SPENSERIAN. I SAW a horrid thing of many names, And many shapes. Some call'd it wealth, some power, Some grandeur. From its heart it shot black flames, That scorch'd the souls of millions, hour by hour; And its proud eyes rain'd everywhere a shower Of hopeless life, and helpless misery; For, spoused to fraud, destruction was its dower! But its cold brightness could not hide from me The parent base of crime, the nurse of poverty! SPENSERIAN. THE marble forms of mortals half divine Yield silently the impress grand of mind To time and ruin: long the weltering brine, With heaven's red bolt and reinless blast combined, Assails the rock in vain: even in the wind, Slow burns the mighty oak, the forest-king, Majestic still so, lofty souls, declined : From their high deeds, a careless mantle fling O'er cureless wounds, and smile-though life is withering. SPENSERIAN. A TEAR for thee? Not, Byron, if thy name Shall be a watchword to unchain the slave, Rolling o'er tyrants' hearts like thundering flame, And kindling, as with soul, th' embattled wave; Till conquering Freedom, on their briny grave, Find Greeks like those who died at Salamis. Arise, and equal them, ye modern brave! Let past and future ages yield to this! And be your names a spell, as Byron's was and is. SPENSERIAN. A TEAR for Byron? Weakness mourns the weak, And Beauty dies in weeping Love's embrace, And common frailties common sorrows seek. But Scourger of the scourgers of thy race! Thou aw'st me so, that to thy resting-place I bring stern feelings, not unmix'd with fear. Standing before the fear'd of all the base, I, who oft wept thee, cannot weep thee here, Bard of the broken heart, high soul, and burning tear! COME AND GONE. THE silent moonbeams on the drifted snow Shine cold, and pale, and blue, While through the cottage-door the yule log's glow The red ray and the blue, distinct and fair, With azured green, and emerald-orange glare, The door is open, and the fire burns bright, And Hannah, at the door Stands-through the clear, cold, moon'd, and starry night, Gazing intently towards the scarce-seen height, O'er the white moor. "Tis Christmas eve! and, from the distant town, Her pale apprenticed son Will to his heart-sick mother hasten down, And snatch his hour of annual transport-flown Ere well begun. The Holy Book unread upon his knee, Old Alfred watcheth calm; Till Edwin comes, no solemn prayer prays he; And comes he not? Yea, from the wind-swept hill The cottage-fire he sees; While of the past remembrance drinks her fill, Crops childhood's flowers, and bids the unfrozen rill Shine through green trees. In thought, he hears the bee hum o'er the moor; In thought, the sheep-boy's call; In thought, he meets his mother at the door; In thought, he hears his father, old and poor, "Thank God for all." His sister he beholds, who died when he, Her last sad letter; vain her prayer to see No more with her will hear the bittern boom At evening's dewy close! No more with her will wander where the broom Contends in beauty with the hawthorn bloom Oh, love is strength! love, with divine control, Recalls us when we roam! In living light it bids the dimmed eye roll, Home ! that sweet word hath turn'd his pale lip red, Again the morning o'er his cheek is spread; Home! home!-Behold the cottage of the moor, And Hannah meets him at the open door His lip is on his mother's; to her breast She clasps him, heart to heart; His hands between his father's hands are press'd; How soon to part! Why should they know that thou so soon, O Death! Why fear consumption in his quick-drawn breath? That worms may feed? |