High the hooded Spectre sate,
Terrible and throng'd by fears
Brooding for a thousand years
As a thunder-cloud above
All that wretched men may love,-
Is there no grim witness near
That shall whisper words of fear,
Every brother's heart to thrill,
Every brother's blood to chill,
While thy records are revealed,
And thy mysteries unsealed?
Lift, with Titan toil and pain,
Lift the lid by might and main, -
Lift the lid and look within
On this charnel house of Sin!
O, twin brethren, how and when
Dwelt ye in this rocky den!
Rise, dread martyrs! for your bones
Chronicle these cromlech-stones!
Rise, ye grisly, ghastly pair,
Skeletons! how came ye there
Kneeling starkly side by side.
More like life than those who died?
More like life?-O what a spell
Of horror cowers in that cell!
More like life? Alive they went
Into that stone tenement,
Bound as in religious ease
Meekly kneeling on their knees,
And the cruel thongs confin'd
All but the distracted mind,
That with terror raved to see.
Woe! how slow such death would be:
Woe! how slow and full of dread:
Pining, dying, but not dead
Pining, dying in the tomb,
Drown'd in gulfs of starving gloom,
With corruption, hideous fear,
Creeping noiselessly more near,
While the victims slowly died,
Link'd together side by side,
Till in manacled mad strife
Both had struggled out of life!
Yea: some idol claim'd the price
Of this living sacrifice;
Some grim demon's dark high priest
Bound these slaves for Odin's feast,
Offering up with rites of hell
Human pangs to Thor or Bel! —
Christians, ponder on these bones;
Kneel around the Cromlech-stones;
Kneel and thank our GOD above
That His name, His heart is Love,
That His thirst is, not for blood,
But for joy and gratitude;
That He bids no soul be sad,
But is glad to make us glad;
That He loves not man's despair,
But delights to bless his prayer!
My little ones, my darling ones, my precious things of earth,
How gladly do I triumph in the blessing of your birth;
How heartily for praises, and how earnestly for prayers,
I yearn upon your loveliness, my dear delightful cares!
O children, happy word of peace, my jewels and my gold,
My truest friends till now, and still my truest friends when old, I will be every thing to you, your playmate and your guide, Both Mentor and Telemachus for ever at your side!
I will be every thing to you, your sympathizing friend,
To teach, and help, and lead, and bless, and comfort, and defend; O come to me and tell me all, and ye shall find me true,
A brother in adversity to fight it out for you!
Yea, sins or follies, griefs or cares, or young affection's thrall,
Fear not, for I am one with you, and I have felt them all;
I will be tender, just, and kind, unwilling to reprove,
I will do all to bless you all by wisdom and by love.
O blessed boon and gain to me, O mercy, praise, and pride!
Ye lack none other heritage your father's name beside:
When I am dead, your little ones shall read my words with glee,
When they are dead, their little ones will still remember me.
My tender babes, delighted I review you as ye stand,
A pretty troop of fairies and young cherubs hand in hand,
And tell out all your names to be a dear familiar sound
Wherever English hearths and hearts about the world abound.
My eldest, of the sparkling eyes, my Ellin, nine years old,
Thou thoughtful good example of the loving little fold,
My Ellin, they shall hear of thee, fair spirit, holy child,
The truthful and the well-resolved, the liberal and the mild.
And thee, my Mary, what of thee? the beauty of thy face? The coyly-pretty whims and ways that ray thee round with grace? O more than these; a dear warm heart that still must thrill and glow
With pure affection's sunshine, and with feeling's overflow!
Thou too, my gentle five-year-old, fair Margaret the pearl,
A quiet, sick, and suffering child, sweet patient little girl,-
Yet gay withal and frolicsome at times wilt thou appear,
And like a bell thy merry voice rings musical and clear.
And next my Selwyn, precious boy, a glorious young mind,
The sensitive, the passionate, the noble, and the kind,
Whose light-brown locks bedropt with gold, and large eyes full
And generous nature mingle well the lion and the dove.
The last, an infant toothless one, now prattling on my knee,
Whose bland, benevolent, soft face is shining upon me;
Another silver star upon our calm domestic sky,
Another seed of happy hope, dropt kindly from on high.
This sealeth up the sum to us, my loved and loving wife,
Be these to us the pleasure and the business of life:
And thou to me, what art thou not? through infancy and youth,
And manhood's prime, as now, my all of constancy and truth!
not riches, rank, or fame, no other lot or name:
A happy man, be this my praise,
A happy man, with means enough,
A happy man, with you for friends, my children and my wife,
- Ambition is o'ervaulted here in all that gladdens life!
Yes! leave me to my happy thoughts, and these about me still,
In ancient woods of Albury, or on my fresh Furze Hill;
And, children, teach your children, too, by righteousness to stand,
For so they shall inherit peace and blessings in the land.
HAIL then a sixth! my doubly triple joy,
Another blessing in a third-born boy,
Another soul by generous Favor sent
To teach and train for heaven through content,
Another second-self with hopes like mine
In better worlds beyond the stars to shine,
Another little hostage from above
The pledge and promise of our Father's love!
God guard the babe; and cherish the young child
And bless the boy with nurture wise and mild;
And lead the lad, and yearn upon the youth;
And make the man a man of trust and truth;
Through life and death uphold him all his days,
And then translate him to Thyself with praise!
O FRIENDS and brothers, judge me not unheard;
Make not a man offender for a word:
For often have I noted seeming fault
That harm'd my rhymes, and made my reasons halt,
Whilst all that error was some printer's sloth,
Who, scorning rhyme and reason, slew them both:
Be ye then liberal to your far-off friend,
Where garbled, guess him; and where maim'd, amend
Trust him for wit, when types have marr'd the word,
And wisdom, too, where only blockheads err'd.
TO ONE WHO SAID THAT SHE DISLIKED POETRY.
LADY, thou lovest high and holy Thought,
And noble deeds, and hopes sublime or beauteous, Thou lovest charities in secret wrought,
And all things pure and generous and duteous;
|