LVI. THE SONG OF THE CORNISH MEN. When Sir Jonathan Trelawny, one of the seven bishops, was committed to the Tower, in 1688, during the religious persecutions under King James, the men of the county of Cornwall, in England, rose one and all, and marched as far as Exeter on their way to free him from prison. It is said that the following song, which was sung all over the county, had great effect in alarming the government, and staying the course of persecution. A GOOD Sword and a trusty hand, A merry heart and true,- And have they fixed the where and when? Here's thirty thousand Cornishmen Will see the reason why! Out spake their captain, brave and bold, "If London's Tower were Michael's hold, "We'll cross the Tamar, land to land; All side by side, and hand to hand,— THE MURDERER'S CONFESSION. And love is the theme of that early dream So warm, so wild, so new, That in all our after life I deem O! there is a dream of maturer years, More turbulent by far - 'Tis a vision of blood, and of woman's tears, Till we find that fame is a bodiless breath, O there is a dream of hoary age; Of sums noted down in a figured page, And we fondly trust in our glittering dust, Till our limbs are laid on that cold bed And is it thus from man's birth to his Hath bathed in a sea of living light, And the theme of that dream is Heaven. LVIII. -THE MURDERER'S CONFESSION I PAUSED not to question the devil's suggestion, But o'er the cliff, headlong, the living was thrown; A scream and a plashing, a foam and a flashing, And the smothering water accomplished his slaughter, - With heart-thrilling spasm, I leant o'er the chasm; 857 With footsteps that staggered, and countenance haggard, Till whisperings stealthy said, "Psha! he was wealthy- Age-paralyzed, sickly, he must have died quickly, Why leave him to languish and struggle with anguish? In procession extended, a funeral splendid, With bannered displays and escutcheons emblazoned, When a dread apparition astounded my vision; From its nailed coffin-prison the corpse had arisen, In accents that thrilled me, "That ruthless dissembler, that guilt-stricken trembler, Is the villain who killed me!" 'Twas fancy's creation-mere hallucination – A lucky delusion; for again my confusion, Guilt's evidence sinister, seemed to people and minister To escape the ideäl, let me dwell on the reäl: In abundance possessing life's every blessing, Life's blessings?— O, liar! all are curses most dire! His eyes ever stare at me, flare at me, glare at me! THE MURDERER'S CONFESSION. My wine, clear and ruddy, seems turbid and bloody: That in every glass hisses -"Assassin ! 859 My curse shall affright thee, haunt, harrow, and blight thee, In life and in death!" When free from this error, I thrill with the terror (Thought horrid to dwell on!) That the wretch whom men cherish may shamefully perish; Bc publicly gibbeted,* branded, exhibited, As a murderous felon ! O, punishment hellish! the house I embellish They follow-infest me; they strive to arrest me, The country's amenity brings no serenity; Dog him, waylay him, encompass him, stay him, My flower-beds splendid seem eyes blood-distended I would forfeit most gladly wealth stolen so madly, - Hence, idle delusions! hence, fears and confusions! Throughout the wide county I'm famed for my bounty, The g in this word has the sound of j. † A Greek divinity, worshiped as the goddess of vengeance, and regarded as the personification of the righteous anger of the gods. Let the dōtard and craven by fear be enslaven! You determine on treating the brain's sickly cheating Ha ha! I am fearless henceforward, and tearless; God help me!-hist! hearken! 'Tis the shriek, soul-appalling, he uttered when falling! Nerves a thousand times stronger could bear it no longer! Grief, sickness, compunction, dismay in conjunction, Nights and days ghost-prolific, more grim and terrific Than judges and juries, Make the heart writhe and falter more than gibbet and halter! Arrest me, secure me, seize, handcuff, immure me! I own my transgression will make full confession! — Quick! quick! Let me plunge in some dark-vaulted dungeon, Where, though tried and death-fated, I may not be baited By devils and furies! HORACE SMITH. CLANG, clang! the massive anvils ring; Clang, clang! Say, brothers of the dusky brow, What are your strong arms forging now? Prosper it, Heaven, and bless our toil! The most benignant soil! Clang, clang!Our cōlter's course shall be By many a streamlet's silver tide, |