Of his own household: nor, while from his bed
He through that door-place looks toward the lake
And to the stirring breezes, does he want
Creations lovely as the work of sleep,
Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy.






_To a SEXTON_.


Let thy wheel-barrow alone.
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still
In thy bone-house bone on bone?
Tis already like a hill
In a field of battle made,
Where three thousand skulls are laid.
--These died in peace each with the other,
Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!
From this platform eight feet square
Take not even a finger-joint:
Andrew's whole fire-side is there.

Here, alone, before thine eyes,
Simon's sickly Daughter lies