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And once her both arms suddenly Round Mary's neck she flung, And her heart panted, and she felt The words upon her tongue.

She felt them coming, but no power
Had she the words to smother;
And with a kind of shriek she cried,
"O Christ! you're like your mother!"

So gentle Ellen now no more

Could make this sad house cheery; And Mary's melancholy ways

Drove Edward wild and weary.

Lingering he raised his latch at eve,

Though tired in heart and limb: He loved no other place, and yet Home was no home to him.

One evening he took up a book,

And nothing in it read;

Then flung it down, and groaning, cried, "O! Heaven! that I were dead."

Mary look'd up into his face,

And nothing to him said; She tried to smile, and on his arm Mournfully lean'd her head.

And he burst into tears, and fell

Upon his knees in prayer;

"Her heart is broke! O God! my grief, It is too great to bear!"

'Twas such a foggy time as makes

Old sextons, sir! like me,

Rest on their spades to cough; the spring
Was late uncommonly.

And then the hot days, all at once,
They came, we knew not how;
You look'd about for shade, when scarce
A leaf was on a bough.

It happen'd then, ('twas in the bower
A furlong up the wood;
Perhaps you know the place, and yet

I scarce know how you should,)

No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh

To any pasture plot;

But cluster'd near the chattering brook, Lone hollies mark'd the spot.

Those hollies of themselves a shape As of an arbour took,

A close, round arbour; and it stands Not three strides from a brook.

Within this arbour, which was sti!)

With scarlet berries hung,

Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, Just as the first bell rung.

"Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet To hear the Sabbath bell,

'Tis sweet to hear them both at once, Deep in a woody dell.

His limbs along the moss, his head
Upon a mossy heap,

With shut-up senses, Edward lay,
That brook e'en on a working day
Might chatter one to sleep.
And he had pass'd a restless night,
And was not well in health;
The women sat down by his side,

And talk'd as 'twere by stealth.

"The sun peeps through the close thick leaves, See, dearest Ellen! see!

"Tis in the leaves, a little sun,

No bigger than your e'e;

"A tiny sun, and it has got

A perfect glory, too;

Ten thousand threads and hairs of light,
Make up a glory, gay and bright,

Round that small orb, so blue."

And then they argued of those rays,
What colour they might be:

Says this, "They're mostly green;" says that,
"They're amber-like to me."

So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts
Were troubling Edward's rest;

But soon they heard his hard quick pants,
And the thumping in his breast.

"A mother, too!" these selfsame words
Did Edward mutter plain;

His face was drawn back on itself,

With horror and huge pain.

Both groan'd at once, for both knew well
What thoughts were in his mind;
When he waked up, and stared like one

That hath been just struck blind.

He sat upright; and ere the dream
Had had time to depart,

"O God, forgive me!" he exclaim'd,
"I have torn out her heart."

Then Ellen shriek'd, and forthwith burst
Into ungentle laughter;

And Mary shiver'd, where she sat,

And never she smiled after.

Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To morrow! and to-morrow! and to-morrow !——



Late, late yestreen, I saw the new Moon,
With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens.


WELL! if the bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade

Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draught, that moans and rakes
Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo! the new moon winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o'erspread,
But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread,)
I see the old moon in her lap, foretelling

The coming on of rain and squally blast.
And O! that even now the gust were swelling,
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst
they awed,

And sent my soul abroad,

Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!


A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear-

O lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,

And its peculiar tint of yellow green;
And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye;
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars;
Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seen :
Yon crescent moon, as fix'd as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair,

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!


My genial spirits fail,

And what can these avail

To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?

It were a vain endeavour,

Though I should gaze for ever

On that green light that lingers in the west:

I may not hope from outward forms to win

What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful, and beauty-making power.

Joy, virtuous lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life, and life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,
Joy, lady! is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding nature to us gives in dower,
A new earth and new heaven,

Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud;
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud-
We in ourselves rejoice!

And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.


There was a time when, though my path was


This joy within me dallied with distress,

And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth;
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth.
But O! each visitation

Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can ;
And haply by abstruse research to steal

From my own nature all the natural manThis was my sole resource, my only plan; Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.


Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, Reality's dark dream!

I turn from you, and listen to the wind,

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthen'd out

That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that ravest without,

Bare crag, or mountain tairn,* or blasted tree,

The passion and the life, whose fountains are Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,



O lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does nature live:
Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allow'd
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the earth-

And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element !


O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be !

Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Makest devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold!
What tell'st thou now about?

'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds

At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!

*Tairn is a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the valleys. This address to the storm wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country.

But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderings-all is


It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!

A tale of less affright,

And temper'd with delight,

As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 'Tis of a little child

Upon a lonesome wild,

And yet, free nature's uncorrupted child, You hail'd the chapel and the platform wild, Where once the Austrian fell Beneath the shaft of Tell!

O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! Whence learnt you that heroic measure? There crowd your finely-fibred frame, All living faculties of bliss; And genius to your cradle came,

His forehead wreathed with lambent flame, And bending low, with godlike kiss Breathed in a more celestial life;

Not far from home, but she hath lost her way,
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her But boasts not many a fair compeer

mother hear.


'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle sleep! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping earth!
With light heart may she rise,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice:
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!

O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear lady friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice.



And hail the chapel! hail the platform wild!
Where Tell directed the avenging dart,
With well-strung arm, that first preserved his child,
Then aim'd the arrow at the tyrant's heart.

SPLENDOUR'S fondly foster'd child!
And did you hail the platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell?

O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Whence learnt you that heroic measure?

Light as a dream your days their circlets ran,
From all that teaches brotherhood to man;
Far, far removed from want, from hope, from

Enchanting music lull'd your infant ear,
Obeisance, raises soothed your infant heart:
Emblazonments and old ancestral crests
With many a bright obtrusive form of art,

Detain'd your eye from nature: stately vests,
That veiling strove to deck your charms divine,
Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine,
Were yours unearn'd by toil; nor could you see
The unenjoying toiler's misery.

A heart as sensitive to joy and fear;
And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife,
Some few, to nobler being wrought,
Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought.
Yet these delight to celebrate
Laurell'd war and plumy state;
Or in verse and music dress
Tales of rustic happiness-
Pernicious tales! insidious strains!
That steel the rich man's breast,
And mock the lot unblest,
The sordid vices and the abject pains,
Which evermore must be

The doom of ignorance and penury!
But you, free nature's uncorrupted child,
You hail'd the chapel and the platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell!

O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Where learnt you that heroic measure?

You were a mother! That most holy name,
Which heaven and nature bless,

I may not vilely prostitute to those
Whose infants owe them less
Than the poor caterpillar owes

Its gaudy parent fly.

You were a mother! at your bosom fed

The babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye,
Each twilight thought, each nascent feeling read,
Which you yourself created. O! delight!
A second time to be a mother,

Without the mother's bitter groans:
Another thought, and yet another,

By touch or taste, by looks or tones
O'er the growing sense to roll,
The mother of your infant's soul!
The angel of the earth, who, while he guides
His chariot-planet round the goal of day,
All trembling gazes on the eye of God,

A moment turn'd his awful face away;
And as he view'd you, from his aspect sweet
New influences in your being rose,

Blest intuitions and communions fleet
With living nature, in her joys and woes!
Thenceforth your soul rejoiced see
The shrine of social liberty!

O beautiful! O nature's child!
'Twas thence you hail'd the platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell

Beneath the shaft of Tell!

O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Thence learnt you that heroic measure.

TRANQUILLITY! thou better name
Than all the family of fame!
Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age
To low intrigue, or factious rage;

For O! dear child of thoughtful truth,
To thee I gave my early youth,

And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore,
Ere, yet the tempest rose and scared me with its


Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,
On him but seldom, power divine,
Thy spirit rests! Satiety

And sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
Mock the tired worldling. Idle hope
And dire remembrance interlope,

To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind:
The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.

But me thy gentle hand will lead

At morning through th' accustom'd mead;
And in the sultry summer's heat
Will build me up a mossy seat;
And when the gust of autumn crowds

And breaks the busy moonlight clouds,
Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune,
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon.

