ELEGY ON WILLIAM COBBETT

O BEAR him where the rain can fall,
And where the winds can blow;
And let the sun weep o'er his pall
As to the grave ye go!

And in some little lone churchyard,
Beside the growing corn,
Lay gentle Nature's stern prose bard,
Her mightiest peasant-born.

Yes! let the wild-flower wed his grave,
That bees may murmur near,
When o'er his last home bend the brave,
And say "A man lies here!"

For Britons honor Cobbett's name,
Though rashly oft he spoke ;

And none can scorn, and few will blame,
The low-laid heart of oak.

See, o'er his prostrate branches, see!
E'en factious hate consents
To reverence, in the fallen tree,
His British lineaments.

Dead oak ! thou livest. Thy smitten hands,
The thunder of thy brow,
Speak with strange tongues in many lands,
And tyrants hear thee, now!

Beneath the shadow of thy name,
Inspir'd by thy renown,

Shall future patriots rise to fame,
And many a sun go down.

A POET'S EPITAPH

STOP, mortal! Here thy brother lies
The poet of the poor.

His books were rivers, woods, and skies,
The meadow and the moor;

His teachers were the torn heart's wail,
The tyrant and the slave,

The street, the factory, the jail,

The palace and the grave. Sin met thy brother everywhere!

And is thy brother blam'd?
From passion, danger, doubt, and care,
He no exemption claim'd.

The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,
He fear'd to scorn or hate;
But, honoring in a peasant's form

The equal of the great,

He bless'd the steward, whose wealth makes
The poor man's little, more ;
Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes
From plunder'd labor's store.

THE BUILDERS

SPRING, summer, autumn, winter,
Come duly, as of old;

Winds blow, suns set, and morning saith, "Ye hills, put on your gold."

The song of Homer liveth,

Dead Solon is not dead;
Thy splendid name, Pythagoras,
Ŏ'er realms of suns is spread.

But Babylon and Memphis

Are letters traced in dust:
Read them, earth's tyrants! ponder well
The might in which ye trust!

They rose, while all the depths of guilt
Their vain creators sounded;
They fell, because on fraud and force
Their corner-stones were founded.

Truth, mercy, knowledge, justice,
Are powers that ever stand;
They build their temples in the soul,
And work with God's right hand.

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM

TWAS in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,

And four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school:

There were some that ran and some that leap'd,

Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds,
And souls untouch'd by sin;
To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they cours❜d about,
And shouted as they ran,
Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can ;

But the Usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man !

His hat was off, his vest apart,

To catch heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease:

So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees.

The Usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain,
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again;
And down he sat beside the lad,

And talk'd with him of Cain ;

And, long since then, of bloody men,
Whose deeds tradition saves;
Of lonely folk cut off unseen,
And hid in sudden graves;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves;

And how the sprites of injur'd men
Shriek upward from the sod;
Aye, how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod;
And unknown facts of guilty acts

Are seen in dreams from God!

He told how murderers walk the earth Beneath the curse of Cain,

With crimson clouds before their eyes, And flames about their brain :

For blood has left upon their souls

Its everlasting stain.

"And, lo! the universal air

Seem'd lit with ghastly flame;
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame :
I took the dead man by his hand,
And call'd upon his name!

"Oh, God! it made me quake to see
Such sense within the slain !
But when I touch'd the lifeless clay,
The blood gush'd out amain!
For every clot, a burning spot
Was scorching in my brain!

"My head was like an ardent coal,
My heart as solid ice;

My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,
Was at the Devil's price;

A dozen times I groan'd: the dead
Had never groan'd but twice.

"And now, from forth the frowning sky, From the Heaven's topmost height,

I heard a voice the awful voice
Of the blood-avenging sprite :
'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead
And hide it from my sight!'

And cast it in a stream,
A sluggish water, black as ink,

The depth was so extreme :-
My gentle Boy, remember this
Is nothing but a dream!

"Down went the corse with hollow plunge And vanish'd in the pool; Anon I cleans'd my bloody hands,

And wash'd my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young, That evening in the school.

"Oh, Heaven! to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim!

I could not share in childish prayer
Nor join in Evening Hymn:
Like a Devil of the Pit I seem'd,
'Mid holy Cherubim !

"And peace went with them, one and all,
And each calm pillow spread;
But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain
That lighted me to bed,

And drew my midnight curtains round,
With fingers bloody red !

All night I lay in agony,

In anguish dark and deep, My fever'd eyes I dar'd not close, But star'd aghast at Sleep: For Sin had render'd unto her The keys of hell to keep.

"All night I lay in agony,

From weary chime to chime, With one besetting horrid hint, That rack'd me all the time; A mighty yearning like the first Fierce impulse unto crime;

"One stern tyrannic thought, that made
All other thoughts its slave:
Stronger and stronger every pulse
Did that temptation crave,
Still urging me to go and see
The Dead Man in his grave!

"Heavily I rose up, as soon

As light was in the sky, And sought the black accursed pool With a wild misgiving eye : And I saw the Dead in the river bed, For the faithless stream was dry.

"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 soul 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 refus'd to keep: Or land or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep.

I WILL not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turn'd by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly quean,
Whom, therefore I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun;

But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one.

The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand;
The wolfsbane I should dread;
Nor will I dreary rosemarye,
That always mourns the dead;
But I will woo the dainty rose,
With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me,

And the daisy's cheek is tipp'd with a blush,

She is of such low degree;