SONNET. FROM cloud-swept Snowgate, Dearne ! now swift, now slow, Thou comest, playing still a busy tune; And while rich woodbines braid the locks of June, And wild hedge-roses in her bosom glow, That tune is sweet. On, sky-fed Wanderer, go! bower; blossom'd Bid Wath good night! and sleep at Conisbro', And round thy lilies fresh, blush-tinged, and crisp Linger, as loth to leave this loveliest scene- ON THE CORONATION OF VICTORIA THE FIRST. WRITTEN FOR THE PRINTERS OF SHEFFIELD. WHAT! here again, Old Caxton? Calm emblem of long-slumbering strength, That, like a giant, waked, at length, To sleep no more! Evil lives long, Old Caxton! Long, too, live sky and sea; And Truth's worst foes as well might try To tame and fetter sea and sky, As conquer thee. Yet since we last beheld thee, And still the toil-worn millions groan, And grasp it fast. This is not well, Old Caxton! Yet still in truth we trust; If rocks are worn by sea and sky, The Press may Freedom's foes defy; VOL. II. They are but dust. Thou noblest apparition That mortal eye hath seen, Since Power went down to Death's dark shore! Could fitter symbol stand before A British Queen? FAREWELL TO RIVILIN. WRITTEN FOR MUSIC, AT THE REQUEST OF A. WOOD, ESQ. BEAUTIFUL River! goldenly shining, Where with the cistus woodbines are twining; Why do I love thee, Heart-breaking River? Never to hail thee, joyfully chiming Why must I leave thee, mournfully sighing Dream-like he passeth, cloud-like he wasteth, Oh, when thy poet, weary, reposes, Tell all thy pilgrims, Heart-breaking River! Yes, for the spirit blooms ever vernal; While the rock reeleth, storm-struck and riven, Safe is the fountain flowing from heav'n. There wilt thou hail me, joyfully chiming Homed with the angels, hasten to greet me, THE DEAD ARE LIVING. Ask not the unreplying tomb, But ask the hawthorn-bloom, Returning still To vale and hill; Wide as the seas; The flowers, the trees, The river's song; The gain that laughs, the loss that weeps The strong deed of the strong, That ever works, and never sleeps. Or ask the ever-taking, ever-giving, Deep ocean, and blue sky; And they will tell thee, that the dead are living, And cannot die. A COWARD'S BLOW. THE strong man smote his wife; No strength had she, to fight for life: She died, and he must die! Sad is it to be weak, And sadder to be wrong; But if the strong God's statutes break, 'Tis saddest to be strong. |