Nap. That tyrants should the tyrant overthrow Is retribution just.

Sat.

'Tis also just

That the magnanimous punisher receive
What he hath earn'd, and wear his honours proudly.
Nap. First of plebeians, why did I become
Less than carth's greatest? I was my own idol;
And to myself I poorly sacrificed

Fame in the highest. Yet, O Freedom! yet,
If thou art unavenged, the island-tomb,
Untenanted, hears ocean's deathless foam,
With no inscription for eternity.

Sièves, intrench'd in gold, smiles safe from scorn,
If thou art unavenged; Murat's rash plume
Floats on the surge of horror unappall'd,
And Lannes still-Fall'n Angel, pardon me!-
Even thy stern soul, at times, weeps mournful
thoughts for tears.

INSCRIPTION

FOR A SLAB, ON A ROCK IN THE OCEAN.

Be this your song, slow-moving, in deep hell,
To seize the honours ye have earn'd so well :-
"Ye fiends eclipsed! resign your fiery thrones
To us, whose greater worth your envy owns.
Sad years that were, and years that yet shall weep,
In beggary and in blood we steep'd and steep:
Ours were the deeds unmatched since time began
And that Eternal Murder of the man
Jail'd on the lone rock of the shrieking sea!
Who, last and greatest of the sons of fame,
Where mourns a fount, beneath a weeping tree,
Inhabits now the tomb without a name !""

THE PRIMROSE.

Surely that man is pure in thought and deed,
Whom spirits teach in breeze-borne melodies;
For he finds tongues in every flower and weed,
And admonition in mute harmonies;
Erect he moves, by truth and beauty led,
And climbs his throne, for such a monarch meet,
To gaze on valleys, that, around him spread,
Carpet the hall of heav'n beneath his feet.
How like a trumpet, under all the skies
Blown, to convene all forms that love his beams,
Light speaks in splendour to the poet's eyes,
O'er dizzy rocks and woods, and headlong streams!
How like the voice of woman, when she sings
To her belov'd, of love and constancy,
The vernal odours, o'er the murmurings
Of distant waters, pour their melody
Into his soul, mix'd with the throstle's song
And the wren's twitter? Welcome then, again,
Love-listening primrose; Though not parted long,
We meet, like lovers, after years of pain.
Oh, thou bring'st blissful childhood back to me !
Thou still are loveliest in the lonest place;
Still, as of old, day glows with love for thee,
And reads our heav'nly Father in thy face.
Surely thy thoughts are humble and devout,
Flower of the pensive gold! for why should heav'n
Deny to thee his noblest boon of thought,
If to earth's demigods 'tis vainly given?
Answer me, sinless sister! Thou hast speech
Though silent. Fragrance is thy eloquence,
Beauty thy language; and thy smile might teach
Ungrateful man to pardon Providence.

HYMN

WRITTEN FOR THE PRINTERS OF SHEFFIELD.

Lord! taught by Thee, when Caxton bade
His silent words for ever speak;

A grave for tyrants then was made,

Then crack'd the chain which yet shall break.
For bread, for bread, the all-scorn'd man,
With study worn, his press prepared;
And knew not, Lord, thy wond'rous plan,
Nor what he did, nor what he dar'd.

When first the might of deathless thought
Impress'd his all-instructing page,
Unconscious giant! how he smote

The fraud and force of many an age

!

Pale wax'd the harlot, fear'd of thrones,
And they who bought her harlotry:
He shook the thron'd on dead men's bones,
He shakes-all evil yet to be!

The pow'r he grasp'd let none disdain ;
It conquer'd once, and conquers still;

By fraud and force assail'd in vain,
It conquer'd erst, and ever will.

It conquers here! the fight is won!

We thank thee, Lord, with many a tear!¡ For many a not unworthy son

Of Caxton does thy bidding here.

We help ourselves, thy cause we aid;

We build for Heav'n, beneath the skies: And bless thee, Lord, that thou hast made Our daily bread of tyrants' sighs.

A SHADOW.

