My days among the Dead are past; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old: My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day. With them I take delight in weal And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the Dead; with them I live in long-past years, Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind. My hopes are with the Dead; anon My place with them will be, And I with them shall travel on Through all Futurity; Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust. _R. Southey_ CCLXXII _THE MERMAID TAVERN_ Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine? Or are fruits of Paradise Sweeter than those dainty pies Of venison? O generous food! Drest as though bold Robin Hood Would, with his Maid Marian, Sup and bowse from horn and can. I have heard that on a day Mine host's sign-board flew away Nobody knew whither, till An astrologer's old quill To a sheepskin gave the story, Said he saw you in your glory, Underneath a new-old sign Sipping beverage divine, And pledging with contented smack The Mermaid in the Zodiac. Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? _J. Keats_ CCLXXIII _THE PRIDE OF YOUTH_ Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely. 'Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?' --'When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.' 'Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?' --'The gray-headed sexton That delves the grave duly 'The glowworm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady.' _Sir W. Scott_ CCLXXIV _THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS_ One more Unfortunate Weary of breath Rashly importunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair! Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing. Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her-- All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.