By lawful turn my living to earn,
Between the light and dark;
My daily bread, and nightly bed,
My bacon, and drop of beer-
But all from the hand that holds the land, And none from the overseer!
No parish money, or loaf,
pauper badges for me,
A son of the soil, by right of toil
Entitled to my fee.
No alms I ask, give me my task:
Here are the arm, the leg,
The strength, the sinews of a Man,
To work, and not to beg.
Still one of Adam's heirs,
Though doom'd by chance of birth,
To dress so mean and to eat the lean,
Instead of the fat of the earth;
To make such humble meals
As honest labour can,
A bone and a crust, with a grace to God, And little thanks to man
A spade! a rake! a hoe!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will
Whatever the tool to ply,
Here is a willing drudge,
With muscle and limb, and woe to him
Who does their pay begrudge
Who every weekly score
Docks labour's little mite,
Bestows on the poor at the temple door,
But robb'd them over night.
The very shilling he hoped to save,
As health and morals fail,
Shall visit me in the New Bastile,
The Spital, or the Gaol!
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 ;-
Oh, God! to think Man ever
Comes too near his Home!
WE watch'd her breathing thro' the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seem'd to speak,
So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied—
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed- she had
Another morn than ours.
ON SEEING MY WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN SLEEPING IN
THE SAME CHAMBER.
AND has the earth lost its so spacious round,
The sky its blue circumference above,
That in this little chamber there is found
Both earth and heaven-my universe of love!
All that my God can give me or remove,
Here sleeping, save myself, in mimic death.
Sweet that in this small compass I behove
To live their living and to breathe their breath!
Almost I wish that with one common sigh
We might resign all mundane care and strife,
And seek together that transcendent sky,
Where Father, Mother, Children, Husband, Wife,
Together pant in everlasting life!
COBLENTZ, Nov. 1835.
DEAR Fanny! nine long years ago,
While yet the morning sun was low,
And rosy with the eastern glow
The landscape smiled;
Whilst low'd the newly-waken'd herds-
Sweet as the early song of birds,
I heard those first, delightful words,
"Thou hast a child!"
Along with that uprising dew
Tears glisten'd in my eyes, though few,
To hail a dawning quite as new
It was not sorrow-not annoy→→
But like a happy maid, though coy,
With grief-like welcome, even Joy
Forestalls its prime.
So may'st thou live, dear! many years,
In all the bliss that life endears,
Not without smiles, nor yet from tears,
Too strictly kept:
When first thy infant littleness
I folded in my fond caress,
The greatest proof of happiness
Was this I wept.
LOVE thy mother, little one!
Kiss and clasp her neck again,
Hereafter she may have a son
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain.
Love thy mother, little one!
Gaze upon her living eyes,
And mirror back her love for thee,-
Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs
To meet them when they cannot see.
Gaze upon her living eyes!
Press her lips the while they glow
With love that they have often told,-
Hereafter thou may'st press in woe,
And kiss them till thine own are cold.
Press her lips the while they glow!
Oh, revere her raven hair!
Altho' it be not silver-gray;
Too early Death, led on by Care,
May snatch save one dear lock away.
Oh! revere her raven hair!
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