To her, methinks, a second Youth is given; An hour like this is worth a thousand passed And now once more where most he loved to be, Thee, who wouldst watch a bird's nest on the spray, } How oft from grove to grove, from seat to seat, And in thy grand and melancholy tone, Fit theme for long discourse-Thy bell has tolled! One who resembles thee. 'Tis the sixth hour. The village-clock strikes from the distant tower. Yet hovering, and the thistle's down at rest. And such, his labour done, the calm He knows,* Whose footsteps we have followed. Round him glows An atmosphere that brightens to the last; The light, that shines, reflected from the Past, At illa quanti sunt, animum tanquam emeritis stipendiis libidinis, ambitionis, contentionis, inimicitiarum, cupiditatum omnium, secum esse, secumque (ut dicitur) vivere?-Cic. De Senectute. By the wise stranger-in his morning-hours, Or prunes or grafts, or in the yellow mead At night, when all, assembling round the fire, A tale is told of India or Japan, Of merchants from Golcond or Astracan, * Hinc ubi jam emissum caveis ad sidera cœli Richard the First. For the romantic story here alluded to, we are indebted to the French Chroniclers.-See FAUCHET. Recueil de l'Origine de la Langue et Poësie Fr. Or some great Caravan, from well to well In their long march, such as the Prophet bids, And in an instant lost- -a hollow wave |