"So wills the fierce avenging sprite,

Till blood for blood atones! Ay, though he's buried in a cave,

And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted oft his flesh, The world shall see his bones!

"O God! that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake!
Again-again, with dizzy brain,

The human life I take;

And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake.

"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.

THE LEE SHORE.

SLEET and hail and thunder!
And ye winds that rave
Till the sands thereunder
Tinge the sullen wave,-

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!

Let broad leagues dissever

Him from yonder foam. O God! to think man ever Comes too near his home.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

1781-1849.

THE WONDERS OF THE LANE

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,

[clock,

This roof of sky and tree, 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.

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 [speak

showers

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;

THE golden gleam of a summer sun
Is lighting the elm-decked grove,
And the leaves of the old trees-every

one

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

true

Of the deeds they are doing at Waterloo.

He bringeth the news, and their hearts beat The news of a glorious victory! [high

Father and brother, and betrothedThe husband and the sonThat 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 people'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.

The lancer looks in the veteran's face, And hands him the written scroll; And the old man reads, with a quiv'ring voice,

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

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;