A poor affrighted worm,

Where sky and mountain meet,
I stood before the storm,

And heard his strong heart beat.
He drew his black brows down-
My knees each other smote:
The mountains felt his frown,
His dark unutter'd thought.
The mountains, at his scowl,

Pray'd mutely to the skies:
He spoke, and shook my soul;

He scorch'd me with his eyes. Alone, beneath the sky,

I stood the storm before: No! God, the Storm, and IWe trode the desert floor; High on the mountain sod,

The whirlwind's dwellingplace, The Worm, the Storm, and God Were present, face to face. From earth a shadow brake,

E'en where my feet had trode ; The shadow laughed and spake And shook his hand at God. Then up it rear'd its head,

Beneath the lightning's blaze; "Omnipotent!" it said,

"Bring back my yesterdays." God smiled the gloom away;

Wide earth and heav'n were bright;

In light my shadow lay,

I stood with God in light;

With Him who wings the storm,

Or bids the storm be still,

The shadow of a worm

Held converse on the hill.

Flags waved, and men-a ghastly crewMarched with them, side by side: While, hand in hand, and two by two, They moved a living tide.

Thousands and thousands-all so white!With eyes so glazed and dull!

O God! it was indeed a sight

Too sadly beautiful!

And, oh, the pang their voices gave Refuses to depart!

This is a wailing for the grave!

I whisper'd to my heart.

It was as if, where roses blushed,

A sudden blasting gale,

O'er fields of bloom had rudely rushed, And turned the roses pale.

It was as if, in glen and grove,
The wild birds sadly sung ;
And every linnet mourned its love,
And every thrush its young.

It was as if, in dungeon gloom,
Where chain'd despair reclined,
A sound came from the living tomb,
And hymned the passing wind.

And while they sang, and though they smiled,
My soul groaned heavily-

O who would be or have a child?
A mother who would be?

ANTICIPATION.

Hail, Realm of gloom! whose clouds are ice! whose air

Is made of thought-sick sighs!

Whose fields are dead men's dust, from which despair Shrinks as he dies!

Though on thee, and within (sad Infinite !)

Are darkness, death, and doom;

Beyond thee shines the sun of mind and might, The Power that made thee, God-hail, Holy Light! I come, I come.

PRESTON MILLS.

The day was fair, the cannon roar'd,
Cold blew the bracing north,

And Preston's Mills, by thousands, poured
Their little captives forth.

All in their best they paced the street,
All glad that they were free;
And sung a song with voices sweet-
They sung of Liberty!

But from their lips the rose had fled,
Like "death-in-life" they smiled;
And still, as each passed by, I said,
Alas! is that a child?

FAMINE IN A SLAVE SHIP.

They stood on the deck of the slave-freighted barque,
All hopeless, all dying, while waited the shark;
Sons, Fathers, and Mothers, who shriek'd as they
press'd

The infants that pined till they died on the breast-
A crowd of sad mourners, who sighed to the gale,
While on all their dark faces the darkness grew pale.

White demons beheld them, with curse and with frown,

And curs'd them, from morn till the darkness came down ;

And knew not compassion, but laugh'd at their pray`r, When they called on their God, or wept loud in despair;

Till again rose the morn, and all hush'd was the wail,

And on cheeks stark and cold the grim darkness was pale.

Then the white heartless demons, with curse and with frown,

Gave the dead to the deep, till the darkness came down:

But the angel who blasteth, unheard and unseen, Bade the tyrants lie low where their victims had been:

And down dropp'd the waves, and stone-still hung the sail,

And black sank the dead, while more pale grew the pale.

Stern angel, how calmly his chosen he slew!
And soon the survivors were fearfully few;

O might I breathe morn's dewy breath,
When June's sweet Sabbath's chime!
But, thine before my time, O death!
I go where no flow'r blossometh,
Before my time.

Even as the blushes of the morn
Vanish, and long ere noon
The dew-drop dieth on the thorn,
So fair I bloomed ; and was I born
To die as soon?

To love my mother and to die—
To perish in my bloom!

Is this my sad brief history ?-
A tear dropped from a mother's eye
Into the tomb.

He lived and loved-will sorrow say—
By early sorrow tried;

He smiled, he sighed, he past away;
His life was but an April day-
He loved and died!

