Or float in air upon invisible wings,
Devour the countless hosts of smaller
things.
But simple is the law which they obey-
They never torture when they slay,
Unconquerable need, the law of life,
Impels the fiercest to the fatal strife:
They feel no joy in stopping meaner
breath,
'Tis man alone that makes a sport of
death.
So, gentle river, flow,
Where the green alders grow,'
Where the pine-tree rears its crest,
And the stock-dove builds her nest,
Where the wild-flower odours float,
And the lark with gushing throat
Pours out her rapturous strains
To all the hills and plains;
And if, amid the stream,
The lurking angler dream
Of hooking fishes with his treacherous
flies,
Reflect, O river, the unclouded skies,
And bear no windy ripple on thy
breast,--
The cloud and ripple he loves best,—
So that the innocent fish may see,
And shun their biped enemy.
Flow, river, flow,
Where the violets grow,
Where the bank is steep,
And the mosses sleep,
And the green trees nod to thy waves
below:
Flow on and make sweet music ever,
Thou joyous and beloved river!
TH' old Norman city, with its towers and spires
And gorgeous architecture, was to me
The shrine of one great name; where'er I went
That memory follow'd me. From church to church,
From the cathedral where King Richard sleeps,
To St Quen and beautiful Maclou-
From bridge to market-place, and justice-hall
A mighty spirit kept me company.
Through quaint old streets, whose every window seem'd
Old as the days when haughty Bedford held
His martial court in Rouen, wander'd I;
And still thy memory, hapless Joan of Arc,
Wander'd beside me. Here,' I said, 'poor maid,
Thou wert led captive, after saving France!
Here thou wert gibed and scorn'd by brutal men.
Here, from their windows, peep'd the gaping crowd,
To see thee made a shameful spectacle.
Here Superstition, pandering to Revenge,
Accused thee of all vile and senseless crimes.
Here, at their harsh tribunal, thy good deeds
Were each interpreted in evil sense;
Thy love of country in their eyes became
Treason most foul; thy courage, lunacy;
Thy fortune, witchcraft; thy young purity,
An outward mask to hide the shame within.
And here, unhappy saviour of a realm,
Th' ungenerous foemen, smitten by the steel
Of warriors roused to battle by thy voice,
Sated unmanly vengeance on thy head,
And slew, by cruel fire and torturing pangs,
The helpless woman they could not subdue.
Rouen is sacred to thy memory;
The ancient city is thy monument;
There's not a spire or tower within its bound,
But pleads for justice to thy slander'd name."
Thou hast it, Spirit! Compensating Time
Has done thee justice, as it does to all,
However hated, injured, or malign'd.
The truly great and good have constant friends;
The rolling centuries, in their behalf,
Sue for reversal of th' unjust decree
That doom'd their names to infamy and scorn.
They never sue in vain; and thine, sad maid!'
Shines like a gem upon the brow of France-
A pearl of beauty on her queenly crown!
Rouen, 1847,
Ere the thunder-clouds are open'd,
That wall and flank the sky;
Ere the whirlwind leaves its caverns,
And the shafts of vengeance fly,-
Look up! ye drowsy people,
There's desolation nigh!
WANDERING 'mid the silent hills,
Sitting by the lonely rills,
And meditating as Ï
go
On human happiness and woe,
Fancies strange unbidden rise
And flit before my placid eyes:
Dreaminesses, sometimes dim
As is the moon's o'erclouded rim;
And sometimes clear as visions are
When the sleeping soul sees deep and
far,
Yet cannot, when it wakes, recall,
For the senses' and the reason's thrall.
I love, in idle moods like these,
To sit beneath the shade of trees
In idle and luxurious ease;
Or lie amid the fern and grass,
And talk with shepherds as they pass:
To learn their humble hopes and fears, ¦
And the small changes of their years.
And if no shepherd saunters by, I can talk with the clouds of the sky, And watch them from my couch of fern, As, Proteus-like, they change and turn,Now castles gray, with golden doors, Gem roofs, and amethystine floors; Now melting into billowy flakes, Sky islands or aërial lakes; Or mimicking the form and show Of the huge mountains far below.
And sometimes-vagrant, wild, and
free--
I look upon the grass and tree,
With an all-pervading sympathy,
And bid them tell if life like theirs
Is void of feeling, joys, and cares.
And ever an answer seems to breathe
From the branches above, and the
sward beneath,
And the tree says, 'Many a joy is
In the winter cloud, and the summer shine;
With the daily heat, and the nightly dew,
My strength and pleasure I renew. I sleep at eve when the skies grow dark,
And wake at the singing of the lark. And when the winter is crisp and cold, My life retreats beneath the mould,
There came a dark cloud over the sky. 'Here are gauds for all to wear, For men, for youths, for maidens fair,The time is passing, come and buy!' Oh! the Pedlar!
The knavish Pedlar!
The Fiend in Pedlar's guise was he!
Selling and buying,
Cheating and lying:
Maranatha! and woe is me!
And waits in the warmth for the spring-Here's a Trinket! here's a gem!
To summon the sap to my boughs again.
I feel like you the balmy air,
And am grateful for a life so fair.'
And the grass, and the fern, and the
waving reeds,
And the wild flowers, and the nameless weeds,
Reply in a low, soft tone of song
That creeps like an infant breeze along:
'We live; and every life that's given
Receives a joy from bounteous Heaven,
In the reproduction of its kind,
In the warmth, and the light, and the dew, and the wind.'
Deem me not idle if I stray, Oh! sons of Care, for awhile away From the crowded marts of busy men, To the wild woods and the lonely glen, And give my thoughts a holiday. You cannot tell the work I do, When I lie dreaming beneath the blue; Or how these fancies dim and strange, May amalgamate and change, Or grow like seeds in aftertime, To something better than my rhyme.
The Queen hath nothing more fair to
'Mid the sparkle and glow of her diadem !'
Maranatha! and woe is me! 'Buy it, and wear it, maiden fine, Cheap love-bright love-love divine!'
There came a dark cloud over the sky. The maiden bought it, and thought no sin;
But she found a broken heart within, And the Pedlar cried, 'Come buy! come buy!'
Oh the Pedlar!
The knavish Pedlar !
The Fiend in human guise was he!
Selling and buying,
Cheating and lying:
Maranatha! and woe is me!
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