I dare not shew my face no mo among my friends and kin: The poor man now is sold I trow, whate'er the rich, may win. To risk I cannot fancy much, what, lost, is ne'er repaid To put my life within their clutch in truth I'm sore afraid; This is no question about gold that might be won again, If once they had me in their hold 'tis death they'd make my pain. Some one perchance my friend will be, such hope not yet I lack; The men that speak this ill of me, they speak behind my back; I know it would their hearts delight, if they my blood could spill, But God, in all the devils' spite, can save me if he will. There's one can save me life and limb, the blessed Mary's child, And I can boldly pray to him; my soul is undefiled: The innocent he'll not despise, by envious tongues undone. God curse the smiling enemies that I have leaned upon! If meeting a companion I shew my archerie, foleye," Thus men do hunt me like the boar, and life's no life for me. But if I seem more cunning about the law than they, "Ha! ha! some old conspirator well trained in tricks," they'll say ; O wheresoe'er doth ride the Eyre, I must keep well away: Such neighbourhood I hold not good; shame fall on such I pray! I pray you, all good people, to say for me a prayer, That I in peace may once again to mine ownland repair: I never was a homicide-not with my will-I swear, Nor robber, christian folk to spoil, that on their way did fare, This rhyme was made within the wood, beneath a broad bay tree; There singeth merle and nightingale, and falcon hovers free: I wrote this skin, because within was much sore memory, And here I lay it by the way-that found my rhyme may be. SONNETS. By Sir Egerton Brydges, Bart. I. WHEN dead is all the vigour of the frame, May issue the desponding sprite to raise : Inward we turn; we list no fairy lays; Nor seek on golden palaces to gaze; Nor wreaths from groups of smiling fair to claim! Thus strange is fate :-we meet the hollow cheer, When struck by age the cold insensate ear No more with trembling extasy can hear. But yet one thought a lasting joy can give That we, as not for self alone we live, To others bore the boon, we would from them receive ! II. TEXTURE of mightiest splendor, force and art, High intellect, magnific though thou be, Yet if thou hast not power to raise the glow Of grand and deep emotions, which to thee Backward its own o'ershadowing hues may throw; Vapid thy fruits are; barren is thy ray; The City of the Dead. By L. E. L. 'TWAS dark with cypresses and yews which cast Dark portal of another world-the grave- I fear thee not; I only fear mine own unworthiness, Lest it prove barrier to my hope, and make 1. LAUREL! oh fling thy green boughs on the air, tree! The ears of the midnight, why hang they on thee? |