ARIADNE WAKING. A FRAGMENT. THE moist and quiet morn was scarcely breaking, Her eyelids still were closing, and she heard That in the leaves o'erhead, waiting the sun, 2 ON POMFRET'S "CHOICE." I HAVE been reading Pomfret's " Choice" this spring, A pretty kind of sort of kind of thing, Not much a verse, and poem none at all, And yet I know not. There's a skill in pies, And he's the poet, more or less, who knows The charm that hallows the least truth from prose, And dresses it in its mild singing clothes. Not oaks alone are trees, nor roses flowers; Much humble wealth makes rich this world of ours. Nature from some sweet energy throws up Alike the pine-mount and the buttercup, And truth she makes so precious, that to paint Either, shall shrine an artist like a saint, And bring him in his turn the crowds that press Our trivial poet hit upon a theme Which all men love, an old, sweet household dream, Though to the loss of, here and there, a wall: And who would scorn to pass consummate hours, And music, ringing through their evening trees? I own I shouldn't: I could even bear To some majestic table to repair, And dine for three-pence on luxurious fare. A HOUSE AND GROUNDS. A FRAGMENT. WERE this impossible, I know full well What sort of house should grace my garden-bell,- For friends, whose names endear'd them, should be kept. And that my luck might not seem ill-bestow'd, A bench and spring should greet him on the road. My grounds should not be large; I like to go To Nature for a range, and prospect too, And cannot fancy she'll comprise for me, Besides, my thoughts fly far; and when at rest, The youth of age, and med'cine of the wise. |