The Corn-Law Rhymes, we have said, are a collection of poems all bearing on one great point, but of unequal merit. The longest is entitled the Ranter; which, with Elliott, means a field preacher of the bold and free spirit of the old Scottish Covenanters. He is the same Miles Gordon The home of the many-childed lamented by the Village Patriarch. widow, in whose humble dwelling he occupies a prophet's chamber! on Shirethe Sabbath morning preparations, the out-door worship cliffe's lofty side," the surrounding scenery, the gradual dispersion of the mists, and the brightening of the morning, are all beautifully described; but our readers will prize more a few "notes" of the energetic Radical sermon. And first, we have a denunciation of the Wesleyan Methodists, and an assertion of the right of out-door worship. "Wo be unto you, Scribes and Pharisees, And wandering forth, while blew the Sabbath breeze, If he delight, beneath the dome of heaven, Or climb his hills, amid their flowers to pray. I do because the spirit thence is gone; And truth, and faith, and grace, are not, with me, We hate not the religion of bare walls; We scorn not the cathedral'd pomp of prayer; For sweet are all our Father's festivals, If contrite hearts the heavenly banquet share, In field or temple: God is everywhere! But we hate arrogance and selfishness, Come where they may-and most beneath the roof No love for him who feels no self-reproof When in God's house he stands from God aloof. Nor worship we grim Mars the homicide; Our prayers are not for slaughter; we behold With scorn, sectarian and prelatic pride, Slaves, if not bought, too willing to be sold, Christians misnamed, whose gods are blood and gold. They roll themselves in dust before the great; Where their recorded execrations, pour'd On blood stain'd tyrants, and the servile horde? When earth wept blood, that wolves might lap and swill, Basely they pander'd to the slayer's will; And still their spells they mutter in the storm, It is agreeable to turn from the Cadi-Dervises, or justice-parsons of the present day, held up to loathing and bitter scorn, in the severe, but truthful, not satiric page of Elliott to passages like this. "Oh, for a Saint, like those who sought and found, They to the poor and broken-hearted taught; With truths that tyrants dread, and conscience loves, With zeal they preach'd, with reverence they were heard; They flatter'd none-they knew nor hate nor fear, But taught the will of God-and did it here. Even as the fire-winged thunder rends the cloud, Against the "Cadi-Amateur," or fashionable Tory saint, the Ranter next launches his moral thunders; and let those who would understand the might of Radical poetry, read the following disjointed extracts, which we wish much we could give more entire :— "Dost thou, thus early, mighty lord, repair Made murder pastime; and the tardy wind Bore fresh glad tidings o'er the groaning main Of hecatombs on Moloch's altar slain! Of streets, that crimson'd midnight with their glare, It speaks of death. Perchance, some child of clay, Sons slaughter'd, widows childless, realms depraved ; The worms were fed. Will not God smite thee black, thou whited wall? Thy life is lawless, and thy law a lie, Or nature is a dream unnatural." What follows is an original mode of illustrating the principles of Free Trade. "Look on the clouds, the streams, the earth, the sky! Lo, all is interchange and harmony! Where is the gorgeous pomp which, yester morn, Curtain'd yon orb, with amber, fold on fold? Behold it in the blue of Rivelin, borne To feed the all-feeding seas! the molten gold Is flowing pale in Loxley's crystal cold, To kindle into beauty tree and flower, And wake to verdant life, hill, vale, and plain. Pursuing the same subject the Ranter breaks out, "Is there no land where useful men are prized For hope a refuge, and a dwelling place, Where tyrants, in their mad rapacity, Shake not their clench'd fists in the Almighty's face, While flow his mighty streams, with none to heed, Poor bread-tax'd slaves, have ye no hope on earth? Yes, God from evil still educes good; Sublime events are rushing to their birth; Lo, tyrants by their victims are withstood! And Freedom's seed still grows, though steep'd in blood!" We must give a few lines from the concluding exhortation of the Preacher, and his animated address to Commerce. "Despond not, then, ye plunder'd sons of trade! Their splendour, fall'n their trophies, lost their power. "Farewell, my friends! we part, no more to meet Who sold your freedom, sell not for a sneer Your day of rest; but worship God, where glows The flame-tipp'd spire, or blooms the wild-wood rose. So much for the serious and earnest poetry of the Corn-Law Rhymes. A specimen of what is lighter in tone, though probably as effective, remains to be given; and, at a loss what to choose, we select, at random, a few stanzas of a kind of hymn. "Up, widow, up, and swing the fly; Or push the grating file! Our bread is tax'd, and rents are high, Who drink our tears, but never weep, And, soulless, eat our souls. "Child, what hast thou with sleep to do? Awake, and dry thine eyes: Thy tiny hands must labour too; Our bread is tax'd, arise! Arise, and toil long hours twice seven, For pennies two or three; Thy woes make angels weep in Heaven, But England still is free! "Up, weary man, of eighty-five, And toil in hopeless wo! Our bread is tax'd, our rivals thrive, Our gods will have it so. Yet God is undethron'd on high, And undethroned will be! Father of all! hear Thou our cry, And England shall be free! "They smite in vain who smite with swords, And shake it, like a whip of snakes, At unborn villany." The Death Feast is full of deep, touching pathos; and in the sarcastic vein we have Caged Rats, the Black Hole of Calcutta, and others; though these are the least our favourites. The Splendid Village yet remains. It is a sequel to the Village Patriarch, and the most finished and beautiful of all Mr. Elliott's political poems. It has, however, appeared so recently in a periodical work that we must limit our extracts. The Splendid Village is the modern Auburn. It is re-visited by a lonely wanderer from foreign lands, who had spent his boyhood here, and who bitterly feels, and feelingly describes the changes visible, at his return, on every thing around him; and most of all on the hearts and minds of the degraded and brutalized poor. He enters a hovel : "My brother dwelt within. "Tis true, he took My offer'd hand, but froze me with a look That I shrank from him, though my heart was full: I sought society, but stood alone, I came to meet a man, and found a stone! His wife, in tatters, watch'd the fireless grate; And Ann was sent abroad, and Jane was dead; The mother, who in better days had died.' Such welcome found the wanderer of the deep! I had no words-I sobb'd, but could not weep." Mr. Suckemwell, the keeper of the Modern Academy, which had taken place of the primitive village school; the poor curate and his lame donkey on their Sunday steeple-chase; the miserable usher, "Servant of servants, brow-beat by a knave!" we must hurry past to come to the Attorney, whose mushroom pomp flourishes under the shadow of "Broad Beech! thyself a grove! five hundred years On poor men's fields, which poor men's cattle grazed! Uncrops the ground which fed a family. His neighbour's woes may buy his gate a park! |