THE hay is carried; and the Hours
Snatch, as they pass, the linden flow’rs;
And children leap to pluck a spray
Bent earthward, and then run away.
Park-keeper! catch me those grave thieves
About whose frocks the fragrant leaves,
Sticking and fluttering here and there,
No false nor faltering witness bear.
I never view such scenes as these
In grassy meadow girt with trees,
But comes a thought of her who now
Sits with serenely patient brow
Amid deep sufferings: none hath told
More pleasant tales to young and old.
Fondest was she of Father Thames,
But rambled to Hellenic streams;
Nor even there could any tell
The country’s purer charms so well
As Mary Mitford.
Verse! go forth
And breathe o’er gentle breasts her worth.
Needless the task.. but should she see
One hearty wish from you and me,
A moment’s pain it may assuage..
A rose-leaf on the couch of Age.