They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see! From ten to five, from five to three, A lamb, a weather, and a ewe ; And then at last, from three to two; And of my fifty, yesterday I had but only one, And here it lies upon my arm, Alas! and I have none; To-day I fetched it from the rock; It is the last of all my flock." THE DUNGEON. And this place our forefathers made for man! By ignorance and parching poverty, His energies roll back upon his heart, And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison, They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot; Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks And this is their best cure! uncomforted And friendless solitude, groaning and tears, And savage faces, at the clanking hour Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon, By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies Circled with evil, till his very soul Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed With other ministrations thou, O nature! Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets, To be a jarring and a dissonant thing, By the benignant touch of love and beauty. THE MAD MOTHER. Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, The sun has burnt her coal-black hair, Her eye-brows have a rusty stain, And she came far from over the main. She has a baby on her arm, Or else she were alone; And underneath the hay-stack warm, And on the green-wood stone, She talked and sung the woods among ; And it was in the English tongue. "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad, But nay, my heart is far too glad ; Full many a sad and doleful thing: A fire was once within my brain; |