A DAY AT COWPER'S TOMB. 429 



STANDING ON THE POET's TOMB. 



HUNDREDS before me on thy grave have stood, 



And idly read this marble- sculptured verse, 

 Then thoughtless passed into the buoyant flood 



Of life, all gloomy feeling to disperse. 

 But I, when far away, will ponder long 



On the mysterious waywardness of fate, 

 Which with thy spirit's energetic song 



Did wed thy body's miserable state. 

 A little urn will hold all that man knows, 



Entirely, of thyself ; for what knows he 

 Save that thou sprang'st from dust ; thus spirit grows, 



Unknown its essence, boundless as the sea ; 

 We feel its influence, though removed to heaven, 

 Unsate the wonder how the spell is given. 



ON HEARING A FAVOURITE MASS, BY MOZART> AFTER WRITING 

 THE ABOVE. 



THE pealing organ, in a solemn roll, 



Gives echo to the tone my feelings take ; 

 Two mighty spirits now entrance my soul, 



A mystery within me to awake : 

 My heart beats quicker, and my nerves are brac'd 



With thrilling rapture, which but few can tell, 

 Whom chance, or pure design, hath never plac'd 



In sweet association with such spell. 

 O, there are moments when the wretched'st life 



With ecstasy untold may be full fraught, 

 And the pleas'd spirit, in emotion rife, 



To sweet oblivion of the body wrought ; 

 And such a one, long lapse between, is this 



Foretaste on earth of heaven's harmonious bliss* 



ON LEAVING THE TOMB. 



AND I do turn me to the world again, 



And to the petty troubles of my state : 

 Would I might do so without fear or pain ! 



But who can triumph o'er the wounds of fate ? 

 It is not mine to wander as I list, 



To seek with kindred natures intercourse ; 

 The grief, which I did dream dismiss'd at this, 



Back to its inmost fount this clay doth force ; 

 But I have striven with it oft before, 



And master' d then,- it shall be conquer'd now : 

 While viewing inwardly what I adore, 



The world shall see no murmuring on my brow : 

 Ah me ! how hard the current to divert, 

 Which, let to flow, may lead us to our hurt. 

 September, 1835. THKTA. 



M, M. No. 11 31 



