XVII. LYRE! though such power do in thy magic live Assist me to detain The lovely Fugitive: Check with thy notes the impulse which, betrayed But if no wish be hers that we should part, Enough by her dear side to breathe the air And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy Faint and somewhat pensively; And downward Image gayly vying 'Mid silver clouds, and openings of blue sky Nor less the joy with many a glance Cast up the Stream or down at her beseeching, To mark its eddying foam-balls prettily distrest The current as it plays In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps Or note (translucent Summer's happiest chance!) So vivid that they take from keenest sight XVIII. BEGGARS. SHE had a tall man's height or more; Her face from Summer's noontide heat A mantle, to her very feet Descending with a graceful flow, And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. Her skin was of Egyptian brown: Haughty, as if her eye had seen Its own light to a distance thrown, Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles. 1 Advancing, forth she stretched her hand I left her, and pursued my way; A pair of little Boys at play, The taller followed with his hat in hand, Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. The other wore a rimless crown, Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed unfit Wings let them have, and they might flit Precursors to Aurora's car, Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween, To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green. They dart across my path, but lo, Each ready with a plaintive whine! Your Mother has had alms of mine." "That cannot be," one answered, "she is dead":— I looked reproof, — they saw, but neither hung his head. "She has been dead, Sir, many a day." "Hush, boys! you 're telling me a lie; It was your Mother, as I say! And, in the twinkling of an eye, "Come! come!” cried one, and, without more ado, Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew ! 1802. XIX. SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING. COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER. WHERE are they now, those wanton Boys? For whose free range the dædal earth And implements of frolic mirth; More fresh, more bright, than princes wear; For what one moment flung aside, Another could repair: What good or evil have they seen They met me in a genial hour, As with the breath of one sweet flower, Of discontent, and check the birth Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife, Since parting Innocence bequeathed Mortality to Earth! Soft clouds, the whitest of the year, Sailed through the sky; the brooks ran clear; The thoughts with which it then was cheered; |