But Sir Carnaby Jenks Blinks and winks, A candle burns down in the socket, and-hem!— Is dreaming of Jews, And acceptances of the bill-brokers' refuse; Has drunk all his toddy; And just as the dawn is beginning to peep, Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks; As that which its course has now begun, And hark!-a sound comes big with fate, The clock from St. Sepulcher's tower strikes-Eight!List to that low funeral bell: It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell! And see!-from forth that opening door They come he steps the threshold o'er Who never shall tread upon threshold more.— That pale man's mute agony, The glare of that wild, despairing eye, Now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky, The cord is severed, the lifeless clay Why, captain!--my lord!—Here's the mischief to pay We've missed all the fun! Why, they'll laugh at, and quiz us all over the town, We are all of us done so uncommonly brown!" What was to be done?—'t was perfectly plain ! Ex. CXLIX.-SONG OF THE SHIRT. WITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, THOMAS HOOD. And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! Till the stars shine through the roof! Along with the barbarous Turk, "Work-work-workTill the brain begins to swim, Work-work-work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim! "Oh! men, with sisters dear! Oh! men, with mothers and wives! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, "But why do I talk of death, That phantom of grisly bone, Oh God! that bread should be so dear, "Work-work-work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, That shattered roof-and this naked floor- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "Work-work-work! From weary chime to chime! Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, "Work-work-work! In the dull December light, And work-work-work, When the weather is warm and bright— The brooding swallows cling, "Oh! but to breathe the breath And the grass beneath my feet, To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, "Oh! but for one short hour! A little weeping would ease my heart, My tears must stop, for every drop With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch- Ex. CL.-THE AVENGING CHILDE. LOCKHART. HURRA! hurra! avoid the way of the Avenging Childe; His gown is twisted round his arm,-a ghastly cheek he wears; And in his hand, for deadly harm, a hunting-knife he bears. Avoid that knife in battle-strife ::-that weapon short and thin, The dragon's gore hath bathed it o'er, seven times 't was steeped therein; Seven times the smith hath proved its pith,—its cuts a coulter through; In France the blade was fashioned,—from Spain the shaft it drew. He sharpens it, as he doth ride, upon his saddle-bow,- He rushed within the baron's ring, he stood before them all: Seven times he gazed and pondered, if he the deed should do; Eight times distraught he looked and thought, then out his dagger flew. He stabbed therewith at Quadros :-the king did step between; It pierced his royal garment of purple wove with green: "Thou traitor keen, what dost thou mean?-thy king why wouldst thou slay ?" "Now, pardon, pardon," cried the Childe, "I stabbed not, king, at thee, But him, that caitiff, blood-defiled, who stood beside thy knee; Eight brothers were we,-in the land might none more loving be, They all are slain by Quadros' hand, they all are dead but me. "Good king, I fain would wash the stain,—for vengeance is my cry, This murderer with sword and spear to battle I defy !" |