Page:Poems Barrett.djvu/198

A rain of dew, till, wetted so,
The child who held the branch let go,
And it swang backward with a flow

Of faster drippings. Then I knew
The children laughed—but the laugh flew
From its own chirrup, as might do

A frightened song-bird; and a child
Who seemed the chief, said very mild,
"Hush! keep this morning undefiled."

His eyes rebuked them from calm spheres;
His soul upon his brow appears
In waiting for more holy years.

I called the child to me, and said,
"What are your palms for?"—"To be spread,"
He answered, "on a poet dead.

"The poet died last month; and now
The world, which had been somewhat slow
In honouring his living brow,

"Commands the palms—They must be strown
On his new marble very soon,
In a procession of the town."

I sighed and said, "Did he foresee
Any such honour?" "Verily
I cannot tell you," answered he.

"But this I know,—I fain would lay
Mine own head down, another day,
As he did,—with the fame away.

"A lily, a friend's hand had plucked,
Lay by his death-bed, which he looked
As deep down as a bee had sucked;

"Then, turning to the lattice, gazed
O'er hill and river, and upraised.
His eyes illumined and amazed