To Tacaea

To-morrow, brightest-eyed of Avon's train,
To-morrow thou art slavelike bound and sold,
Another's and another's ; haste away,
Winde thro' the willows, dart along the path,
It nought avails thee, nought our plaint avails.

O happy those before me, who could say
" Short tho' thy period, sweet Tacaea, short
Ere thou art destined to the depths below.
Thou passest half thy sunny hours with me."

I mourn not, envy not, what others gain,
Thee, and thy venerable elms I mourn.
Thy old protectors, ruthless was the pride.

And gaunt the need that bade their heads lie low.
I see the meadow's tender grass start back.
See from their prostrate trunks the gory glare.
Ah I pleasant was it once to watch thy waves
Swelling o'er pliant beds of glossy weed ;

Pleasant to watch them dip amid the stones
Chirp, and spring over, glance and gleam along,
And tripping light their wanton way pursue.
Methinks they now with mellow mournfulness
Bid their faint breezes chide my fond delay,
Nor suffer on the bridge nor on the knee
My poor irregularly penciled page.
Alas, Tacaea, thou art sore deceived !
Here are no foren words, no fatal seal.
But thou and all who hear me shall avow
The simple notes of sorrow's song are here.