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And once her both arms suddenly
Round Mary's neck she flung, 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 flung it down, and groaning, cried,
“O! Heaven! that I were dead."
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. “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;
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 muiter plain;
With horror and huge pain.
What thoughts were in his mind;
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.”
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.
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 happend then, ('twas in the bower
A furlong up the wood; Perhaps you know the place, and yet
I scarce know how you should,)
Then Ellen shriek'd, and forthwith burst
Into ungentle laughter;
And never she smiled after. Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To morrow! and lo-morrow! and to-morrow !
No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh
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 say 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.
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 bence 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 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,
All colours a suffusion from that light.
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 bedimin'd, 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 list 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 v.
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 ! loud !
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,
Tales of rustic happinessMay all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Pernicious tales ! insidious strains ! Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping earth!
That steel the rich man's breast,
And mock the lot unblest,
The sordid vices and the abject pains,
Which evermore must be
The doom of ignorance and penury!
But you, free nature's upcorrupted child, Dear lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
You hail'd the chapel and the platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell!
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
Than the poor caterpillar owes
Its gaudy parent fly.
You were a mother! at your bosom fed And hail the chapel ! hail the platform wild!
The babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye, Where Tell directed the avenging dart, 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. O! 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!
All trembling gazes on the eye of God,
Blest intuitions and communions feet
With living nature, in ber 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.
Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, ODE TO TRANQUILLITY.
Wide and more wide, increasing without bound! TRANQUILLITY! thou better name Than all the family of fame!
O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age
The berries of the half uprooted ash 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; And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore, In social silence now, and now t’unlock Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its The treasured heart; arm link'd in friendly arm,
Save if 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, To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind :
Tinged yellow with the rich departing light; The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. And haply, basin'd 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 left, 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, The feeling heart, the searching soul,
To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, To thee I dedicate the whole !
Where smiling with blue eye, 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 bill of knowledge I essay'd to trace ;
To glad and fertilize the subject plains;
And many a fancy-blest and holy sod,
Where inspiration, his diviner strains
Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age,
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 gazing 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 melancholy bleat of anxious love,
As neighbouring fountains image, each the Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb.
whole : Such a green mountain 'were most sweet to Then, when the mind hath drunk its fill 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 Heaven realize this vision bright!
ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE