"So wills the fierce avenging sprite, Till blood for blood atones! Ay, though he's buried in a cave, And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted oft his flesh, The world shall see his bones! "O God! that horrid, horrid dream The human life I take; And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake. "And still no peace for the restless clay That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin eyelids kissed, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walked between, With gyves upon his wrist. THE LEE SHORE. SLEET and hail and thunder! Winds that like a demon Howl with horrid note Round the toiling seaman In his tossing boat! From his humble dwelling On the shingly shore, Where the billows swelling Keep such hollow roar ; From that weeping woman, From the frowning skies ; From the urchin pining For his father's knee ;From the lattice shining Drive him out to sea! Let broad leagues dissever Him from yonder foam. O God! to think man ever Comes too near his home. EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 1781-1849. THE WONDERS OF THE LANE STRONG climber of the mountain's side, Though thou the vale disdain, Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide High o'er the rushy springs of Don O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks But here the lizard seeks the sun, Its beauteous nest to make. For, oh, I love these banks of rock, [clock, This roof of sky and tree, These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming And wakes the earliest bee! As spirits from eternal day Look down on earth secure, Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey A world not scorned by Him who made O'er storm-loved mountains spread, And here, O Light! minutely fair, That down from heaven in madness flings The roar that ne'er is still? 'Tis mute as death!--but in my soul What forests tall of tiniest moss What pigmy oaks their foliage toss With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, They feather o'er the steepest edge Of mountains mushroom high. On these grey stones unseen may dwell! Lo! while he pauses, and admires O God of terrors! what are we? Poor insects sparked with thought! Thy whisper, Lord, a word from Thee, Could smite us into nought! But shouldst thou wreck our fatherland, And ever sweetest where the sweeteet grow. Who hath condensed, O Broom, in thy bright flowers [cheek The light of midday suns? What virgin's Can match this apple bloom, these glowing [speak showers Of glistering daisies? How their blushes Of rosy hues that red o'er ocean break, When cloudy morn is calm, yet fain to weep, Because the beautiful are still the frail! Hark! 'tis the thrush, he sings beneath the steep, [vale! Where coolness ever charms the fountained How eloquently well he tells his tale, That love is yet on earth, and yet will be, Though virtue struggles, and seems born to fail, [and free, Because fall'n man, who might be great Toils for the wolf, and bribes iniquity! Thou art not false, sweet bird! thou dost not keep The word of promise to our ear alone, And break it to our hearts! Maids do not weep [groan; Because thou feign'st; for thee no victims Thy voice is truth, and love is all thy own. Then, for thy sake, I will not loathe man's face; THE golden gleam of a summer sun one Are stirred with a song they love; For there bloweth a light breeze, whispering true Of the deeds they are doing at Waterloo. He bringeth the news, and their hearts beat The news of a glorious victory! [high Father and brother, and betrothedThe husband and the sonThat lancer bold hath a tale to tell To the friends of every one. "Their swords were bright their hearts were true They have won the field of WATERLOO!" It fluttereth like a prisoned bird, A low sound-like a murmured prayer; When a good king passeth by ;As the roar of waves on an angry main Breaks forth, and then all is mute again. The lancer looks in the veteran's face, And hands him the written scroll; And the old man reads, with a quiv'ring voice, The words of that muster-roll. As they wake a smile or force a sigh From many an anxious stander-by. If the father's boy be laurel-crowned, If the mother hath lost her only son, But if a few have blighted hopes, And hearts forlorn and sad, Doth that great victory glad? If parting words-like arrows-fixed The Highland pipe is pouring out |