WHERE HERRICK LIES 



trees throw their shadows over the 

 moist grasses, and above them tower 

 Scotch firs, whose stems glow warmly in 

 the sunshine, whose crowns ascend against 

 the spring green of the hills. All is light and life 

 above the graves, and dewdrops tremble in the cups 

 of unnumbered flowers where I seek, amidst pale 

 blossoms, for a spot that shall seem good to be the 

 poet's resting-place. 



Is there no magic wand of the mind that may dip, 

 as the water-finder's hazel, when a live mortal walks 

 here among the primroses above the dust of an 

 immortal ? Cannot my heart pulse quicker, or the 

 thrush sing sweeter, or the little violet yield a sweeter 

 fragrance above Robin Herrick's grave? 



I move among the humble hillocks at Dean Prior, 

 nor guess at all where once the poet's proper mound 

 arose. Ancient stones there are, but none that rises 

 to him ; lichens still gnaw and nibble the names of 

 common men from slate and slab ; but no decaying 

 monument marks his resting-place ; the garment of 

 new-born bud and blade alone dresses it. And this 

 is good, for so we seek him, not in the perishing 



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