My mother smiles, then turns away,
But turns away to weep:

They whisper round me-what they say
I need not hear, for in the clay
I soon must sleep.

Oh, love is sorrow! sad it is

To be both tried and true;

I ever trembled in my bliss;
Now there are farewells in a kiss-
They sigh adieu.

But woodbines flaunt when blue bells fade,
Where Don reflects the skies;
And many a youth in Shire-cliffs' shade
Will ramble where my boyhood played,
Though Alfred dies.

Then panting woods the breeze will feel,
And bowers, as heretofore,
Beneath their load of roses reel;
But I through woodbined lanes shall steal
No more, no more.

Well, lay me by my brother's side,
Where late we stood and wept ;
For I was stricken when he died-
I felt the arrow as he sighed
His last and slept.

WIN-HILL;*

OR,

THE CURSE OF GOD.

TO FRANCIS PLACE, Esq., author of "Illustrations of the Principle of Population," I respectfully dedicate this Poem.

The central mountain-not the highest-of the Peak of Derbyshire.

This day, ye mountains! is a holiday;

Not the bless'd Sabbath, yet a day of rest, Though wrung by cant from sordid men, who pay Their homage to the god whom cant loves best: I hallow it to Heaven, and make it blessed. Wild Moscar Dell, receive me! headlong Wye,

Let my soul hear thee from the mountain's breast, Telling thy streamlets, as they leap from high, That richer, lovelier vales, and nobler hills, are nigh!

Now quit thy home, thou bread-tax'd Artisan!

Drink air and light, pale victim, while thou may'st! What dost thou hence, umbrella'd Englishman, Bound to thy pagod in the streeted waste? Deem'st thou that God dwells only where thou pray'st?

Come worship here, while clouds the hill-tops kiss!

Death numbereth them who linger where thou stay'st,

Bliss-praying supplicant ! why shunn'st thou bliss? O can ye hope for heaven, and scorn a scene like this?

Thy sisters, in the vales left far behind,

Åre dead, late-coming Primrose ! months ago, They faded slowly in the pensive wind:

Thou smilest-yes, the happy will do so,
Careless of others' wrongs, and others' wo.
Carnationed childhood's favourite! thou too here?
Ay, roses die, but daisies always grow.
Skeleton ash! why lag behind the year?
Where Don and Rother meet, no half-clad boughs
appear.

Nor there are children of the young year seen;
But tawdry flowers flaunt where they grew, and

tell

O thou great Scotsman, with the meteor-pen! Come from thy Trosachs, Wilson, come, and paint

Yon monarch of our Alps! that little men
May feel thy Titan soul in their's, and faint
Almost with inspiration; from the taint
Of worldly vileness freed, as by a spell;

And made, at once, half-prophet and half-saint, When reading thee to town-sick hearts, they tell Of scenes few love like thee, and none can paint so well.

How wildly start the wild flocks as we gaze!
How softly sleeps upon the lap of noon
The cloud-couch'd lightning! and how sweetly plays
The laughing blue above the blackness; soon
To melt in fire and horror, where, aboon
This lesser giant's storm-swoll'n floods and firs,
Yon distant giant fronts the mid-day moon,
While solemnly the wind-fed wigan+ stirs
Its flapping leaves alone, o'er fern and sun-bright
furze!

To bathe with married waves their monarch's feet,
See, where the Ashop and the Derwent haste;
And how he rears him from the vale, complete
In all his time-touched majesty, embraced
By the blue, bright blue heavens; his proud
brow graced

With that stone diadem which Nature made,
Ages before her practised hand had graced
With living gems the bluebell-haunted shade;
Or, high in lucid air, her wind-swift wings displayed!

King of the Peak! Win-Hill! thou, throned and crowned,

That reign'st o'er many a stream and many a vale! Star-loved, and meteor-sought, and tempest-found! Proud centre of a mountain-circle, hail ! The might of man may triumph or may fail; But, Eldest Brother of the Air and Light,

Firm shalt thou stand when demigods turn pale! For thou, ere Science dawned on Reason's night, Wast, and wilt be when Mind shall rule all other might.

