CROWE.

Nor passing by the noisy haunts of men;
But through sequester'd meads, a little space,
Winds secretly, and in its wanton path
May cheer some drooping flower, or minister
Of its cool water to the thirsty lamb:
Then falls into the ravenous sea, as pure
As when it issued from its native hill.

How is it vanish'd in a hasty spleen,
The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but now
I saw the hoary pile cresting the top
Of that north-western hill; and in this Now
A cloud hath pass'd on it, and its dim bulk
Becomes annihilate, or if not, a spot.
Which the strain'd vision tires itself to find.
And even so fares it with the things of earth
Which seem most constant: there will come the cloud
That shall enfold them up, and leave their place
A seat for Emptiness. Our narrow ken
Reaches too far, when all that we behold

Is but the havoc of wide-wasting Time,

Or what he soon shall spoil. His out-spread wings
(Which bear him like an eagle o'er the earth)
Are plumed in front so downy soft, they seem
To foster what they touch, and mortal fools
Rejoice beneath their hovering: Woe the while!
For in that indefatigable flight

The multitudinous strokes incessantly

Bruise all beneath their cope, and mark on all
His secret injury on the front of man

Grey hairs and wrinkles; still as Time speeds on,
Hard and more hard his iron pennons beat

With ceaseless violence; nor overpass,

Till all the creatures of this nether world

Are one wide quarry; following dark behind,

The cormorant Oblivion swallows up

The carcases that Time has made his prey.

LEWESDON HILL.

But hark! the village clock strikes nine-the chimes
Merrily follow, tuneful to the sense.

Of the pleased clown attentive, while they make
False-measured melody on crazy bells.

O wondrous power of modulated sound!
Which, like the air, (whose all-obedient shape
Thou mak'st thy slave,) canst subtilly pervade

The yielded avenues of sense, unlock
The close affections, by some fairy path
Winning an easy way through every ear,
And with thine unsubstantial quality
Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all;
All, but some cold and sullen-temper'd spirits
Who feel no touch of sympathy, or love.

Yet what is music, and the blended power
Of voice with instruments of wind and string?
What but an empty pageant of sweet noise !
'Tis past; and all that it has left behind

Is but an echo dwelling in the ear

Of the toy-taken fancy, and beside,

A void and countless hour in life's brief day.

Now I descend

To join the worldly crowd; perchance to talk,
To think, to act as they then all these thoughts,
That lift th' expanded heart above this spot
To heavenly musing, these shall pass away,
(Even as this goodly prospect from my view,)
Hidden by near and earthy-rooted cares.
So passeth human life-our better mind
Is as a Sunday's garment, then put on

When we have nought to do; but at our work
We wear a worse for thrift.

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

And he met with a lady faire

Clad in a pilgrime's weedes.

"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,

I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy shrine

My true love thou didst see?"

"And how should I know your true love

From many another one?"

"O, by his cockle hat, and staff, And by his sandal shoone;

"But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were so fair to view;

His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,
And eyne of lovely blue."

"O lady, he is dead and gone!
Lady, he's dead and gone!

And at his head a green grass turfe,
And at his heels a stone.

"Within these holy cloysters long He languisht, and he dyed, Lamenting of a ladye's love,

And 'playning of her pride.

"Here bore him barefaced on his bier
Six proper youths and tall,
And many a tear bedew'd his grave
Within yon kirk-yard wall."

"And art thou dead, thou gentle youth And art thou dead and gone!

And didst thou dye for love of me!

Break, cruel heart of stone !"

PERCY.

"O weep not, lady, weep not soe:
Some ghostly comfort seek:
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Ne teares bedew thy cheek."

"O do not, do not, holy friar,
My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth
That e'er won ladye's love.

"And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, I'll evermore weep and sigh:

For thee I only wisht to live,

66

For thee I wish to dye."

Weep no more, lady, weep no more,

Thy sorrowe is in vaine :

For violets pluckt the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow againe.

"Our joys as winged dreams doe flye;
Why, then, should sorrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy losse,
Grieve not for what is past."

"O say not soe, thou holy friar; I pray thee, say not soe:

For since my true-love dyed for mee, 'Tis meet my teares should flow.

"And will he never come again? Will he ne'er come again?

Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,

For ever to remain.

His cheek was redder than the rose;
The comeliest youth was he!