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"And still no peace for the restless clay

Will wave or mould allow ;
The horrid thing pursues my soul, -

It stands before me now!"
The fearful boy looked up, and saw

Huge drops upon his brow

That very night, while gentle sleep

The urchin eyelids kissed, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,

Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walked between,

With gyves upon his wrist.


SLEET and hail and thunder!

And ye winds that rave Till the sands thereunder

Tinge the sullen wave,

STRONG climber of the mountain's side,

Though thou the vale disdain,
Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide

The wonders of the lane.
High o'er the rushy springs of Don

The stormy gloom is rolled ;
The moorland hath not yet put on

His purple, green, and gold.
But here the titling spreads his wing,

Where dewy daisies gleam ;
And here the sunflower of the spring

Burns bright in morning's beam.
To mountain winds the famished fox

Complains that Sol is slow
O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks

His royal robe to throw.
But here the lizard seeks the sun,

Here coils in light the snake;
And here the fire-tuft hath begun

Its beauteous nest to make.
Oh, then, while hums the earliest bee

Where verdure fires the plain,
Walk thou with me, and stoop to see

The glories of the lane.
For, oh, I love these banks of rock,

This roof of sky and tree, (clock, These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming

And wakes the earliest bee!
As spirits from eternal day

Look down on earth secure,
Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey

A world in miniature ;-
A world not scorned by Him who made

Even weakness by His might; But solemn in His depth of shade,

And splendid in His light. Light! not alone on clouds afar

O'er storm-loved mountains spread, Or widely teaching sun and star,

Thy glorious thoughts are read;
Oh, no! thou art a wondrous book,

To sky, and sea, and land-
A page on which the angels look,
Which insects understand.

Winds that like a demon

Howl with horrid note Round the toiling seaman

In his tossing boat!

From his humble dwelling

On the shingly shore, Where the billows swelling

Keep such hollow roar ;

From that weeping woman,

Seeking with her cries Succour superhuman

From the frowning skies ;

From the urchin pining

For his father's knee ;From the lattice shining

Drive him out to sea!

And here, O Light! minutely fair,

Divinely plain and clear,
Like splinters of a crystal hair,

Thy bright small hand is here.
Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide,

Is Huron, girt with wood;
This driplet feeds Missouri's tide,

And that Niagara's flood.
What tidings from the Andes brings

Yon line of liquid light,
That down from heaven in madness flings

The blind foam of its might? Do I not hear his thunder roll

The roar that ne'er is still ?
'Tis mute as death !-but in my soul

It roars, and ever will.
What forests tall of tiniest moss

Clothe every little stone!
What pigmy oaks their foliage toss

O'er pigmy valleys lone!
With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge,

Ambitious of the sky,
They feather o'er the steepest edge

Of mountains mushroom high.
O God of marvels! who can tell

What myriad living things On these grey stones unseen may dwell!

What nations with their kings ! I feel no shock, I hear no groan

While fate perchance o'erwhelms
Empires on this subverted stone-

A hundred ruined realms !
Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me,

Impelled by woe or whim,
May crawl, some atom cliffs to see-

A tiny world to him!
Lo! while he pauses, and admires

The works of Nature's might,
Spurned by my foot, his world expires,

And all to him is night.
O God of terrors! what are we?

Poor insects sparked with thought! Thy whisper, Lord, a word from Thee,

Could smite us into nought!
But shouldst thou wreck our fatherland,

And mix it with the deep,
Safe in the hollow of Thine hand

Thy little ones would sleep.

And ever sweetest where the sweeteet grow. Who hath condensed, O Broom, in thy bright flowers

(cheek The light of midday suns? What virgin's Can match this apple bloom, these glowing showers

[speak Of glistering daisies? How their blushes Of rosy hues that red o'er ocean break, When cloudy morn is calm, yet fain to weep, Because the beautiful are still the frail ! Hark! 'tis the thrush, he sings beneath the steep,

(vale ! Where coolness ever charms the fountained How eloquently well he tells his tale, That love is yet on earth, and yet will be, Though virtue struggles, and seems born to fail,

