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338 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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BARTHOLOMEW SIMMONS (i 804-1850)
TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD
T
AKE back into thy bosom, earth, This joyous, May-eyed morrow, The gentlest child that ever mirth Gave to be reared by sorrow ! 'Tis hard—while rays half green, half gold,
Through vernal bowers are burning, And streams their diamond mirrors hold
To Summer's face returning — To say we're thankful that his sleep
Shall nevermore be lighter, In whose sweet-tongued companionship Stream, bower, and beam grow brighter!
But all the more intensely true
His soul gave out each feature Of elemental love, each hue
And grace of golden nature,— The deeper still beneath it all
Lurked the keen jags of anguish; The more the laurels clasped his brow
Their poison made it languish, Seemed it that, like the nightingale
Of his own mournful singing, The tenderer would his song prevail
While most the thorn was stinging. |
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