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"And still no peace for the restless clay
Will wave or mould allow ;
It stands before me now!"
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.
THE LEE SHORE.
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,
The wonders of the lane.
The stormy gloom is rolled ;
His purple, green, and gold.
Where dewy daisies gleam ;
Burns bright in morning's beam.
Complains that Sol is slow
His royal robe to throw.
Here coils in light the snake;
Its beauteous nest to make.
Where verdure fires the plain,
The glories of the lane.
This roof of sky and tree, (clock, These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming
And wakes the earliest bee!
Look down on earth secure,
A world in miniature ;-
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;
To sky, and sea, and land-
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,
Thy bright small hand is here.
Is Huron, girt with wood;
And that Niagara's flood.
Yon line of liquid light,
The blind foam of its might? Do I not hear his thunder roll
The roar that ne'er is still ?
It roars, and ever will.
Clothe every little stone!
O'er pigmy valleys lone!
Ambitious of the sky,
Of mountains mushroom high.
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
A hundred ruined realms !
Impelled by woe or whim,
A tiny world to him!
The works of Nature's might,
And all to him is night.
Poor insects sparked with thought! Thy whisper, Lord, a word from Thee,
Could smite us into nought!
And mix it with the deep,
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
F. W. N. BAYLEY.
1810-1853 CHELSEA PENSIONERS READING THE GAZETTE OF THE
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
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 husband and the son-
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,
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 stripling too, that hath not sinned,
And so can laugh and sing : Child, whom the world hath not yet
Blends all the pure and mild,
On father and on child ;
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;
She little heeds his fame
And hearts forlorn and sad,
Doth that great victory glad ?
In their breasts the barb of pain,
The welcome home again ;
Its music like a stream;
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;