They talk of other days, when, like the birds, He cull'd the wild flower's bloom, And roam'd the moorland, with the houseless herds; They talk of Jane's sad prayer, and her last words, "Is Edwin come?" He wept. But still, almost till morning beam'd, But, though he slept, his eyes, half open, gleam'd; And, dreaming, wept. At mid-day he arose, in tears, and sought The churchyard where she lies. He found her name beneath the snow-wreath wrought; Then, from her grave, a knot of grass he brought, The hour of parting came, when feelings deep To his sad mother, pausing oft to weep, He gave a token, which he bade her keep It was a grassy sprig, and auburn tress, Together twined and tied. He left them, then, for ever! could they less Than bless and love that type of tenderness?— Childless they died! Long in their hearts a cherish'd thought they wore ; And till their latest breath, Bless'd him, and kiss'd his last gift o'er and o'er ; But they beheld their Edwin's face no more In life or death! For where the upheaved sea of trouble foams, Men, in the wilderness of myriad homes, A THUNDER STORM IN WINTER. He spake to eye and ear! and, like a tree The streams with blood; and flinging o'er the cloud Down to mute earth the giant darkness bow'd, Giving the hill immeasurable height, That propp'd the sky; then changed the troubled form, While from his bosom fell the headlong weight Of volley'd hail; and, whispering through the storm, The thunderer spake again: "What fear'st thou? Live, poor worm!" PROLOGUE TO THE CORN-LAW RHYMES. FOR thee, my country, thee, do I perform, Heedless, though ass, and wolf, and venomous worm, For thee, for us, for ours, do I upraise The standard of my song! for thine and mine I toll the knell of England's better days; The rabble's poet, and his honest song? Gambler for blanks! thou play'st an idiot's card; FROM GOETHE. How like a stithy is this land! And we lie on it like good metal CANNING. He rose-a veteran proud of honest scars; And youth, and glory. Earth, from east to west, Shout, foes of Man! the scourge and rack prepare! But, Erin, there is hope in thy despair. And, Freedom! faint not thou, though Canning dies. That on one mind for strength and life relies; More deathless than the dust of Marathon. FOREST WORSHIP. WITHIN the sun-lit forest, Our roof the bright blue sky, Where fountains flow, and wild flowers blow, Beneath the frown of wicked men Our country's strength is bowing; But, thanks to God! they can't prevent |