Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee; Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ;- Bright flower!-for by that name at last, I call thee, and to that cleave fast,- That breath'st with me in sun and air, Address to the Scholars of a Village-School on the Death of their Master. I COME, ye little noisy crew, Not long your pastime to prevent; His hand-it dropped like lead. Like his till they are dead. By night or day, blow foul or fair Ne'er will the best of all your train Here did he sit confined for hours; But he could see the woods and plains, Could hear the wind, and mark the showers Come streaming down the steaming panes : Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound, He rests a prisoner of the ground. He loved the breathing air; He loved the sun; but if it rise Brings not a moment's care. Alas, what idle words! but take The Dirge, which, for our master's sake With learned ears may ill agree; |