THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.

DACTYLICS.

WEARY way-wanderer languid and sick at heart,
Travelling painfully over the rugged road,
Wild-visaged wanderer! ah, for thy heavy chance!

Sorely thy little one drags by thee bare-footed,
Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back,
Meagre and livid, and screaming its wretchedness.

Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony,

As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe,
Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy haggard face.

Thy husband will never return from the war again,
Cold is thy hopeless heart even as charity-

Cold are thy famished babes—God help thee, widowed one.

THE WIDOW.

SAPPHICS.

COLD was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell
Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked,
When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey,
We
Weary and way-sore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections;
Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom:
She had no home, the world was all before her,
She had no shelter.

Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her;
"Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer.
"Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger
Here I should perish.

"Once I had friends,-but they have all forsook me!
Once I had parents,-they are now in heaven!
I had a home once-I had once a husband
Pity me, strangers!

"I had a home once-I had once a husband—
I am a widow poor and broken-hearted!"

Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining,
On drove the chariot.

Then on the snow she laid her down to rest her;
She heard a horseman, "Pity me!" she groaned out;
Loud was the wind, unheard was her complaining,
On went the horseman.

Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold, and hunger,
Down sunk the wanderer, sleep had seized her senses;
There did the traveller find her in the morning,
God had released her.

THE CHAPEL BELL.

Lo I, the man who erst the muse did ask
Her deepest notes to swell the patriot's meeds,
And now enforced, a far unfitter task,

For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds; For yon dull tone that tinkles on the air

Bids me lay by the lyre, and go to morning prayer.

Oh, how I hate the sound! it is the knell

That still a requiem tolls to comfort's hour; And loth am I, at superstition's bell,

To quit or Morpheus or the muse's bower: Better to lie and doze than gape amain,

Hearing still mumbled o'er the same eternal strain.

Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers,
Say, hast thou ever summoned from his rest
One being wakening to religious cares?

Or roused one pious transport in the breast?
Or rather, do not all reluctant creep

To linger out the hour in listlessness or sleep?

I love the bell that calls the poor to pray,

Chiming from village church its cheerful sound,
When the sun smiles on labour's holy-day,

And all the rustic train are gathered round,
Each deftly dizened in his Sunday's best,
And pleased to hail the day of piety and rest.

And when, dim shadowing o'er the face of day,
The mantling mists of eventide rise slow,
As through the forest gloom I wend my way,
The minster curfew's sullen voice I know,,
And pause, and love its solemn toll to hear,
As, made by distance soft, it dies upon the ear.
Nor with an idle nor unwilling ear

Do I receive the early passing-bell;
For sick at heart with many a secret care,

When I lie listening to the dead man's knell,
I think that in the grave all sorrows cease,

And would full fain recline my head, and be at peace.

But thou, memorial of monastic gall!

What fancy sad or lightsome thou hast given! Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recal

The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven! And this dean's gape, and that dean's nasal tone, And Roman rites retained, though Roman faith be flown.

THE RACE OF BANQUO.

FLY, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!
Leave thy guilty sire to die.

O'er the heath the stripling fled,

The wild storm howling round his head.

Fear mightier through the shades of night

Urged his feet, and winged his flight;

And still he heard his father cry,

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!
Leave thy guilty sire to die.

On every blast was heard the moan,

The anguished shriek, the death-fraught groan;

LYRICAL PIECES.

Loathly night-hags join the yell,
And see the midnight rites of hell.
Forms of magic! spare my life!
Shield me from the murderer's knife!
Before me dim in lurid light
Float the phantoms of the night—
Behind I hear my father cry,
Fly, son of Banquo-Fleance, fly!

Parent of the sceptred race,
Boldly tread the circled space:
Boldly, Fleance, venture near—
Sire of monarchs-spurn at fear.

Sisters, with prophetic breath,
Pour we now the dirge of death!

THE POET PERPLEXT.

BRAIN! you must work! begin, or we shall lose
The day while yet we only think upon it.
The hours run on, and yet you will not chuse
The subject-come-ode, elegy, or sonnet.
You must contribute, brain! in this hard time;
Taxes are high, food dear, and you must rhyme.

"Twere well if when I rubb'd my itchless head, The fingers with benignant stimulation Could through the medullary substance spread The motions of poetic inspiration;

But scratch, or knock, or shake my head about, The motions may go in, but nought comes out.

The natural head, consider good my brain,
To the head politic bears some allusion;
The limbs and body must support your reign,
And all when you do wrong is in confusion.
But caput mine, in truth I can't support
A head as lazy as if born at court.