« EelmineJätka »
And adjurations of the God in Heaven), ·
On which our vice and wretchedness were tagg'd We send our mandates for the certain death Like fancy points and fringes, with the robe Of thousands and ten thousands ! Boys and girls, Pull'd off at pleasure. Fondly these attach And women, that would groan to see a child A radical causation to a few Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war,
Poor drudges of chastising Providence, The best amusement for our morning-meal! Who borrow all their hues and qualities The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers From our own folly and rank wickedness, From curses, who knows scarcely words enough Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father,
meanwhile, Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute
Dote with a mad idolatry ; and all And technical in victories and defeats,
Who will not fall before their images,
And yield them worship, they are enemies
Such have I been deem'd As if the fibres of this godlike frame
But, О dear Britain! O my Mother Isle ! Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch,
Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds,
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, Pass'd off to Heaven, translated and not kill'd :
A husband, and a father! who revere As though he had no wife to pine for him,
All bonds of natural love, and find them all No God to judge him! Therefore, evil days
Within the limits of thy rocky shores. Are coming on us, O my countrymen!
O native Britain! O my Mother Isle ! And what if all-avenging Providence,
How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and Strong and retributive, should make us know
holy The meaning of our words, force us to feel
To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills, The desolation and the agony
Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, of our fierce doings!
Have drunk in all my intellectual life,
All adoration of the God in nature,
All lovely and all honorable things,
Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel
There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul
Unborrow'd from my country. O divine Laugh'd at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, all And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms And most magnificent temple, in the which Which grew up with you round the same fire-side, I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells
Loving the God that made me!
May my fears,
My filial fears, be vain! and may the vaunts
Pass like the gust, that roar'd and died away
In the distant tree : which heard, and only heard Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart
In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass.
But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad
The fruit-like perfume of the golden surze :
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill,
From bodings that have well-nigh wearied me,
I find myself upon the brow, and pause O Britons ! O my brethren! I have told
Startled! And after lonely sojourning Most bitter truth, but without bitterness.
In such a quiet and surrounding nook, Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed ;
This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main, For never can true courage dwell with them, Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look
Of that huge amphitheatre of rich At their own vices. We have been too long
And elmy fields, seems like societyDupes of a deep delusion! Some, belike,
Conversing with the mind, and giving it
A livelier impulse and a dance of thought!
Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elma Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend,
Letters four do form his name.
To him alone the praise is due.
Thanks, sister, thanks! the men have bled,
Their wives and their children faint for bread.
I stood in a swampy field of battle;
lith bones and sculls I made a rattle, Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human-kind.
To frighten the wolf and carrion crow,
And the homeless dog—but they would not go.
I heard a groan and a peevish squall,
And through the chink of a cottage-wall
Can you guess what I saw there?
Whisper it, sister! in our ear. The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendée. FAMINE
A baby beat its dying mother.
No! no! no!
No! no! no!
No! no! no!
Sisters! I from Ireland came!
And all the while the work was done,
Scared by the red and noisy light!
While crash! fell in the roof, I wist,
FAMINE, Whisper it, sister! so and so! In a dark hint, soft and slow.
SLAUGHTER. Letters four do form his nameAnd who sent you?
Who bade you do't?
. See Appendix to "Sibyllinc Leaves."
* One of the many fine words which the most uneducated According to the superstition of the West Countries, if you had about this time a constant opportunity of acquiring from meet the Devil, you may either cut him in half with a straw, or the sermons in the pulpit, and the proclamations on the you may cause him instantly to disappear by spitting over his
Alas! to mend the breaches wide
He made for these poor ninnies, They all must work, whate'er betide, Both days and months, and pay beside (Sad news for Avarice and for Pride)
A sight of golden guineas.
presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love: and five years ago, I own I should have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But, alas ! explosion has succeeded explosion so rapidly,that novelty itself ceases to appear new; and it is possible that now even a simple story,wholly uninspired with politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hub bub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest wh ispering becomes distinct ly audible.
S. T. C.
But here once more to view did pop
The man that kept his senses. And now he cried—“ Stop, neighbors ! stop! The Ox is mad! I would not swop, No, not a school-boy's farthing top
For all the parish fences.
O LEAVE the lily on its stem;
O leave the rose upon the spray; O leave the elder bloom, fair maids!
And listen to my lay.
“ The Ox is mad! Ho! Dick, Bob, Mat!
What means this coward fuss ? Ho! stretch this rope across the plat'T will trip him up—or if not that, Why, damme! we must lay him flat
See, here's my blunderbuss !"
A cypress and a myrtle-bough
This morn around my harp you twined, Because it fashion d mournfully
Its murmurs in the wind.
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE
DARK LADIE. The following Poem is intended as the introduction to a somewhat longer one. The use of the old Ballad word Ladie for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity (as Camden says) will grant me their pardon, and perbaps may be induced to admit a forco and propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties explode around us in all directions, ho should
I play'd a sad and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story-
That ruin wild and hoary.
With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand; And how for ten long years he wood The Ladie of the Land :
And hopes and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherish'd long!
She wept with pity and delight,
She blush'd with love and maiden-shame; And, like the murmurs of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
Heave and swell with inward sighs—
Her gentlę bosom rise.
I saw a cloud of palest hue,
Onward to the moon it pass'd ;
Till it reach'd the moon at last :
And with such joy I find my Lewti : And even so my pale wan cheek
Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind, If Lewti never will be kind.