II.

One only son's love had supported her.
She long had struggled with infirmity,
Lingering to human life-scenes; for to die,
When fate has spared to rend some mental tie,
Would many wish, and surely fewer dare.
But, when the tyrant's bloodhounds forced the child
For his curst power unhallowed arms to wield-
Bend to another's will-become a thing

More senseless than the sword of battlefield—

Then did she feel keen sorrow's keenest sting; And many years had passed ere comfort they would bring.

III.

For seven years did this poor woman live

In unparticipated solitude.

Thou mightst have seen her in the forest rude
Picking the scattered remnants of its wood.

If human, thou mightst then have learned to feel.
The gleanings of precarious charity

Her scantiness of food did scarce supply.

The proofs of an unspeaking sorrow dwelt Within her ghastly hollowness of eye :

Each arrow of the season's change she felt. Yet still she groans, ere yet her race were run, One only hope it was-once more to see her son.

IV.

It was an eve of June, when every star

Spoke peace from heaven.—

She rested on the moor. 'Twas such an eve
When first her soul began indeed to grieve:
Then he was there; now he is very far.
The sweetness of the balmy evening

A sorrow o'er her aged soul did fling,

Yet not devoid of rapture's mingled tear :

A balm was in the poison of the sting.
The aged sufferer for many a year

Had never felt such comfort. She suppressed

A sigh-and, turning round, clasped William to her breast!

V.

And, though his form was wasted by the woe
Which tyrants on their victims love to wreak,
Though his sunk eyeballs and his faded cheek
Of slavery's violence and scorn did speak,
Yet did the aged woman's bosom glow.
The vital fire seemed reillumed within
By this sweet unexpected welcoming.
Oh consummation of the fondest hope
That ever soared on fancy's wildest wing!

O tenderness that found'st so sweet a scope !
Prince who dost pride thee on thy mighty sway,
When thou canst feel such love, thou shalt be great as they !

VI.

Her son, compelled, the country's foes had fought,

Had bled in battle; and the stern control
Which ruled his sinews and coerced his soul
Utterly poisoned life's unmingled bowl,
And unsubduable evils on him brought.
He was the shadow of the lusty child
Who, when the time of summer season smiled,
Did earn for her a meal of honesty,

And with affectionate discourse beguiled
The keen attacks of pain and poverty;

Till Power, as envying her this only joy,
From her maternal bosom tore the unhappy boy.

VII.

And now cold charity's unwelcome dole
Was insufficient to support the pair;

And they would perish rather than would bear
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.

THE MEXICAN REVOLUTION.

I.

BROTHERS! between you and me Whirlwinds sweep and billows roar : Yet in spirit oft I see

On thy wild and winding shore Freedom's bloodless banners wave,— Feel the pulses of the brave Unextinguished in the grave,—

See them drenched in sacred gore,— Catch the warrior's gasping breath Murmuring "Liberty or death!"

II.

Shout aloud! Let every slave,

Crouching at Corruption's throne, Start into a man, and brave

Racks and chains without a groan : And the castle's heartless glow, And the hovel's vice and woe,

Fade like gaudy flowers that blow—

Weeds that peep, and then are gone ; Whilst, from misery's ashes risen, Love shall burst the captive's prison.

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 were 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 daystar dawn of love,
Where the flag of war unfurled
Floats with crimson stain above
The fabric of a ruined world-

Never but to vengeance driven
When the patriot's spirit shriven
Seeks in death its native heaven!
There, to desolation hurled,
Widowed love may watch thy bier,
Balm thee with its dying tear.

14 February 1812.

TO IRELAND.

BEAR witness, Erin! when thine injured isle
Sees summer on its verdant pastures smile,
Its cornfields waving in the winds that sweep
The billowy surface of thy circling deep.
Thou tree whose shadow o'er the Atlantic gave
Peace, wealth, and beauty, to its friendly wave,
its blossoms fade,

And blighted are the leaves that cast its shade;
Whilst the cold hand gathers its scanty fruit,
Whose chillness struck a canker to its root.
February 1812.

THE DEVIL'S WALK.

A BALLAD.

I.

ONCE early in the morning,
Beelzebub arose :

With care his sweet person adorning,
He put on his Sunday clothes.

II.

He drew-on a boot to hide his hoof,

He drew-on a glove to hide his claw :

His horns were concealed by a bras-chapeau ;

And the Devil went forth as natty a beau

As Bond Street ever saw.

*

III.

He sate him down in London town
Before earth's morning ray,
With a favourite imp he began to chat
On religion and scandal, this and that,
Until the dawn of day.

IV.

And then to St. James's Court he went,

And St. Pauls Church he took on his way;

He was mighty thick with every saint,
Though they were formal and he was gay.

v.

The Devil was an agriculturist;

And, as bad weeds quickly grow,

In looking over his farm, I wist,

He wouldn't find cause for woe.

VI

He peeped in each hole, in each chamber stole,
His promising live-stock to view.

Grinning applause, he just showed them his claws;
And they shrunk with affright from his ugly sight
Whose work they delighted to do.

VII.

Satan poked his red nose into crannies so small :
One would think that the innocents fair,
Poor lambkins! were just doing nothing at all
But settling some dress or arranging some ball;
But the Devil saw deeper there.

VIII.

A priest at whose elbow the Devil during prayer
Sate familiarly, side by side,

Declared that, if the tempter were there,

His presence he would not abide.

"Ah ah !" thought Old Nick, "that's a very stale trick ; For without the Devil, O favourite of evil,

In your carriage you would not ride."