"Merrily rose the lark, and shook

The dew-drop from its wing;
But I never mark'd its morning flight,

I never heard it sing:

For I was stooping once again

Under the horrid thing.

"With breathless speed, like a scul in chase.

I took him up and ran;—

There was no time to dig a grave

Before the day began:

In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,

I hid the murder'd man!

"And all that day I read in school.
But my thought was other-where;

As soon as the mid-day task was done,
In secret I was there:

And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,
And still the corse was bare!

"Then down I cast me on my face,
And first began to weep,

For I knew my secret then was one
That earth refused to keep:
Or land or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep.

"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 off his flesh,--
The world shall see his bones!

"Oh, 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 look'd up and saw
Huge drops upon his brow.

That very night, while gentle sleep
The urchin eyelids kiss'd,

Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walk'd between,
With gyves upon nis wrist.

II.

But still that jolly mariner
Took in no reef at all,

For, in his pouch, confidingly,
He wore a baby's caul;

A thing, as gossip-nurses know,
That always brings a squall!

III.

His hat was knew, or, newly glazed,
Shone brightly in the sun;

His jacket, like a mariner's,

True blue as e'er was spun ;

His ample trowsers, like Saint Paul,

Bore forty stripes save one.

IV.

And now the fretting foaming tide
He steer'd away to cross;

The bounding pinnance play'd a game
Of dreary pitch and toss ;

A game that, on the good dry land,

Is apt to bring a loss!

V.

Good Heaven befriend that little boat,

And guide her on her way!

A boat, they say, has canvas wings,

But cannot fly away!

Though, like a merry singing-bird,

She sits upon the spray!

VI.

Still east by south the little boat,
With tawny sail, kept beating:

Now out of sight, between two waves,
Now o'er th' horizon fleeting:

Like greedy swine that feed on mast,-
The waves her mast seem'd eating!

VII.

The sullen sky grew black above,

The wave as black beneath;

Each roaring billow show'd full soon

A white and foamy wreath;

Like angry dogs that snarl at first,

And then display their teeth.

VIII

The boatman looked against the wind,
The mast began to creak,

The wave, per saltum, came and dried.

In salt, upon his cheek!

The pointed wave against him rear'd,

As if it own'd a pique !

IX.

Nor rushing wind, nor gushing wave,

That boatman could alarm,

But still he stood away to sea,

And trusted in his charm;

He thought by purchase he was safe.

And arm'd against all harm!

X.

Now thick and fast and far aslant,
The stormy rain came pouring,
He heard, upon the sandy bank,
The distant breakers roaring,-
A groaning intermitting sound,
Like Gog and Magog snoring!