ELLIOTT

He moveth fast and slow,

If he was call'd a Man of Grief
Six thousand years ago?

By Babylonian rivers,

In Israel's dreadful day,

With soul bow'd like the willows,
For prostrate Solyma,
He, saddest, sweetest bard of all
Whom God's dark wing had swept
From pride into captivity,
Remembering Zion, wept.

Ere Rome was he wrote ballads
On Troy, the fate o'erthrown;
And he will sigh for London
In manless ruin strown ;
Then o'er Australia hungering,
Poor waif of land and sea,
Ask bread through alleys yet unbuilt,
Where London is to be;

Or from some Pandour'd palace,

That looks o'er slaves afar,

Say to his royal legions

"Go tame the earth with war!"

That unborn scribes may write again.
The tale of chain'd or free,

Unless mankind meantime recant

Their blood-idolatry.

Behold him!

Say, what art thou

Whose thoughts none understand?

U

137

The sleeping mastiff hears thee,
Thou scorn'd of every land!
Famine, that laid thy vitals bare
To wind and sun and sky,
Sees nothing sadder than thy cheek,
Or wilder than thy eye.

What art thou? Did thy boyhood
Cull shells on Severn's side?
Art thou "the wondrous stripling
That perish'd in his pride"?

Or art thou he whom wonder call'd
The Avonian's youthful peer,

The second Shakspere? Bread! O, bread!
Poor Otway! it is here.

Thou changest : Art thou Dante,
The famed in peace and war,

Whom weeps ungrateful Florence,

Beneath her mournful star?

Then hast thou known "how sad the sound

Of feet on strangers' stairs,

How bitter strangers' bread" to him

Who eats it, and despairs.

What? Canning? scoundrel-murder'd,

And musing still with fools:

Who would not be a genius,

To manage harpies' tools?

Who would not soothe a State, to shield

A harpy-bullied Throne;

And die, consumed in fire from heaven,

By palaced beggars blown.

Thou changest:- Trampled Hargreaves!

Rejoin thy nameless dust!

Not even to the lifeless

Will cruel man be just.

Changed

Thought-worn Crompton!

thy sad face

Casts gloom on cloudless day:

Fool, even in death! why linger here,
Trade's meek reproach? Away!

Stay'st thou, amid the fortunes
Which thy scorn'd genius made,
To hear a Peel or Arkwright
Cry "Manacles for Trade!"
Or can it please thy pensive soul
To meet an upstart's eye,
And see the reptile stalk erect,
A wealth-rewarded Lie?

Thou changest :- Art thou Byron,

Who barter'd peace for stone;

And didst thou wed a shadow,

To perish all alone?

Changed:- Art thou he, once many-throned,

Who wifeless, sonless, died,

While son and wife walk'd clad in smiles

His paltry foe beside?

Again thou changest:- Sad One!

How want-worn is thine hand.

No diadem thou wearest,

Thou scorn'd of every land! The eagle in thy famish'd eyes Looks faintly on the sky; And insult waxeth red with rage

When thy pale form draws nigh.

ELEGY ON WILLIAM COBBETT

О

BEAR HIM where the rain can fall,

And where the winds can blow;

And let the sun weep o'er his pall
As to the grave ye go!

And in some little lone churchyard,
Beside the growing corn,

Lay gentle Nature's stern prose bard,
Her mightiest peasant-born!

Yes! let the wild-flower wed his grave,
That bees may murmur near,

When o'er his last home bend the brave,
And say "A man lies here!"

For Britons honour Cobbett's name,
Though rashly oft he spoke;
And none can scorn, and few will blame,
The low-laid heart of oak.

See, o'er his prostrate branches, see!

E'en factious hate consents

To reverence, in the fallen tree,
His British lineaments.

Though gnarl'd the storm-tost boughs that braved
The thunder's gather'd scow.,

Not always through his darkness raved
The storm-winds of the soul.

O, no! in hours of golden calm
Morn met his forehead bold;
And breezy evening sang her psalm
Beneath his dew-dropp'd gold.

The wren its crest of fibred fire

With his rich bronze compared ;
While many a youngling's songful sire
His acorn'd twiglets shared.

The lark, above, sweet tribute paid,
Where clouds with light were riven;
And true love sought his bluebell'd shade,
"To bless the hour of heaven."

E'en when his stormy voice was loud,
And guilt quaked at the sound,
Beneath the frown that shook the proud
The poor a shelter found.

Dead oak! thou livest. Thy smitten hands,
The thunder of thy brow,

Speak, with strange tongues, in many lands,
And tyrants hear thee, now!

Beneath the shadow of thy name,
Inspired by thy renown,

Shall future patriots rise to fame,

And many a sun go down.