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Of my hands? Then I turn'd me self-banish’d, and came
TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT.
Where Pride is buried, like its very ghost,
In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro,
Shedding its chilling superstition most On
young and ignorant natures as it wont To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont!
Behold two maidens, up the quiet green
That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between Their downy plumes, - sailing as if they were
Two far-off ships, until they brush between The churchyard's humble walls, and watch and wait On either side of the wide open'd gate.
III. And there they stand with haughty necks before
God's holy house, that points towards the skies — Frowning reluctant duty from the poor,
And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes : And Youth looks lingering from the temple door,
Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs, With pouting lips, — forgetful of the grace, Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face;
Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside,
May wear the happiness of rich attire; And those two sisters, in their silly pride,
May change the soul's warm glances for the fire Of lifeless diamonds; and for health deny’d,
With art, that blushes at itself, inspire
The aged priest goes shaking his grey hair
In meekest censuring, and turns his eye Earthward in grief, and heavenward in pray'r,
And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by. Good-hearted man! what sullen soul would wear
Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly