Who, when the time of summer season smiled, The keen attacks of pain and poverty; boy. VII. And now cold charity's unwelcome dole The law's stern slavery, and the insolent stare With which law loves to rend the poor man's soul The bitter scorn, the spirit-sinking noise Of heartless mirth which women, men, and boys, Wake in this scene of legal misery. you and me Whirlwinds sweep and billows roar: Yet in spirit oft I see On thy wild and winding shore See them drenched in sacred gore,- II. Shout aloud! Let every slave, Racks and chains without a groan; III. Cotopaxi! bid the sound Through thy sister mountains ring, Till each valley smile around At the blissful welcoming! And O thou stern Ocean-deep, Thou whose foamy billows sweep Shores where thousands wake to weep Whilst they curse a villain king, On the winds that fan thy breast Bear thou news of Freedom's rest! IV. Ere the day-star dawn of love, TO IRELAND. BEAR witness, Erin! when thine injured isle And blighted are the leaves that cast its shade; EYES: A FRAGMENT. How eloquent are eyes! Not music's most impassioned note Love, look thus again, That your look may light a waste of years, TO THE QUEEN OF MY HEART. I. SHALL we roam, my love, When the moon is rising bright; Oh, I'll whisper there, In the cool night-air, What I dare not in broad day-light! I'll tell thee a part II. Of the thoughts that start To being when thou art nigh; And thy beauty, more bright Than the stars' soft light, Shall seem as a weft from the sky. III. When the pale moonbeam On tower and stream Sheds a flood of silver sheen, How I love to gaze As the cold ray strays O'er thy face, my heart's throned queen! IV. Wilt thou roam with me To the restless sea, And linger upon And list to the flow Of the waves below the steep, How they toss and roar and leap? Those boiling waves V. And the storm that raves At night o'er their foaming crest, Resemble the strife That, from earliest life, The passions have waged in my breast. VI. Oh, come then and rove To the sea or the grove When the moon is rising bright, In the cool night-air What I dare not in broad day-light. THE DEVIL'S WALK. A BALLAD. I. ONCE, early in the morning, Beelzebub arose, With care his sweet person adorning, II. He drew on a boot to hide his hoof, III. He sate him down, in London town, With a favourite imp he began to chat, IV. And then to St. James's court he went, And St. Paul's Church he took on his way, |