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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
HUS with imagined wing our swift scene flies,
Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen
WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW.
POT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod; With those who, scattered far, perchance deplore, Like me, the happy scenes they knew before: O, as I trace again thy winding hill, Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, Thou drooping elm! beneath whose boughs I lay, And frequent mused the twilight hours away; Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, But ah! without the thoughts which then were mine: How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, Invite the bosom to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, "Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!"
When fate shall chill, at length, this fevered breast, And calm its cares and passions into rest, Oft have I thought, 't would soothe my dying hour, If aught may soothe when life resigns her power, To know some humble grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell. With this fond dream, methinks, 't were sweet to die
And here it lingered, here my heart might lie;
And unremembered by the world beside.
some good fairy granted me to play A chosen portion of my life again,
I would not ask an Oxford hour. The vain
Who shouted, thoughtless, on dear Harrow's plain,
John Bruce Norton.
HOW wildly sweet, by Hartland Tower,
The thrilling voice of prayer; A seraph, from his cloudy bower, Might lean to listen there.
For time and place and storied days
Above, the ocean breezes sweep
Enter the arching roofs expand,
Might tread their planks no more.
But reared on high in that stern form,
The men that braved the ancient storm
The tracery of a quaint old time
And tombs, with many a broken rhyme,
Suit well this simple scene.
A Saxon font, with baptism bright,
Here glides the spirit of the psalm,
Here breathes the soul of prayer; The awful church, so hushed, so calm, Ah! surely God is there.
And lives no legend on the wall?
Yes! there, through yonder portal stone,
How once the monk with name unknown
He came with griefs that shunned the light,
The prayer that rose and fell in tears,
This lasted long,
as life will wear, E'en though in anguish nursed,