(and free, Because fall'n man, who might be great Toils for the wolf, and bribes iniquity! Thou art not false, sweet bird ! thou dost

not keep The word of promise to our ear alone, And break it to our hearts! Maids do not weep

[groan; Because thou feign'st; for thee no victims Thy voice is truth, and love is all thy own. Then, for thy sake, I will not loathe man's

face; Will not believe that virtues are veiled sins; That bounty may be mean, and kindness

(wins; That fortune plays the game which wisdom That human worth stillends where it begins. Though man were wholly false; though

hope were none Of late redemption from his sin-made woes, Yet would I trust in God, and goodness. On From sun to sun, the stream of mercy flows; And still on humble graves the little daisy


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BATTLE OF WATERLOO. THE golden gleam of a summer sun

Is lighting the elm-decked grove, And the leaves of the old trees-every

oneAre stirred with a song they love; For there bloweth a light breeze, whispering

true Of the deeds they are doing at Waterloo.


(again ; SHADE-LOVING Hyacinth ! thou com'st And thy rich odours seem to swell the flow Of the lark's song, the redbreast's lonely strain,

(wild flowers blow, And the stream's tune-best sung where

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The Chelsea veteran gathereth there,

Under the ancient sign; His meteor-sword hath a stain of blood,

And his cheek is warm with wine. Fame he had wooed as a glorious bride, When she waved with his white plume,

and clung to his side.

His comrades flock to their favourite seat,

And their tale is of days gone by; But their words-as weak as broken

heartsAre stifled by many a sigh; For they drink to those true friends who

scorned to yield, And were left behind on the battle-field.

He bringath the news, and their hearts beat
The news of a glorious victory! [high-
Father and brother, and betrothed -

The husband and the son-
That lancer bold hath a tale to tell

To the friends of every one. “Their swords were bright-their hearts

were true They have won the field of WATERLOO!" Oh ! when the heart is very glad,

It leaps like a little child That is just released from a weary task

With a spirit free and wild. It fluttereth like a prisoned bird, When tidings such as these are heard. A low sound-like a murmured prayer ;

Then, a cheer that rends the sky! A loud huzza— like a penple's shout

When a good king passeth by ;As the roar of waves on an angry main Breaks forth, and then all is mute again.

But many a brighter say and song

Are gladdening all that scene, And joy comes like a singing bird,

To light the village green; And groups are gathered 'neath those trees, Round summer flowers-like summer bees.

The soldier, with his mark of war

The medal on his breast,
Star of the brave that decks him now,

When his sword is laid to rest; And the iron sheath is worn away, That was tenantless on the battle day.

The lancer looks in the veteran's face,

And hands him the written scroll ; And the old man reads, with a quiv'ring

The words of that muster-roll.
As they wake a smile or force a sigh
From many an anxious stander-by.

The stripling too, that hath not sinned,

And so can laugh and sing : Child, whom the world hath not yet

Like a serpent, with its sting.
The young in hope-the conscience-free,
The beautiful in infancy.
And mothers too, whose measured love

Blends all the pure and mild,
And pours itself from one deep fount

On father and on child ;
And ancient granddames just as glad,
And proud of charms their daughters had.
The young and old—the fair and brave-

Are congregated here; [gaze And they all look out with an anxious

Of mingled hope and fear, As the wearied sailor looks for land, When the bark speeds on and the gales are


If the father's boy be laurel-crowned,

He glories in his name;
If the mother hath lost her only son,

She little heeds his fame
And the lonely girl, whose lover sleeps,
Droops in her beauty, and only weeps.
But if a few have blighted hopes,

And hearts forlorn and sad,
How many of that mingled group

Doth that great victory glad ?
Who bless-for their dear sakes—the day
Whom toil and war kept far away?
If parting words—like arrows-fixed

In their breasts the barb of pain,
Now fancy like a painter draws

The welcome home again ;
And some who ne'er held cup of bliss,
Sup full of happiness from this !
The Highland pipe is pouring out

Its music like a stream;
And the sound of its startling revelry
Wakes many from a dream;

Now gaze again-a lancer comes

With a spur in his courser's side, That speeds towards th' expecting group

As a lover bounds to his bride;

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