OWD PINDER OWD Pinder were a rackless foo, He're sure to crack o' deein' ; "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 in some little lone churchyard, Yes! let the wild-flower wed his grave, For Britons honor Cobbett's name, See, o'er his prostrate branches, see! Dead oak! thou livest. Thy smitten hands, 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 His books were rivers, woods, and skies, His teachers were the torn heart's wail, The street, the factory, the jail, The palace and the grave. Sin met thy brother everywhere! And is thy brother blam'd? The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, 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, Winds blow, suns set, and morning saith. "Ye hills, put on your gold." The song of Homer liveth, Dead Solon is not dead; 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 Truth, mercy, knowledge, justice, Away they sped with gamesome minds, To a level mead they came, and there Like sportive deer they cours'd about, Turning to mirth all things of earth, But the Usher sat remote from all, 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, For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide : Much study had made him very lean, At last he shut the ponderous tome, Then leaping on his feet upright, 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. |