Genius has so much youth no care can kill; Death seems unnatural when it sighs--"Be still." That wealth, which Nature prodigally gave, Shall Life but garner for its heir the Grave? What noble hearts that treasure might have bless'd! How large the realm that mind should have possess'd! Love in the wife, and wisdom in the friend, And earnest purpose for a generous end, And glowing sympathy for thoughts of power And playful fancy for the lighter hour; All lost, all cavern'd in the sunless gloom Of some dark memory, beetling o'er the tomb;-- Like bright-wing'd fairies, whom the hostile gnome Has spell'd and dungeon'd in his rocky home, The wanderer hears the solitary moan, Nor dreams the fairy in the sullen stone. Contrasting this worn frame and weary breast, Fresh as a morn of April bloom'd the guest: April has tears, and mists the morn array; The mists foretell the sun,--the tears the May. Lo, as from care to care the soother glides, How the home brightens where the heart presides! Now hovering, bird-like, o'er the flowers,--at times Pausing to chant Calantha's favourite rhymes, Or smooth the uneasy pillow with light hand; Or watch the eye, forestalling the demand, Complete in every heavenly art--above All, save the genius of inventive love. The window open'd on that breadth of green, To half the pomp of elder days the scene. Gaze to thy left--there the Plantagenet Look'd on the lists for Norman knighthood set;[E] Bright issued forth, where yonder archway glooms, Banner and trump, and steed, and waves of plumes, As with light heart rides wanton Anne to brave Tudor's grim love, the purple and the grave. Gaze to the right, where now--neat, white, and low, The modest Palace looks like Brunswick Row;[F] There, echoed once the merriest orgies known, Since the frank Norman won grave Harold's throne; There, bloom'd the mulberry groves, beneath whose shade His easy loves the royal Rowley made; Where Villiers flaunted, and where Sedley sung, And wit's loose diamonds dropp'd from Wilmot's tongue! All at rest now--all dust!--wave flows on wave; But the sea dries not!--what to us the grave? It brings no real homily, we sigh, Pause for awhile and murmur, "All must die!" Then rush to pleasure, action, sin once more, Swell the loud tide, and fret unto the shore.