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THE RECTORY.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


101

THE RECTORY.

“One of those spots the eye delights to look on
For its own loveliness, and which the heart
Loves for the sake of one far lovelier.”

A beautiful and pastoral scene,
A painter's study meet to be;
Or such as bard, in mood serene,
Might wish to roam in, fancy free.
Mark how that river to the sea
Wafts the fair vessel on its tide,
Breasting the rippling waves with glee,
Herself their ornament and pride.

102

How gracefully in towering height,
Those venerable cedars rise;
How beautiful, with foliage bright,
That laurel of gigantic size:
Here the tall cypress proudly vies
With ilex, chestnut, fir, and pine;
And there, with bloom of richer dyes,
Those tulip-trees in glory shine.
Nor lacks the spot that softer grace
Which Flora's sweetest charms bestow;
Her votary's eye may quickly trace,
In many a flowret's gorgeous glow,
And simpler beauties, traits that show,
Throughout the changeful, circling year,
As varying seasons come and go,
A gentler taste has lingered here!
But where is she, once wont to tend
In this loved spot each favourite flower,
Delighted through these walks to wend,
Or loiter in her summer bower?

103

Where is she fled, who, hour by hour,
Enjoyed their fragrance, praised their hue;
Whose modest pencil's graceful power
This sweet memorial of them drew?
Seek not to know! The tale is old,
That loveliest blossoms soonest fade:
That hearts of purest, gentlest mould,
In the cold earth are early laid;
The ivy-wreath and cypress-braid
Wait not for age to share their gloom;
Who hath not marked their chilling shade
Round beauty's, youth's, and virtue's tomb?
Yet, mourned and gentle one! shall we
So lightly estimate thy worth,
As hopelessly to mourn for thee
In any Eden found on earth?
Though fairest flowers of mortal birth,
Frail in their nature, briefly shine;
Though sorrow mar our hours of mirth,
A more enduring bliss is thine.

104

Much as we miss and mourn thee here,
Yet Faith forbids all thankless gloom:
Hope whispers of a heavenly sphere,
Where love and joy immortal bloom;
Oh! who can sorrow for thy doom,
Viewing the path which thou hast trod,
And knowing that beyond the tomb
“The pure in heart behold their God?”