AN EPITAPH*

ON A ROBIN REDBREAST.

TREAD lightly here, for here, 'tis said,

When piping winds are hush'd around,
A small note wakes from underground,

Where now his tiny bones are laid.

* Inscribed on an urn in the flower-garden at Hafod.

MINE be a cot beside the hill,

A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill,

With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,

Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing,

In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church, among the trees,

Where first our marriage-vows were giv'n,

With merry peals shall swell the breeze,

And point with taper spire to heav'n.