« ПретходнаНастави »
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED.
I stood beside the grave of him who blazed
That for this plant strangers his memory task'd
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so ;
Thus spoke he,-" I believe the man of whom “ You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, “ Was a most famous writer in his day, “ And therefore travellers step from out their way “ To pay him honour,-and myself whate'er “ Your honour pleases,”--then most pleased I shook From out my pocket's avaricious nook Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare So much but inconveniently ;-Ye smile, I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while, Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. You are the fools, not I—for I did dwell With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye, On that Old Sexton's natural homily, In which there was Obscurity and Fame, The Glory and the Nothing of a Name.
Our life is twofold ; Sleep hath its own world,