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And once her both arms suddenly

Round Mary's neck she Aung, 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 nung it down, and groaning, cried,

“O! Heaven ! that I were dead.”

His limbs along the moss, bis bead

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."

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Mary look'd up into his face,

And nothing to him said ; She tried to smile, and on his arm

Mournfully leand 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.

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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.

Then Ellen shriek'd, and forth with 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 lo-torrow! and to-morrow !



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.

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.

'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.

1. 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, What, and wherein it doth exist,
Or the dull sobbing draught, that moans and rakes This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,

This beautiful, and beauty-making power.
Which better far were mute.

Joy, virtuous lady! Joy that ne'er was given, For lo! the new moon winter-bright!

Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, And overspread with phantom light,

Life, and life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, (With swimming phantom light o’erspread, Joy, lady! is the spirit and the power,

But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread,) Which wedding nature to us gives in dower, I see the old moon in her lap, foretelling

A new earth and new heaven, The coming on of rain and squally blast. Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud; And 0! that even now the gust were swelling, Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! We in ourselves rejoice! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, they awed,

All melodies the echoes of that voice,
And sent my soul abroad,

All colours a suffusion from that light.
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and


There was a time when, though my path was II.

rough, A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, This joy within me dallied with distress, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,

And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,

Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness: In word, or sigh, or tear

For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, O lady! in this wan and heartless mood,

And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine. To other thoughts by yonder throstle wood, But now afflictions bow me down to earth;

All this long eve, so balmy and serene, Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth. Have I been gazing on the western sky,

But 0! each visitation
And its peculiar tint of yellow green ;

Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye; My shaping spirit of imagination.
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, For not to think of what I needs must feel,
That give away their motion to the stars ;

But to be still and patient, all I can;
Those stars, that glide behind them or between,

And haply by abstruse research to steal Now sparkling, now bedimind, but always seen : From my own nature all the natural manYon crescent moon, as fix'd as if it grew

This was my sole resource, my only plan; In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;

Till that which suits a part infects the whole, I see them all so excellently fair,

And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. I see, not feel, how beautiful they are !


Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, My genial spirits fail,

Reality's dark dream! And what can these avail

I turn from you, and listen to the wind, To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ? Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream It were a vain endeavour,

Of agony by torture lengthen’d out Though I should gaze for ever

That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that ravest On that green light that lingers in the west:

without, I may not hope from outward forms to win

Bare crag, or mountain tairn," or blasted tree, The passion and the life, whose fountains are Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, within.

Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,

Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,

Mad lutanist! who in this month of showers, O lady! we receive but what we give,

Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, And in our life alone does nature live:

Makest devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud ! The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.

And would we aught behold, of higher worth, Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! Than that inanimate cold world allow'd

Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold ! To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd,

What tell’st thou now about? Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,

'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

With groans of trampled men, with smarting Enveloping the earth

woundsAnd from the soul itself must there be sent At once they groan with pain, and shudder with A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,

the cold ! Of all sweet sounds the life and element !

* 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 O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me

wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard What this strong music in the soul may be ! it at night, and in a mountainous country.




But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence ! And yet, free nature's uncorrupted child,

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, You hail'd the chapel and the platform wild, With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is Where once the Austrian fell

Beneath the shaft of Tell!
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!

Whence learnt you that heroic measure ?
A tale of less affright,
And temper'd with delight,

There crowd your finely-fibred frame,
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,

All living faculties of bliss;
'Tis of a little child

And genius to your cradle came,
Upon a lonesome wild,

His forehead wreathed with lambent flame,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way,

And bending low, with godlike kiss And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,

Breathed in a more celestial life; And now screams loud, and hopes to make her But boasts not many a fair compeer

A heart as sensitive to joy and fear; mother hear.

And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife, VIII.

Some few, to nobler being wrought, 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:

Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought. Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!

Yet these delight to celebrate

Laurell'd war and plumy state ;
Visit her, gentle sleep! with wings of healing,

Or in verse and music dress
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,

Tales of rustic happiness

Pernicious tales ! insidious strains !
Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping earth!

That steel the rich man's breast,
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,

And mock the lot unblest,

The sordid vices and the abject pains,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice:
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,

Which evermore must be
Their life the eddying of her living soul !

The doom of ignorance and penury! O simple spirit, guided from above,

But you, free nature's uncorrupted child, Dear lady! friend devoutest of my choice,

You hail'd the chapel and the platform wild, Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice.

Where once the Austrian fell

Beneath the shast 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
ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA IN HER « PAS- Whose infants owe them less

Than the poor caterpillar owes

Its gaudy parent fly.

You were a mother! at your bosom sed
And hail the chapel ! hail the platform wild!
Where Tell directed the avenging dart,

The babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye, With well-strung arm, that first preserved his child,

Each twilight thought, each nascent feeling read,
Then aim'd the arrow at the tyrant's heart.

Which you yourself created. 0! delight!
A second time to be a mother,

Without the mother's bitter groans:
SPLENDOUR's fondly foster'd child !

Another thought, and yet another,
And did you hail the platform wild,

By touch or taste, by looks or tones
Where once the Austrian fell

O’er the growing sense to roll,
Beneath the shaft of Tell?

The mother of your infant's soul!
O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure !

The angel of the earth, who, while he guides
Whence learnt you that heroic measure ? His chariot-planet round the goal of day,

All trembling gazes on the eye of God,
Light as a dream your days their circlets ran, A moment turn'd his awful face away;
From all that teaches brotherhood to man; And as he view'd you, from his aspect sweet
Far, far removed! from want, from hope, from New influences in your being rose,

Blest intuitions and communions fleet
Enchanting music lull’d your infant ear,

With living nature, in her joys and woes! Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart:

Thenceforth your soul rejoiced see Emblazonments and old ancestral crests

The shrine of social liberty! With many a bright obtrusive form of art,

O beautiful ! O nature's child ! Detain'd your eye from nature: stately vests, 'Twas thence you hail'd the platform wild, That veiling strove to deck your charms divine,

Where once the Austrian fell
Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine,

Beneath the shaft of Tell !
Were yours unearn'd by toil; nor could you see O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure !
The unenjoying toiler's misery.

Thence learnt you that heroic measure.

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Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. le

Wide and more wide, increasing without bound! PLS TRANQUILLITY! thou better name Than all the family of fame!

O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark D. Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age

The berries of the half uprooted ash te To low intrigue, or factious rage;

Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash,For O! dear child of thoughtful truth,

Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark, To thee I gave my early youth,

Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock; ad left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore, In social silence now, and now t’unlock e yet the tempest rose and scared me with its The treasured heart; arm link'd in friendly arm, roar.

Save is the one, his muse's witching charm

Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag; Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,

Till high o’erhead his beckoning friend appears, On him but seldom, power divine,

And from the forehead of the topmost crag
Thy spirit rests! Satiety

Shouts eagerly: for haply there uprears
And sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,

That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs,
Mock the tired worldling. Idle hope

Which latest shall detain th' enamour'd sight And dire remembrance interlope,

Seen from below, when eve the valley dims, 13 to vex the feverish slumbers of the mind :

Tinged yellow with the rich departing light; G? 'he bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. And haply, basind in some unsunn’d cleft,

A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, But me thy gentle hand will lead

Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale! At morning through th’accustom'd mead; Together thus, the world's vain turmoil lest, And in the sultry summer's heat

Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine, Will build me up a mossy seat;

And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, And when the gust of autumn crowds

Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, To cheat our noons in moralizing mood, Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, While west winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd: Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon. Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the

mount, I The feeling heart, the searching soul,

To some lone mansion, in some woody dale,
To thee I dedicate the whole !

Where smiling with blue domestic bliss
And while within myself I trace

Gives this the husband's, that the brother's kiss !
The greatness of some suture race,
Aloof with hermit eye I scan

Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, The present works of present man

The hill of knowledge I essay'd to trace ;
A wild and dreamlike trade of blood and guile, That verdurous hill with many a resting-place,
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile! 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 ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE

Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks

Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, COMPOSED IN 1796.

And bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage ! A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep,

But a green mountain variously up-piled, O meek retiring spirit! we will climb, Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep, Cheering and cheer'd, this lovely hill sublime; Or colour'd lichens with slow oozing weep;

And from the stirring world uplifted high, Where cypress and the darker yew start wild; (Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind, And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash To quiet musings shall attune the mind, Dance brightend the red clusters of the ash;

And oft the melancholy theme supply,) Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds be- There, while the prospect through the gazıng guiled,

eye Calm pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, Till haply startled by some fleecy dam,

We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, That rustling on the bushy clist above,

Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same, With melanchcly bleat of anxious love,

As neighbouring fountains image, each the Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb.

whole : Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to Then, when the mind hath drunk its hill of truth, climb,

We'll discipline the heart to pure delight, E’en while the bosom ached with loneliness- Rekindling sober joy's domestic flame. How more than sweet, if some dear friend should They whom I love shall love thee. Honour'd bless

youth! Th’adventurous toil, and up the path sublime Now may leaven 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 !



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

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

While we wept idly o'er thy little bier!





TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE HENCE that fantastic wantonness of wo

NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME. O youth to partial fortune vainly dear!

CHARLES! my slow heart was only sad, when first To plunder'd want's half-shelter'd hovel go,

I scann'd that face of feeble infancy: Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear

For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst
Moan haply in a dying mother's ear:

All I had been, and all my child might be !
Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood But when I saw it on its mother's arm,
O'er the rank churchyard with sere elm leaves

And hanging at her bosom (she the while

Bent o’er its features with a tearful smile,) Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbs

Impress'd a father's kiss: and all beguiled The flocking flesh-birds scream'd! Then, while

Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, thy heart

I seemd to see an angel form appearGroans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims,

'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild! Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind)

So for the mother's sake the child was dear, What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal!

And dearer was the mother for the child.
O abject! is, to sickly dreams resign’d,
All effortless thou leave life's commonweal
A prey to tyrants, murderers of mankind.





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

Dormi, Jesu! blandule!
Si non dormis, Mater plorat,
Inter fila cantans orat

Blande, veni, somnule.


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!

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

Sleep, my darling, tenderly!
If thou sleep not, mother mourneeth,
Singing as her wheel she turnetin:

Come, soft slumber, balmily!

* Ην που ημων η ψυχη πριν εν τωδε τω ανθρωπινω ειδει γενεσθαι.

PLAT'. in Pradan.

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