To be a crowned and sceptred curse, that makes Immortals worms! a wolf, that feeds on souls! One of the names which vengeance whips with snakes,

Whose venom cannot die! a king of gouls,

Whose drink is blood! To be clear-eyed as owls,

Still calling darkness light, and winter spring!
To be a tiger-king, whose mercy growls!
To be of meanest things the vilest thing!
Throned asp o'er lesser asps! What grub would
be a king?

But, crown'd Win-Hill! to be a king like thee!
Older than death! as God's thy calm behest!
Only heaven-rivalled in thy royalty!

Calling the feeble to thy sheltering breast, And shaking beauty from thy gorgeous vest, And lov'd by every good and happy thing

With nought beneath thee that thou hast net

blessed,

And nought above thee but the Almighty's wing! O glorious god-like aim! Who would not be a king?

The author of "The City of the Plague." The Mountain-ash.

But, lo, the Inn! the mountain-girded Inn!

Whose amber stream is worth all Helicon ! To pass it fasting were a shame and sin; Stop! for the gate hangs well that hinders none; Refresh, and pay, then stoutly travel on! Ay, thou hast need to pree the barley-wine;

Steep is th' ascent, Ŏ bard! thou look'st upon; To reach that cloud-capt seat, and throne divine, Might try a stronger frame and younger limbs than

thine.

Now, having drank of jolly ale enough,

To climb Win-Hill is worth ambition-yea! Ambition, e'en if made of jolly stuff,

Should drink strong ale, or never will he say To rival climbers-" Follow on my way!" Old ale and jolly, be it dark or pale,

Drink like a topper, be thou green or gray! Drink oft and long, or try to climb, and fail!

If thou would'st climb Win-Hill, drink old and jolly ale !*

66

"Blow, blow, thou breeze of mountain freshness, blow!"

Stronger and fresher still, as we ascend Strengthen'd and freshen'd, till the land below

Lies like a map!-On! on! those clouds portend Hail, rain, and fire !-Hark, how the rivers send Their skyward voices hither, and their words

Of liquid music!-See, how bluely blend The east moors with the sky!-The lowing herds, To us, are silent now, and hush'd the songful birds.

This spot is hallow'd; sacred are these rocks,

To death and sorrow. Here, amid the snow, A stranger died,† where seldom the wild flocks Ascend to feed. Clouds! for ye only know His griefs and wrongs, tell me his name of wo, The mutter'd history of his broken heart; That of a thing so noble we may owe

To you a relic, never to depart—

He died; but still the winds that lov'd him came And whispered, though he made them no reply; And still his friends, the clouds, bedew'd his frame

With frozen tears, less cold than charity. But little men, whom summer brought to see The heathcock's plumes, beheld him where he lay,

And robb'd him of that glorious tomb, which he
Chose in his pride; bearing his bones away-
His proud, insulted bones-to mix with common
clay.

And I will not loathe man-although he be
Adder and tiger !-for his sake who died
Here, in his desolation great and free,
And with a fall'n immortal's might and pride,
On human nature's dignity relied,
When all else failed.

blows

No workhouse menial's

Lo! northward far, what giant's shadow bends? A voice of torrents, hark! its wailing sends; Who drives yon tortured cloud through stonestill air?

A rush! a roar! a wing! a whirlwind rends The stooping larch! The moorlands cry "Prepare !

It comes! ye gore-gorg'd foes of want and toil, beware!"

It comes! Behold!-Black Blakelow hoists on high

His signals to the blast from Gledhill's brow. Them, slowly glooming on the lessening sky,

The bread-tax'd exile sees, (in speechless wo, Wandering the melancholy main below, Where round the shores of Man the dark surge heaves,)

And while his children's tears in silence flow, Thinks of sweet scenes to which his soul still cleaves,

That home on Etherow's side, which he for ever leaves.

* Was this unfortunate a victim of the Corn-Laws? Then, for the honour of our common nature, the system of free exchange and unrestricted industry ought to be fairly and fully tried. If it fail to rescue man from pauperism, and his name from disgrace, which would enrage a viper, and make the earthworm blush, let us, like the failing eagle, retire indignantly to woods and deserts, and perish there.