THE SOLE INSCRIPTION ON AN OLD HEAD-STONE IN DULWICH CHURCHYARD.
BUT "Kitty Palmer "-not a word Beyond, the mossy head-stone's showing;
Not even a date; it seems absurd,
To care for one, one can't be knowing;
Yet I can't help it; she lies nigh
The quiet road I travel often,
And always, when I pass her by,
T'wards Kitty there, my heart will soften.
There's nothing there her age to say;
Young? old? all's hid by time's thick curtain; Was she a babe, scarce born a day? A girl? a woman? all's uncertain. Was she maid, wife, or widow? Well, That knowledge-we must do without it; We know there's nothing here to tell, And that's all we can know about it.
What conquests were hers? A child, but in her home's affections, Or, older grown, seek not in vain, Heart, triumphs, for sweet recollections?
Was she vain? humble? foolish? wise?
Rich? poor? coy? bold? quite dull? or witty! O were you wicked with your eyes,
A plague to men? I hope not, Kitty.
Did children make her smile or sigh, A blessed or afflicted mother? Did she at weddings laugh? or try
By death-beds, sobs in vain to smother? At her grand-children's christenings, eyes, Half tears- -half laughter, did she show now ? Or weep their flight to Paradise
From cradles here? ah, who can know now !
About this long-gone Kitty dreaming, She freed from all we think upon
Of worldly toils and cares and scheming ; Whatever she was, here her rest,
How pleasantly these green elms shade it! How calm and throbless is her breast, However wild or sad life made it!
As here I see her lie, forgot
By all who used to hate or love her, By all but she who makes this spot So sweet with thymy turf above her, I cannot come to picture her But as a sweet one life could render
With smiles to heaven,-one fit to stir In me but thoughts serene and tender.
So I think of her-think her fair, And, on the painted sunshine gazing, See laughing eyes and golden hair, All beauty that one should be praising; A happy girlish wife, before
My sight she lives, to fancy giving
Content more calm-more sweet, since more Undimmed by fears-than do the living.
For we are things that know no peace, Poor slaves of care and toil and pleasure, Of wants and hopes that never cease; For calm content, we have no leisure; But hers no more are sin and death, All we must fear-with which we've striven ; Earth's must be still unquiet breath; She breathes but Heaven's, we trust-forgiven.
All they who knew her, too, have passed From time; all broken heart-ties mended. They have rejoin'd her where at last All tears are dried, all sorrows ended; What matters then that here her name Alone is written! she is faring As well as most who cared for fame, For whom now not a soul is caring.
Ah, you who here are writing this,. And dream perhaps in future story Your name may live-who, catch or miss, Snatch at a little gleam of glory,
Is it so much that men should know
Your words years hence? nay, man, breathe calmer! Will you not sleep as well, below
The grass, forgot, like "Kitty Palmer?"
[I conclude this series of "Select Readings" with a “Hymn” from one whose "Seasons" ever have been, and will be, loved and admired by all the world.-Editor.]
THESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm ; Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; And every sense and every heart is joy. Then comes thy glory in the Summer months, With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year: And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks, And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,
By brooks and groves in hollow-whispering gales, Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In Winter awful thou! with clouds and storms Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled, Majestic darkness ! On the whirlwind's wing Riding sublime, thou bidd'st the world adore, And humblest nature with thy northern blast.
Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine, Deep-felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combined; Shade unperceived, so softening into shade; And all so forming a harmonious whole, That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with rude unconscious gaze, Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; Works in the secret deep; shoots steaming thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring; Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth, And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life.
Nature, attend! join, every living soul Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join; and ardent raise One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales,
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