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They talk of other days, when, like the birds,

He cull'd the wild flower's bloom,

And roam'd the moorland, with the houseless herds; They talk of Jane's sad prayer, and her last words, "Is Edwin come?"

He wept. But still, almost till morning beam'd,
They talk'd of Jane then slept.

But, though he slept, his eyes, half open, gleam'd;
For still of dying Jane her brother dream'd,

And, dreaming, wept.

At mid-day he arose, in tears, and sought

The churchyard where she lies.

He found her name

beneath the snow-wreath

wrought;

Then, from her grave, a knot of grass he brought,
With tears and sighs.

The hour of parting came, when feelings deep
In the heart's depth awake.

To his sad mother, pausing oft to weep,
He gave a token, which he bade her keep
For Edwin's sake.

It was a grassy sprig, and auburn tress,

Together twined and tied.

He left them, then, for ever! could they less

Than bless and love that type of tenderness?

Childless they died!

Long in their hearts a cherish'd thought they wore ;

And till their latest breath,

Bless'd him, and kiss'd his last gift o'er and o'er;

But they beheld their Edwin's face no more

In life or death!

For where the upheaved sea of trouble foams,
And sorrow's billows rave,

Men, in the wilderness of myriad homes,
Far from the desert, where the wild flock roams,
Dug Edwin's grave.

A THUNDER STORM IN WINTER.

HE spake to eye and ear! and, like a tree
Rooted in heaven, shot down the branchy flame,
While the blue moonlight vanish'd suddenly.
Brighter than light on snow, the brightness came,
Filling the vales with forests of strange fire,

The streams with blood; and flinging o'er the cloud
Banners of crimson, laced with silver wire.

Down to mute earth the giant darkness bow'd,

Giving the hill immeasurable height,

That propp'd the sky; then changed the troubled form,
While from his bosom fell the headlong weight
Of volley'd hail; and, whispering through the storm,
The thunderer spake again: "What fear'st thou?
Live, poor worm!"

PROLOGUE TO THE CORN-LAW RHYMES.

FOR thee, my country, thee, do I perform,
Sternly, the duty of a man born free,

Heedless, though ass, and wolf, and venomous worm,
Shake ears and fangs, with brandish'd bray, at me;
Alone as Crusoe on the hostile sea,

For thee, for us, for ours, do I upraise

The standard of my song! for thine and mine

I toll the knell of England's better days;
And lift my hated voice that mine and thine
May undegrade the human form divine.
Perchance that voice, if heard, is heard too late :
The buried dust of Tyre may wake, and sway
Reconquer'd seas; but what shall renovate
The dead-alive, who dread no judgment-day?
Souls, whom the lust of gold hath turn'd to clay?
And what but scorn and slander will reward
The rabble's poet, and his honest song?

Gambler for blanks! thou play'st an idiot's card;
For, sure to fall, the weak attack the strong:
Ay, but what strength is theirs, whose might is based
on wrong?

FROM GOETHE.

How like a stithy is this land!
And we lie on it like good metal
Long hammer'd by a senseless hand!
But will such thumping make a kettle?

CANNING.

He rose a veteran proud of honest scars;
He stood a bard, with lightning in his look;
He spoke-Apollo had the voice of Mars:
His frown all hope from phalanx'd faction took,
While flash'd his satire, like a falchion bared,
On all who meanly thought, or basely dared.
He spoke, and died. And therefore must the sky
Return to sunless, moonless, starless night?
And therefore must the hopes of commerce fly
To climes unsatrapp'd? O departing light,
Linger awhile! thy loveliness is might,

And youth, and glory. Earth, from east to west,
Uplift thy multudinous hands in prayer!
Laugh, stormy Russ! to thee the worst is best.

Shout, foes of Man! the scourge and rack prepare ! But, Erin, there is hope in thy despair.

And, Freedom! faint not thou, though Canning dies.
Weak is the State, and tottering to its fall,

That on one mind for strength and life relies;
That State should be an omen unto all
Who stand not self-supported, and appal
E'en tyrants, blindly digging their own graves.
But Freedom's hope, when other hope is none,
Calm, or perturb'd, remains; like winds and waves,
Alike surviving battles lost or won;

More deathless than the dust of Marathon.

FOREST WORSHIP.

WITHIN the sun-lit forest,

Our roof the bright blue sky,

Where fountains flow, and wild flowers blow,
We lift our hearts on high:

Beneath the frown of wicked men

Our country's strength is bowing;
But, thanks to God! they can't prevent
The lone wildflowers from blowing!

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