The breeze; and beside him a speckled snake lay Tight strangled, because it had hiss'd him away From the flower at his finger; he rose and drew

near

Like a Son of Immortals, one born to no fear,
But with strength of black locks and with eyes
azure bright

To grow to large manhood of merciful might.
He came, with his face of bold wonder, to feel,
The hair of my side, and to lift up my heel,
And question'd my face with wide eyes; but when

under

My lids he saw tears,-for I wept at his wonder, He stroked me, and utter'd such kindliness then, That the once love of women, the friendship of

men

In past sorrow, no kindness e'er came like a kiss
On my heart in its desolate day such as this!
And I yearn'd at his cheeks in my love, and down
bent,

And lifted him up in my arms with intent
To kiss him, but he cruel-kindly, alas!
Held out to my lips a pluck'd handful of grass !
Then I dropt him in horror, but I felt as I fled
The stone he indignantly hurl'd at my head,
That dissever'd my ear, but I felt not, whose fate
Was to meet more distress in his love than his hate!

Thus I wander'd, companion'd of grief and forlorn,

Till I wish'd for that land where my being was born,

But what was that land with its love, where my home

Was self-shut against me; for why should I come Like an after-distress to my gray-bearded father, With a blight to the last of his sight?-let him rather

Lament for me dead, and shed tears in the urn

Where I was not, and still in fond memory turn To his son even such as he left him. Oh, how Could I walk with the youth once my fellows, but

now

Like Gods to my humbled estate ?—or how bear The steeds once the pride of my eyes and the care Of my hands? Then I turn'd me self-banish'd and

came

Into Thessaly here, where I met with the same
As myself. I have heard how they met by a stream
In games, and were suddenly changed by a scream
That made wretches of many, as she roll'd her wild

eyes

Against heaven, and so vanish'd.—The gentle and wise

Lose their thoughts in deep studies, and others their ill

In the mirth of mankind where they mingle them still.

THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT

I.

ALAS! that breathing Vanity should go
Where Pride is buried,-like its very ghost,
Uprisen from the naked bones below,
In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast
Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro,

Shedding its chilling superstition most
On young and ignorant natures—as it wont
To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont!

II.

Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer,
Behold two maidens, up the quiet green

Shining, far distant, in the summer air

That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes bo tween

Their downy plumes,-sailing as if they were
Two far-off ships,—until they brush between
The churchyard's humble walls, and watch and
wait

On either side of the wide open'd gate.

III.

And there they stand with haughty necks before God's holy house, that points towards the skiesFrowning reluctant duty from the poor,

And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes: And Youth looks lingering from the temple door, Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs, With pouting lips,-forgetful of the grace, Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face;

IV.

Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside,
May wear the happiness of rich attire;

And those two sisters, in their silly pride,

May change the soul's warm glances for the fire

Of lifeless diamonds;-and for health denied,-
With art, that blushes at itself, inspire
Their languid cheeks and flourish in a glory
That has no life in life, nor after-story.

V.

The aged priest goes shaking his gray hair
In meekest censuring, and turns his eye
Earthward in grief, and heavenward in pray'r,
And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by.
Good-hearted man! what sullen soul would wear
Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly
Put on thy censure, that might win the praise
Of one so gray in goodness and in days?

VI.

Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame
Of this ungodly shine of human pride,
And sadly blends his reverence and blame
In one grave bow, and passes with a stride
Impatient-many a red-hooded dame

Turns her pain'd head, but not her glance, aside
From wanton dress, and marvels o'er again,
That heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain.

VII.

'I have a lily in the bloom at home,"

Quoth one, "and by the blessed Sabbath day I'll pluck my lily in its pride, and come And read a lesson upon vain array ;— And when stiff silks are rustling up, and some Give place, I'll shake it in proud eyes and say— Making my reverence,- Ladies, an you please, King Solomon's not half so fine as these.""

VIII.

Then her meek partner, who has nearly run
His earthly course,- "Nay, Goody, let your text
Grow in the garden. We have only one-

Who knows that these dim eyes may see the next?

Summer will come again, and summer sun,

And lilies too,-but I were sorely vext To mar my garden, and cut short the blow Of the last lily I may live to grow."

IX.

"The last!" quoth she, "and though the last it

were

Lo! those two wantons, where they stand so proud

With waving plumes, and jewels in their hair,

And painted cheeks, like Dagons to be bow'd

And curtsey'd to!-last Sabbath after pray'r,
I heard the little Tomkins ask aloud
If they were angels-but I made him know
God's bright ones better, with a bitter blow!”

X.

So speaking, they pursue the pebbly walk
That leads to the white porch the Sunday throng,
Hand-coupled urchins in restrained talk,

And anxious pedagogue that chastens wrong,
And posied churchwarden with solemn stalk,
And gold-bedizen'd beadle flames along,
And gentle peasant clad in buff and green,
Like a meek cowslip in the spring serene ;

XI.

And blushing maiden-modestly array'd

In spotless white,-still conscious of the glass;
And she, the lonely widow, that hath made
A sable covenant with grief,-alas!

She veils her tears under the deep, deep shade,
While the poor kindly-hearted, as they pass,
Bend to unclouded childhood, and caress
Her boy, so rosy !—and so fatherless!

XII.

Thus, as good Christians ought, they all draw near
The fair white temple, to the timely call
Of pleasant bells that tremble in the ear.-

Now the last frock, and scarlet hood, and shawl Fade into dusk, in the dim atmosphere

Of the low porch, and heav'n has won them all, -Saving those two, that turn aside and pass, In velvet blossom, where all flesh is grass.

XIII.

Ah me to see their silken manors trail'd

In purple luxuries-with restless gold,— Flaunting the grass where widowhood has wail'd