A kindly good man, quite a stranger to fame,
His heart still is green, though his head shows a hoar lock;
Perhaps his particular star is to blame,—
It may be, he never took time by the forelock.
A day must arrive when, in pitiful case,
He will drop from his Branch, like a fruit more than mellow;
Is he yet to be found in his usual place?
Or is he already forgotten, poor fellow?
If still at his duty he soon will arrive,—
He passes this turning because it is shorter,—
If not within sight as the clock's striking five,
We shall see him before it is chiming the quarter.
A WISH.
To the south of the church, and beneath yonder yew,
A pair of child-lovers I've seen,
More than once were they there, and the years of the two,
When added, might number thirteen.
They sat on the grave that has never a stone
The name of the dead to determine,
It was Life paying Death a brief visit—alone
A notable text for a sermon.
They tenderly prattled; what was it they said?
The turf on that hillock was new;
Dear Little Ones, did ye know aught of the Dead,
Or could he be heedful of you?