The feeling heart, the searching soul,

To thee I dedicate the whole!
And while within myself I trace
The greatness of some future race,
Aloof with hermit eye I scan

The present works of present man

A wild and dreamlike trade of blood and guile, Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!





A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep,
But a green mountain variously up-piled,
Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep,
Or colour'd lichens with slow oozing weep;
Where cypress and the darker yew start wild;
And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash
Dance brighten'd the red clusters of the ash;
Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds be-

Calm pensiveness might muse herself to sleep;
Till haply startled by some fleecy dam,
That rustling on the bushy clift above,
With melancholy bleat of anxious love,

Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb. Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb,

E'en while the bosom ached with lonelinessHow more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless

Th' adventurous toil, and up the path sublime

Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound!

O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark The berries of the half uprooted ash Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash,Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark, Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock; In social silence now, and now t' unlock The treasured heart; arm link'd in friendly arm, Save if the one, his muse's witching charm Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag; Till high o'erhead his beckoning friend appears, And from the forehead of the topmost crag Shouts eagerly: for haply there uprears That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs, Which latest shall detain th' enamour'd sight Seen from below, when eve the valley dims, Tinged yellow with the rich departing light; And haply, basin'd in some unsunn'd cleft, A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale! Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left, Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine, And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine To cheat our noons in moralizing mood, While west winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd: Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount,

To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss Gives this the husband's, that the brother's kiss!

Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, The hill of knowledge I essay'd to trace; That verdurous hill with many a resting-place, And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour To glad and fertilize the subject plains; That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, And many a fancy-blest and holy sod,

Where inspiration, his diviner strains Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, And bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage!

O meek retiring spirit! we will climb,
Cheering and cheer'd, this lovely hill sublime;
And from the stirring world uplifted high,
(Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind,
To quiet musings shall attune the mind,
And oft the melancholy theme supply,)
There, while the prospect through the gazing


Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same, As neighbouring fountains image, each the

whole :

Then, when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth,
We'll discipline the heart to pure delight,
Rekindling sober joy's domestic flame.
They whom I love shall love thee. Honour'd

Now may Heaven realize this vision bright!



WHILE my young cheek retains its healthful hues,
And I have many friends who hold me dear;
L! methinks, I would not often hear
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress,
For which my miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep
My daily bread in tears and bitterness;
And if at death's dread moment I should lie
With no beloved face at my bed-side,
To fix the last glance of my closing eye,
Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-

Would make me pass the cup of anguish by,

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died!

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OFT o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll Which makes the present (while the flash doth last)

Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, Mix'd with such feelings, as perplex the soul Self-question'd in her sleep; and some have said*

We lived ere yet this robe of flesh we wore. O my sweet baby! when I reach my door, If heavy looks shall tell me thou art dead, (As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear,) I think that I should struggle to believe Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve; Didst scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve,

While we wept idly o'er thy little bier!



CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first I scann'd that face of feeble infancy:

For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst

All I had been, and all my child might be!
But when I saw it on its mother's arm,

And hanging at her bosom (she the while
Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile,)
Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm
Impress'd a father's kiss: and all beguiled
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear,
I seem'd to see an angel form appear-
"Twas even thine, beloved woman mild!

So for the mother's sake the child was dear,
And dearer was the mother for the child.


DEAR native brook! wild streamlet of the west!
How many various-fated years have past,
What happy, and what mournful hours, since last
I skimm❜d the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,

But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows


And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my way,

Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs: Ah! that once more I were a careless child!



DORMI, Jesu! Mater ridet,
Quæ tam dulcem somnum videt,
Dormi, Jesu! blandule!

Si non dormis, Mater plorat,
Inter fila cantans orat

Blande, veni, somnule.


Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling,
Mother sits beside thee smiling:

Sleep, my darling, tenderly!
If thou sleep not, mother mourneth,
Singing as her wheel she turneth:
Come, soft slumber, balmily!

* Ην που ημων η ψυχη πριν εν τωδε τω ανθρωπινω είδει γενέσθαι. PLAT. in Phadon.

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