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SONG. THEY lighted a taper at the dead of night, O CHERUB Content! at thy moss-cover'd shrine, And chanted their holiest hymn;

I'd all the gay hopes of my bosom resign, But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright, I'd part with ambition thy vot'ry to be, Her eye was all sleepless and dim!

And breathe not a sigh but to friendship and thee! And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,

When a death-watch beat in her lonely room, But thy presence appears from my wishes to fly, When her curtain had shook of its own accord; Like the gold-color'd clouds on the verge of the sky; And the raven had flapp'd at her window-board, No lustre that hangs on the green willow-tree, To tell of her warrior's doom!

Is so sweet as the smile of thy favor to me. “Now sing you the death-song, and loudly pray

In the pulse of my heart I have nourish'd a care For the soul of my knight so dear;

That forbids me thy sweet inspiration to share, And call me a widow this wretched day,

The noon of my life slow departing I see, Since the warning of God is here!

But its years as they pass bring no tidings of thee. For night-mare rides on my strangled sleep :

The lord of my bosom is doom'd to die : O cherub Content! at thy moss-cover'd shrine, His valorous heart they have wounded deep;

I would offer my vows if Matilda were mine ; And the blood-red tears shall his country weep,

Could I call her my own, whom enraptured I see, For Wallace of Elderslie!”

I would breathe not a sigh but to friendship and thee

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Yet bleeding and bound, though her Wallace wight

For his long-loved country die,
The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight

Than Wallace of Elderslie!
But the day of his glory shall never depart,

Ilis head unentomb'd shall with glory be balm'd,
From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start:
Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart,

A nobler was never embalm'd!


My mind is my kingdom, but if thou wilt deign

To sway there a queen without measure, Then come, o'er its wishes and homage to reign,

And make it an empire of pleasure.

Albeit, he tippled like a fish,

Though not the same potation ;
And mortal man ne'er clear'd a dish

With nimbler mastication.
Those saints without the shirts arrived,

One evening late, to pigeon
A country pair for alms, that lived

About a league from Dijon ;
Whose supper-pot was set to boil

On fagots briskly crackling:
The friars enter'd with a smile

To Jacquez and to Jacqueline.
They bow'd and blessid the dame, and then

In pious terms besought her
To give two holy-minded men
A meal of bread and water.

Then of thoughts and emotions each mutinous crowd

That rebellid at stern reason and duty, Returning shall yield all their loyalty proud

To the halcyon dominion of Beauty.

For water and a crust they crave,

Those mouths that, even on Lent days, Scarce knew the taste of water, save

When watering for dainties. Quoth Jacquez, " That were sorry cheer

For men fatigued and dusty;
And if you supp'd on crusts, I fear

You'd go to bed but crusty."
So forth he brought a flask of rich

Wine fit to feast Silenus,
And viands, at the sight of which

They laugh'd like two hyenas.
Alternately, the host and spouse

Regaled each pardon-gauger,
Who told them tales right marvellous,

And lied as for a wager-
'Bout churches like balloons convey'd

With aëronautic martyrs ;
And wells made warm, where holy maid

Had only dipt her garters.
And if their hearers gaped, I guess,

With jaws three inch asunder, 'Twas partly out of weariness,

And partly out of wonder. Then striking up duets, the frères

Went on to sing in matches, From psalms to sentimental airs,

From these to glees and catches.
At last they would have danced outright,

Like a baboon and tame bear,
If Jacquez had not drunk Good Night,

And shown them to their chamber. The room was high, the host's was nigh:

Had wife or he suspicion
That monks would make a raree-show

Of chinks in the partition ?
Or that two confessors would come,

Their holy ears outreaching
To conversations as humdruni

Almost as their own preaching? Shame on you, friars of orders grey,

That peeping knelt, and wriggling, And when ye should have gone to pray,

Betook yourselves to giggling! But every deed will have its meed:

And hark! what information Has made the sinners, in a trice,

Look black with consternation. The farmer on a hone prepares

His knife, a long and keen one; And talks of killing both the frères,

The fat one and the lean one. To-morrow by the break of day,

He orders, too, saltpetre And pickling tubs_But, reader, stay,

Our host was no man-eater.

The priests knew not that country-folks

Gave pigs the name of friars ;
But startled, witless of the joke,

As if they trod on briers.
Meanwhile, as they perspired with dread,

The hair of either craven
Had stood erect upon his head,

But that their heads were shaven. “What! pickle and smoke us limb by limb?

God curse him and his larders! St. Peter will bedevil him

If he saltpetre friare.
“ Yet, Dominick, to die !--the bare

Idea shakes one oddly;
Yes, Boniface, 'tis time we were

Beginning to be godly.
« Would that, for absolution's sake,

Of all our sins and cogging, We had a whip to give and take

A last kind mutual flogging. “O Dominick! thy nether end

Should bleed for expiation,
And thou shouldst have, my dear fat friend,

A glorious flagellation."
But having ne'er a switch, poor souls!

They bow'd like weeping willows,
And told the Saints long rigmaroles

Of all their peccadilloes.
Yet, 'midst this penitential plight,

A thought their fancies tickled ; 'Twere better brave the window's height

Than be at morning pickled.
And so they girt themselves to leap,

Both under breath imploring
A regiment of saints, to keep

Their host and hostess snoring. The lean one 'lighted like a cat,

Then scamper'd off like Jehu, Nor stopp'd to help the man of fat,

Whose cheek was of a clay hue Who, being by nature more design'd

For resting than for jumping, Fell heavy on his parts behind,

That broaden'd with the plumping. There long beneath the window's sconce

His bruises he sat pawing,
Squat as the figure of a bonze

Upon a Chinese drawing.
At length he waddled to a sty;

The pigs, you'd thought for game-sake, Came round and nosed him lovingly,

As if they'd known their namesake. Meanwhile the other flew to town,

And with short respiration Bray'd like a donkey up and down, "Ass-ass-ass-assination!"

That frantic capuchin began

To cut fantastic capers Crying, “Help! hollo! the bellows blow,

The pot is on to stew me; I am a pretty pig—but no!

They shall not barbacue me."
Nor was this raving fit a sham;

In truth he was hysterical,
Until they brought him out a dram,

And that wrought like a miracle.

Men left their beds, and night-capp'd heads

Popp'd out from every casement; The cats ran frighten'd on the leads ;

Dijon was all amazement. Doors bang'd, dogs bay'd, and boys hurra'd,

Throats gaped aghast in bare rows, Till soundest sleeping watchmen woke,

And even at last the mayor rose Who, charging him before police,

Demands of Dominick surly, What earthquake, fire, or breach of peace

Made all this hurly-burly? “Ass—" quoth the priest, “ ass-assins, sir,

Are (hence a league, or nigher)
About to salt, scrape, massacre,

And barrel up a friar."
Soon, at the magistrate's command,

A troop from the gens-d'armes' house
Of twenty men rode sword in hand,

To storm the bloody farm's house. As they were cantering toward the place,

Comes Jacquez to the swine-yard, But started when a great round face

Cried, “ Rascal! hold thy whinyard." 'Twas Boniface, as mad's King Lear,

Playing antics in the piggery :
“And what the devil brought you here,

You mountain of a friar, eh?”
Ah! once how jolly, now how wan

And blubber'd with the vapors,

Just as the horsemen halted near,

Crying, “ Murderer, stop, ohoy, oh!" Jacquez was comforting the frère

With a good glass of noyauWho beckon'd to them not to kick up

A row; but waxing mellow, Squeezed Jacquez' hand, and with a hickup

Said, “ You're a damn'd good fellow" Explaining lost but little breath

Here ended all the matter; So God save Queen Elizabeth,

And long live Henri Quatre !
The gens-d'armes at the story broke

Into horse-fits of laughter,
And, as if they had known the joke,

Their horses neigh'd thereafter.
Lean Dominick, methinks, his chaps

Yawn'd weary, worn, and moody, So may my readers' too, perhaps, And thus I wish 'em good day







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..... 130

Verses to a Robin Redbreast..

113 Moonlight

ib. The Captive Nightingale

114 The Evening Star

115 Soliloquy of a Water-Wagtail

116 The Pleasures of Imprisonment, Epistle I. ib.

Epistle II.

118 Extract from “The Bramin"


120 The Lyre

121 Remonstrance to Winter...

122 Song, “Round Love's Elysian Bowers"....... 123 Lines written under a drawing of Yardley Oak ib. Song, “When Friendship, Love, and Truth abound" ........

ib. Religion

ib. The Joy of Grief".

124 The Battle of Alexandria

ib. The Pillow....

125 To the Memory of Joseph Browne

127 The Thunder-Storm

ib. Ode to the Volunteers

128 The Vigil of St. Mark

129 Hannah A Field Flower

...... 131 The Snow. Drop.

ib. The Ocean ...

132 The Common Lot

133 The Harp of Sorrow

134 Pope's Willow........

ib. * A Walk in Spring A Deed of Darkness.

.......... 136 The Swiss Cowherd's Song

137 The Oak ...

ib. The Dial

ib. The Roses

138 To Agnes

ib. An Epitaph

ib. The Old Man's Song.

ib. The Glow.Worm

139 Bolehill Trees

ib. The Mole-hill

ib. The Cast-away Ship..

141 The Sequel.

142 M. S.

ib. The Peak Mountains.....

To Anne and Jane
Ode on the British System of Education 146
A Daughter to her Mother.......

ib. Stanzas on Chatterton..........

147 The Wild Rose..

ib. On Finding the Feathers of a Linnet........ 148 Sonnet, from P. Salandri

149 from Petrarch......

ib. from Gaetana Passerini.

ib. from Benedetto dall' Uva

ib. Departed Days...

ib. Hope

150 A Mother's Love ....

151 The Time-Piece.

ib. Stanzas to the Memory of the Rev. T. Spencer 152 Human Life...


The Visible Creation
Sonnet, from Gaetana Passerini....

from Giambatista Cotta.

The Crucifixion, from Crescembini. 154
The Bible ....
The Christian Soldier
On the Royal Infant.......
A Midnight Thought
A Night in a Stage-Coach.
The Reign of Spring..
The Reign of Summer
Incognita ......
The Little Cloud..
Abdallah and Sabat
To Britain ...
The Alps, a Reverie
Questions and Answers
Youth Renewed..
The Bridal and the Burial.
Friends .......
A Mother's Lament on the Death of her Infant

The Widow and the Fatherless
The Daisy in India .......
The Drought .......
The Stranger and his Friend
A Sea Piece; in Three Sonnets
Robert Burns.....
A Theme for a Poet
Meet again!
Via Crucis, Via Lucis
The Pilgrim....
German War-Song
The Ages of Man..
Aspirations of Youth..
A Hermitage
The Falling Leaf..
On planting a Tulip-Root.
The Adventure of a Star
A Word with Myself.
Inscription under the Picture of an aged Negru

Thoughts and Images..
Verses to the Memory of the late Richard Rey.
nolds .....

126 The Climbing Boy's Soliloquies Thou, God, seest me," Gen. xvi. 13.. Sonnet; Christ Crucified, from Gabriele Fiamma ta Sonnet; Christ laid in the Sepulchre, from the

A Retrospect
Make Way for Liberty!..
Stanzas.- A Race, a race on earth we run ....
The Retreat
" Lovest thou me?" I hear my Savior say.
A Simile on a Lady's Portrait
A Poet's Benediction
For the First Leaf of a Lady's Album ..
The First Leaf of an Album...
To a Friend, on his return to Ceylon
Short-hand ........
Bridal Greetings
Epitaph on a Gnat.......
A Riddle
Time Employed, Time Enjoyed
The Laurustinus
Mottos for Albums.
A Voyage round the World
The Tombs of the Fathers

..... 135

... 145

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