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 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 that 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 between
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 skies—­
Frowning 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.