"So wills the fierce avenging Sprite,
Till blood for blood atones!
Aye, 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 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.
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
IF I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had passed,
The time would e'er be o'er,
That I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!
And still upon thy face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!
But when I speak, thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid,
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!
If thou wouldst stay even as thou art,
All cold, and all serene,
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own,
But there I lay thee in thy grave-
And I am now alone!
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!
If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave;
Then go-but go alone the while-
Then view St. David's ruined pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!
A THING of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
I MET the maiden that I loved
One evening on the lea;
And save a peeping star or two
All by ourselves were we.
The silken moths flew round about,
And softly moved the air,
But softlier on my shoulder fell
The flutter of her hair.
And so we walked an hour or more:
How swift the minutes sped!
And then we parted-well-a-day,
What might I not have said?
I met the maiden that I loved
One sweet May-morn again,
And save the happy Sabbath bells
No sound was in the lane.
But when I looked her in the face
So fast the blushes flew,
No wild-rose blossom in the Spring
Had ever such a hue.
And so we wandered toward the church:
How swift the minutes sped!
And then we parted-well-a-day,
What might I not have said?
I met the maiden that I loved
Once more in after years,
And as she passed me in the street
I scarce could look for tears.
For by her side a stranger walked,
And she might be his bride-
But oh! she smiled not as of yore
Our darling village pride.
Then most I thought of one still eve,
Of one May-morn how sped,
And how we parted-well-a-day,
What might I not have said?
BROKEN FRIENDSHIP.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
ALAS! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanced, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart's best brother:
They parted-ne'er to meet again!
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining-
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder.
A dreary sea now flows between ;-
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.
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