Thus I wander'd, companion'd of grief and forlorn Till I wish'd for that land where my being was born But what was that land with its love, where my home Was self-shut against me; for why should I come Like an after-distress to my gray-bearded father, With a blight to the last of his sight?--let him rather Lament for me dead, and shed tears in the urn Where I was not, and still in fond memory turn To his son even such as he left him. Oh, how Could I walk with the youth once my fellows, but now Like Gods to my humbled estate?--or how bear The steeds once the pride of my eyes and the care Of my hands? Then I turn'd me self-banish'd, and came Into Thessaly here, where I met with the same As myself. I have heard how they met by a stream In games, and were suddenly changed by a scream That made wretches of many, as she roll'd her wild eyes Against heaven, and so vanish'd.--The gentle and wise Lose their thoughts in deep studies, and others their ill In the mirth of mankind where they mingle them still. THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. I. Alas! 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 On young and ignorant natures--as it wont To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont! II. Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer, Behold two maidens, up the quiet green Shining, far distant, in the summer air That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between Their downy plumes,--sailing as if they were Two far-off ships,--until they brush between The churchyard's humble walls, and watch and wait On either side of the wide open'd gate, III. And there they stand--with haughty necks before God's holy house, that points towards the skies-- Frowning reluctant duty from the poor, And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes: And Youth looks lingering from the temple door, Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs, With pouting lips,--forgetful of the grace, Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face;-- IV. Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside, May wear the happiness of rich attire; And those two sisters, in their silly pride, May change the soul's warm glances for the fire Of lifeless diamonds;--and for health denied,-- With art, that blushes at itself, inspire Their languid cheeks--and flourish in a glory That has no life in life, nor after-story. V. The aged priest goes shaking his gray hair In meekest censuring, and turns his eye Earthward in grief, and heavenward in pray'r, And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by, Good-hearted man! what sullen soul would wear Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly Put on thy censure, that might win the praise Of one so gray in goodness and in days? VI.