Page:Forget Me Not (1826).djvu/27

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ALICE. 7


Of the sick, way-worn traveller? What, none? Not even a servant? Mrs. Neville. None. You lean your head Against the trees, as sick or weary too. Oh, rest you-here awhile! Find such a seat As mine, midst these old roots; and if you need Refreshment Henry. Stir not, madam! my weak words May ill express strong gratitude. To sit Here is the perfectest repose; amid Such shade, such freshness, where the greenness falls Like dew upon the buraing eyes; such smells Swinging from the lime blossom, and the breath Of flaunting woodbines; and such coil of bees Gathering their harvest. It is worth a life Of that dull common joy which men call bliss, So to be weary, and to find such rest. Mrs. Neville. You come from far? Henry. From Oxford here, to meet The heir of yon fair hall. Alice. Ah! he knows him! Henry (aside). How those stars shine upon me! Alice. You know him! Mother, he knows Lord Claremont. Mrs. Neville. Oh, the book Is closed, which this long morning hath absorbed Thy every sense — thou hast not seen thy young And dear companions, when they wooed thee forth

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