He hears the murderer's savage shout,
He hears the groan of death;
In vain they fly,-soldiers defenceless now,
Women, old men, and babes.
Righteous and just art thou, O God!
For at his dying hour
Those shrieks and groans re-echoed in his ear
He heard that murderous yell!
They throng'd around his midnight couch
The phantoms of the slain,-
It preyed like poison on his powers of life,—
Righteous art thou, O God!
Spirits who suffered at that hour
For freedom and for faith,
Ye saw your country bent beneath the yoke,
Her faith and freedom crush'd.
And like a giant from his sleep
Ye saw when France awoke;
Ye saw the people burst their double chain,
And ye had joy in heaven.
THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.
AND wherefore do the poor complain?
The rich man asked of me;-
Come walk abroad with me, I said,
And I will answer thee.
'Twas evening and the frozen streets
Were cheerless to behold,
And we were wrapt and coated well,
And yet we were a-cold.
We met an old bare-headed man,
His locks were few and white,
I ask'd him what he did abroad
In that cold winter's night:
"Twas bitter keen, indeed, he said,
But at home no fire had he,
And therefore he had come abroad
To ask for charity.
We met a young bare-footed child,
And she begg'd loud and bold,
I ask'd her what she did abroad
When the wind it blew so cold;
She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick in bed,
And therefore was it she was sent
Abroad to beg for bread.
We saw a woman sitting down
Upon a stone to rest,
She had a baby at her back
And another at her breast;
I ask'd her why she loiter'd there,
When the night-wind was so chillShe turn'd her head and bade the child That scream'd behind be still.
She told us that her husband served
A soldier, far away,
And therefore to her parish she
Was begging back her way.
We met a girl, her dress was loose,
And sunken was her eye,
Who with the wanton's hollow voice
Address'd the passers by;
I ask'd her what there was in guilt
That could her heart allure
To shame, disease, and late remorse?
She answer'd, she was poor.
I turn'd me to the rich man then,
For silently stood he,-
You ask'd me why the poor complain,
And these have answer'd thee!
THOU wert out betimes, thou busy busy bee!
As abroad I took my early way,
Before the cow from her resting place
Had risen up and left her trace
On the meadow, with dew so gray,
I saw thee, thou busy busy bee.
Thou wert working late, thou busy busy bee!
After the fall of the cistus flower,
When the primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst,
I heard thee last, as I saw thee first;
In the silence of the evening hour,
I heard thee, thou busy busy bee.
Thou art a miser, thou busy busy bee!
Late and early at employ;
Still on thy golden stores intent,
Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent,
What thy winter will never enjoy;
Wise lesson this for me, thou busy busy bee!
Little dost thou think, thou busy busy bee!
What is the end of thy toil.
When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone
And all thy work for the year is done,
Thy master comes for the spoil.
Woe then for thee, thou busy busy bee!
MARGARET! my cousin,-nay you must not smile,
I love the homely and familiar phrase;
And I will call thee cousin Margaret,
However quaint amid the measured line,
The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill
When delicate tongues disclaim old term of kin,
Sirring and madaming as civilly
As if the road between the heart and lips
Were such a weary and Laplandish way,
That the poor travellers came to the red gates
Half frozen. Trust me, cousin Margaret,
For many a day my memory hath played
The creditor with me, on your account,
And made me shame to think that I should owe
So long a debt of kindness. But in truth,
Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear
So heavy a pack of business, that albeit
I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours' race
Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I
That for a moment you should lay to me
Unkind neglect: mine, Margaret, is a heart
That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some Who know how warm it beats.
Who can play off my smiles and courtesies
To every lady of her lap-dog tired,
Who wants a plaything; I am no sworn friend
Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love;
Mine are no mushroom feelings which spring up
At once without a seed and take no root,
Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere,
The little circle of domestic life,
I would be known and loved; the world beyond
Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think
That you should know me well, for you and I
Grew up together, and when we look back
Upon old times our recollections paint
The same familiar faces. Did I wield
The wand of Merlin's magic I would make
Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship,
Ay, a new ark, as in that other flood
Which cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth;
The sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle
Like that where whilome old Apollidon
Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid
The sea nymphs pile around their coral bowers,
That we might stand upon the beach, and mark
The far-off breakers shower their silver spray
And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound
Told us that never mariner should reach
Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle
We might renew the days of infancy,
And life like a long childhood pass away,
Without one care. It may be, Margaret,
That I shall yet be gathered to my friends;
For I am not one of those who live estranged
Of choice, till at the last they join their race
In the family vault. If so, if I should lose,
Like my old friend the pilgrim, this huge pack
So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine
Right pleasantly will end our pilgrimage.
If not, if I should never get beyond
This Vanity town, there is another world,
Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret,
I gaze at night into the boundless sky,
And think that I shall there be born again,
The exalted native of some better star;
And like the rude American I hope
To find in heaven the things I loved on earth.
HARK! how the church-bells' thundering harmony
Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come,
Good tidings of great joy! two gallant ships
Met on the element,—they met, they fought
A desperate fight !-good tidings of great joy!
Old England triumphed ! yet another day
Of glory for the ruler of the waves !
For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause,
They have their passing paragraphs of praise
And are forgotten.
There was one who died
In that day's glory, whose obscurer name
No proud historian's page will chronicle.
Peace to his honest soul! I read his name,
"Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God
The sound was not familiar to mine ear.
But it was told me after that this man
Was one whom lawful violence had forced
From his own home and wife and little ones,
Who by his labour lived; that he was one
Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel
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