And art thou, Stanley, of that sacred band? Alas, for us too soon! Though rais'd above The reach of human pain, above the flight Of human joy, yet, with a mingled ray Of sadly pleas'd remembrance, must thou feel A mother's love, a mother's tender woe; Who seeks thee still in many a former scene, Seeks thy fair form, thy lovely beaming eyes, Thy pleasing converse, by gay lively sense Inspir'd--where moral wisdom mildly shone Without the toil of art, and virtue glow'd. In all her smiles, without forbidding pride. But, O thou best of parents! wipe thy tears; Or rather to parental Nature pay The tears of grateful joy--who for a while Lent thee this younger self, this opening bloom Of thy enlighten'd mind and gentle worth. Believe the muse: the wintry blast of death Kills not the buds of virtue; no, they spread. Beneath the heavenly beam of brighter suns, Through endless ages, into higher powers. Thus up the mount, in airy vision rapt, I stray, regardless whither; till the sound Of a near fall of water every sense Wakes from the charm of thought: swift-shrinking back, I check my steps, and view the broken scene. Smooth to the shelving brink a copious flood Rolls fair and placid; where collected all, In one impetuous torrent, down the steep It thundering shoots, and shakes the country round. At first, an azure sheet, it rushes broad; Then whitening by degrees as prone it falls, And from the loud-resounding rocks below Dash'd in a cloud of foam, it sends aloft A hoary mist, and forms a ceaseless shower Nor can the tortur'd wave here find repose: But, raging still amid the shaggy rocks, Now flashes o'er the scattered fragments, now Aslant the hollow'd channel rapid darts; And falling fast from gradual slope to slope, With wild infracted course, and lessen'd roar, It gains a safer bed, and steals at last, Along the mazes of the quiet vale. Invited from the cliff, to whose dark brow He clings, the steep-ascending eagle soars, With upward pinions, through the flood of day, And, giving full his bosom to the blaze, Gains on the sun; while all the tuneful race, Smit by afflictive noon, disorder'd droop, Deep in the thicket; or, from bower to bower Responsive, force an interrupted strain. The stockdove only through the forest coos, Mournfully hoarse; oft ceasing from his plaint, Short interval of weary woe! again The sad idea of his murder'd mate, Struck from his side by savage fowler's guile Across his fancy comes; and then resounds A louder song of sorrow through the grove.