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And many an hour beguile, reciting tales
The plaintive dirge of Morfa Rhuddlan chant.
Of Snowden, saying, "God be with thee, Friend!
It beats no more.
Yet, O departed shade!
One task is mine-thy church-glebe-tenement
The DEATH of WALLACE.
By ROBERT SOUTHEY.
Joy, joy in London now!
He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to death,
At length the traitor meets the traitor's doom, Joy, joy in London now!
He on a sledge is drawn,
His strong right arm unweapon'd and in chains, And garlanded around his helmless head
The laurel wreath of scorn.
They throng to view him now
Who in the field had fled before his sword, Who at the name of Wallace once grew pale
And faltered out a prayer.
Yes they can meet his eye,
That only beams with patient courage now;
And that eye did not shrink
What tho' suspended sense Was by their damned cruelty revived, What tho' ingenious vengeance lengthened life
To fell protracted death
What tho' the hangman's hand
Wallace had comfort still.
He called to mind his deeds
Done for his country in the embattled field,
He thought of that good cause for which he died And it was joy in death!
Go Edward triumph now! Cambria is fallen, and Scotland's strength is crush'd; On Wallace, on Llewellyn's mangled limbs The fowls of Heaven have fed.
Go Edward full of glory to thy grave!
Something childish, but very natural.
Written in GERMANY.
If I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,
To you I'd fly, my
But thoughts like these are idle things
And I stay here.
But in my sleep to you I fly,
I'm always with you in my sleep,
The world is all one's own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?
Sleep stays not though a Monarch bids,
Yet while 'tis dark one shuts one's lids
And still dreams on.