resembles thee. Tis the sixth village-clock strikes from the distant ploughman leaves the field; the traveller to the inn spurs forward. Nature wearsHer sweetest smile; the day-star in the westYet hovering, and the thistles down at rest. And such, his labour done, the calm He knows, *Whose footsteps we have followed. Round him glowsAn atmosphere that brightens to the last;The light, that shines, reflected
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Keywords: ., bookauthorrogerssamue, bookcentury1800, bookidpoemssam00rogerich
