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And once her both arms suddenly
Round Mary's neck she fung, 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.
Une 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.
His limbs along the moss, his head
Upon a mossy heap,
Might chatter one to sleep.
And was not well in health ;
And talk'd as 'twere by stealth.
See, dearest Ellen! see!
No bigger than your e'e;
A perfect glory, too ;
Round that small orb, so blue.”
What colour they might be:
“ They're amber-like to me."
Were troubling Edward's rest;
And the thumping in his breast.
Did Edward mutter plain ;
With horror and huge pain.
What thoughts were in his mind;
That hath been just struck blind.
Had had time to depart,
“ I have torn out her heart.”
Into ungentle laughter;
And never she smiled after. Carmen reliquun in fulurum tempus relegatum. To morrow! and to-morrow! and to-morrow !
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;
I scarce know how you should,)
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 still
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,
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.
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,
This beautiful, and beauty-making power.
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 O! 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, wbilst | And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, they awed,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
| All colours a suffusion from that light.
There was a time when, though my path was
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 woo's, 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 ! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
But to be still and patient, all I can;
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,
Reality's dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Of agony by torture lengthen'd out
That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that raves. 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, IV.
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.
C 0 Ꮮ Ꭼ Ꭱ Ꭰ G Ꭼ .
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 over
Beneath the shaft of Tell! It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! loud!
Whence learnt you that beroic 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 orife. 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 Visit her, gentle sleep! with wings of healing,
Laurell'd war and plumy state ; And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
Or in verse and music dress May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Tales of rustic happiness
Pernicious tales ! insidious strains !
That steel the rich man's breast,
And mock the lot unblest, Joy lift her spirit, joy attude her voice:
The sordid vices and the abject pains, 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 pentsy! 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 !
Where learnt you that heroic ineasure? ODE TO GEORGIANA. DUTCHESS of You were a mother! That most holy name DEVONSHIRE,
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 SAGE OVER MOUNT GOTHARD.”
Than the poor caterpillar owes
Its gaudy parent ly.
You were a mother! at your bosom sed And hail the chapel ! hail the platform wild!
The babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye Where Toll directed the avenging dart, With well-strung arm, that first preserved his child,
Each twilight thought, each nascent feeling read,
Which you yourself created. 0! delight!
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 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, fear!
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
Beneath the shaft of Tell!
Thence learnt you that heroic measure.