OWD PINDER

OWD Pinder were a rackless foo,
An' spent his days i' spreein' ;
At th' end ov every drinkin'-do,

He're sure to crack o' deein' ;
"Go, sell my rags, an' sell my shoon;
Aw's never live to trail 'em ;
My ballis-pipes are eawt o' tune,
An' th' wynt begins to fail 'em!

"Eawr Matty's very fresh an' yung; 'T would ony mon bewilder; Hoo'll wed again afore it's lung, For th' lass is fond o' childer; My bit o' brass 'll fly, -yo'n see, When th' coffin-lid has screen'd me ; It gwos again my pluck to dee,

An' lev her wick beheend me.

ELEGY ON WILLIAM COBBETT

O BEAR him where the rain can fall,
And where the winds can blow;
And let the sun weep o'er his pall
As to the grave ye go!

And in some little lone churchyard,
Beside the growing corn,
Lay gentle Nature's stern prose bard,
Her mightiest peasant-born.

Yes! let the wild-flower wed his grave,
That bees may murmur near,
When o'er his last home bend the brave,
And say -
"A man lies here!"

For Britons honor Cobbett's name,
Though rashly oft he spoke ;
And none can scorn, and few will blame,
The low-laid heart of oak.

See, o'er his prostrate branches, see!
E'en factious hate consents
To reverence, in the fallen tree,
His British lineaments.

Dead oak! thou livest. Thy smitten hands,
The thunder of thy brow,
Speak with strange tongues in many lands,
And tyrants hear thee, now!

Beneath the shadow of thy name,

Inspir'd by thy renown, Shall future patriots rise to fame, And many a sun go down.

A POET'S EPITAPH

STOP, mortal! Here thy brother lies
The poet of the poor.

His books were rivers, woods, and skies,
The meadow and the moor;

His teachers were the torn heart's wail,
The tyrant and the slave,

The street, the factory, the jail,

The palace and the grave. Sin met thy brother everywhere!

And is thy brother blam'd?
From passion, danger, doubt, and care,
He no exemption claim'd.

The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,
He fear'd to scorn or hate;
But, honoring in a peasant's form

The equal of the great,

He bless'd the steward, whose wealth makes The poor man's little, more;

Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes From plunder'd labor's store.

A hand to do, a head to plan,

A heart to feel and dare

Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man Who drew them as they are.

THE BUILDERS

SPRING, summer, autumn, winter,
Come duly, as of old;

Winds blow, suns set, and morning saith. "Ye hills, put on your gold."

The song of Homer liveth,

Dead Solon is not dead;
Thy splendid name, Pythagoras,
Ö'er realms of suns is spread.

But Babylon and Memphis

Are letters traced in dust : Read them, earth's tyrants! ponder well The might in which ye trust!

They rose, while all the depths of guilt
Their vain creators sounded;
They fell, because on fraud and force
Their corner-stones were founded.

Truth, mercy, knowledge, justice,
Are powers that ever stand;
They build their temples in the soul,
And work with God's right hand.

Away they sped with gamesome minds,
And souls untouch'd by sin;

To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they cours'd about,
And shouted as they ran,

Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can;

But the Usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man!

His hat was off, his vest apart,

To catch heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease:

So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees.

Leaf after leaf, he turn'd it o'er,
Nor ever glanced aside,

For the peace of his soul he read that book

In the golden eventide :

Much study had made him very lean,
And pale, and leaden-eyed.

At last he shut the ponderous tome,
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strain'd the dusky covers close,
And fix'd the brazen hasp:
"Oh, God! could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp !

Then leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns he took,

Now

up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook, And, lo! he saw a little boy

That por❜d upon a book.