The right to perish might be thought
An undisputed right —
Attempt it, and the Universe
Upon the opposite
Will concentrate its officers —
You cannot even die
But nature and mankind must pause
To pay you scrutiny.
-
-
Old England, alas! what is come to thy sons!
Such rioting over the Capital runs
That has not been seen for a cent'ry before.
A rabble like that at a country wake,
when a poor harmless bull is fast tied to a stake,
With a Scot for their leader rush rapidly on
To make at st. Stephen's their grievances...The Road to Paradise is plain,
And holds scarce one.
Not that it is not firm
But we presume
A Dimpled Road
Is more preferred.
The Belles of Paradise are few —
Not me — nor you —
But unsuspected things —
Mines have no Wings.The Road was lit with Moon and star —
The Trees were bright and still —
Descried I — by the distant Light
A Traveller on a Hill —
To magic Perpendiculars
Ascending, though Terrene —
Unknown his shimmering ultimate —
But he indorsed the sheen —The Robin for the Crumb
Returns no syllable
But long records the Lady's name
In Silver Chronicle.The Robin is a Gabriel
In humble circumstances —
His Dress denotes him socially,
Of Transport's Working Classes —
He has the punctuality
Of the New England Farmer —
The same oblique integrity,
A Vista vastly warmer —
A small but sturdy Residence
A self denying...The Robin is the One
That interrupt the Morn
With hurried — few — express Reports
When March is scarcely on —
The Robin is the One
That overflow the Noon
With her cherubic quantity —
An April but begun —
The Robin is the One
That speechless from her Nest...The Robin's my Criterion for Tune —
Because I grow — where Robins do —
But, were I Cuckoo born —
I'd swear by him —
The ode familiar — rules the Noon —
The Buttercup's, my Whim for Bloom —
Because, we're Orchard sprung —
But, were I Britain born,
I'd Daisies spurn —
...The Rose did caper on her cheek —
Her Bodice rose and fell —
Her pretty speech — like drunken men —
Did stagger pitiful —
Her fingers fumbled at her work —
Her needle would not go —
What ailed so smart a little Maid —
It puzzled me to know —
Till opposite — I spied a...DEATH cometh to the chamber of the sick:
The ruler's daughter, like the peasant's child,
Turns pale as marble. Hark! that hollow moan,
Which none may soothe, and then the last faint breath
Subsiding with a shudder.
Deep the wail
That speaks an idol fallen from the shrine...