MRS. NORTON. TO THE DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND. ONCE more, my harp! once more, although I thought A wandering dream thy gentle chords have wrought, Into the poet's heaven, and leaves dull grief below! And unto thee the beautiful and pure – Whose lot is cast amid that busy world I dedicate the lay. Ah! never bard, In days when poverty was twin with song; Nor wandering harper, lonely and ill-starred, Cheered by some castle's chief, and harboured long; For easy are the alms the rich man spares Belief in spite of many a cold dissent - When, slandered and maligned, I stood apart From those whose bounded power hath wrung, not crushed, my heart. l'hou, then, when cowards lied away my name, Stood off in doubt to see what turn the world would take Thou gavest me that the poor do give the poor, Kind words and holy wishes, and true tears; The loved, the near of kin could do no more, Who changed not with the gloom of varying years, But clung the closer when I stood forlorn, And blunted Slander's dart with their indignant scorn. For they who credit crime, are they who feel Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin; Memory, not judgment, prompts the thoughts which steal Most readily by those who have themselves deceived. But like a white swan down a troubled stream, And mar the freshness of her snowy wing- Thy pale and pearly cheek was never made To crimson with a faint false-hearted shame; Thou didst not shrink of bitter tongues afraid, Who hunt in packs the object of their blame; To thee the sad denial still held true, For from thine own good thoughts thy heart its mercy drew WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. THANATOPSIS. To him who, in the love of nature, holds Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim And, lost each human trace, surrendering up To mix for ever with the elements,- And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun, the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods- rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's and melancholy waste, grey Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, The flight of years began, have laid them down So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw Unheeded by the living—and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes To that mysterious realm, where each shall take Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night |