Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers; And pansies rayed, and freaked and mottled pinks, Grow among balm and rosemary and rue. There honeysuckles flaunt and roses blow Almost uncultured; some with dark green leaves I loved her rudest scenes, warrens and heaths, And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows, Beccles. BECCLES. NORTH rode Orlando by a river's side, FORTH Inland and winding, smooth, and full and wide, That rolled majestic on, in one soft flowing tide; The bottom gravel, flowery were the banks, Tall willows, waving in their broken ranks; The road, now near, now distant, winding led By lovely meadows which the waters fed; He passed the wayside inn, the village spire, Nor stopped to gaze, to question, or admire; On either side the rural mansions stood, With hedge-row trees, and hills high-crowned with wood, And many a devious stream that reached the nobler flood. George Crabbe. A Bedfont. THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. LAS! 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 Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer, That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between And there they stand with haughty necks before And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes: Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside, May change the soul's warm glances for the fire Their languid cheeks, and flourish in a glory -- That has no life in life, nor after-story. The aged priest goes shaking his gray hair And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by. Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame Turns her pained head, but not her glance, aside From wanton dress, and marvels o'er again, That heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain. * * * * * The aged priest goes on each Sabbath morn, Nor stoops his back to the ungodly pair; And ancient lips that puckered up in scorn, Go smoothly breathing to the house of prayer; And in the garden-plot, from day to day, The lily blooms its long white life away. And where two haughty maidens used to be, In pride of plume, where plumy Death had trod, Trailing their gorgeous velvets wantonly, Most unmeet pall, over the holy sod; There, gentle stranger, thou may'st only see Two sombre Peacocks. Age, with sapient nod Marking the spot, still tarries to declare How they once lived, and wherefore they are there. Thomas Hood. W Belvoir Castle. BELVOIR CASTLE. HEN native Britons British lands possessed, Their glory freedom, and their blessing rest, His herds the vale, his flocks the hills, o'erspread; In a new age a Saxon lord appeared, Then first the grand but threatening form was known, Where strength alone appeared, the gloomy wall |