The water-blooms under the rivulet Then the rain came down, and the broken Were bent and tangled across the walks; Spawn, weeds and filth, a leprous scum, And hour by hour, when the air was still, At night they were darkness no star could Between the time of the wind and the snow Like the water-snake's belly and the toad's Unseen; every branch on which they alit back; And thistles and nettles, and darnels rank, By a venomous blight was burned and bit. The Sensitive Plant, like one forbid, And plants at whose names the verse feels For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soon loth By the heavy axe of the blast were hewn ; Filled the place with a monstrous under- The sap shrank to the root through every growth, Prickly and pulpous and blistering and blue, As blood to a heart that will beat no more. Livid, and starred with a lurid dew; pore For Winter came: the wind was his whip; And agarics and fungi, with mildew and One choppy finger was on his lip; mould, Started like mist from the wet ground cold, Their moss rotted off them flake by flake, He had torn the cataracts from the hills, His breath was a chain which without a sound Where rags of loose flesh yet tremble on Then the weeds, which were forms of living high, Infecting the winds that wander by. death, Fled from the frost to the earth beneath; Their decay and sudden flight from frost And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant First there came down a thawing rain, And a northern Whirlwind, wandering about And snapped them off with his rigid griff. When Winter had gone, and Spring came back, The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck; But the mandrakes and toadstools and docks and darnels Rose like the dead from their ruined charnels. CONCLUSION. WHETHER the Sensitive Plant, or that Whether that Lady's gentle mind, I dare not guess. But in this life ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. HE curfew tolls the knell of | The cock's shrill clarion or the echoing horn No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. T parting day, The lowing herd winds The ploughman homeward And leaves the world to Now fades the glimmering Save where the beetle wheels his droning And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower For them no more the blazing hearth shall Or busy housewife ply her evening care, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile Molest her ancient solitary reign. The short and simple annals of the poor. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the strawbuilt shed, And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise |