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Wain are the searching glance, the love-lorn groan,
I live—but live to penitence alone;
Depriv'd of every joy which life can give,
Most vile, most wretched, most despisod, I live.

Too well thy deep regret, thy grief, are known, Too true I judge thy sorrows by my own! Oh! thou hast lost the dearest charm of life, The fondest, tenderest, loveliest, more than wife; One who, with every virtue, only knew The fault, if fault it be, of loving you; One whose soft bosom seem'd as made to share Thine every joy, and solace every care; For crimes like these secluded, doom'd to know The aggravated weight of guilt and woe.

Still dear, still lov'd, I learnt to sin of thee, Learn, thou seducer, penitence from me! Oh! that my soul this last pure joy may know, Sometimes to soothe the dreadful hour of woe: Henry' by all the love my life has shown, By all the sinful raptures we have known, By all the parting pants that rend my breast, Hear, my lov'd lord, and grant my last request; And, when the last tremendous hour shall come, When all my woes are buried in the tomb, Then grant the only boon this wretch shall crave— Drop the sad tear to dew my humble grave; Pause o'er the turf in fullness bent of woe, And think who lies so cold and pale below! Think from the grave she speaks the last decree, “What I am now—soon, HENRY, thou must be!» Then be this voice of wonted power possest, To melt thy heart, and triumph in thy breast: So should my prayers with just success be crown'd, Should Henay learn remorse from Rosamund; Then shall thy sorrow and repentance prove, That even death was weak to end our love.

THE RACE OF ODIN.

Loud was the hostile clang of arms, And hoarse the hollow sound, When Pompey scatter d wild alarms The ravač'd East around. The crimson deluge dreadful dy'd the ground: An iron forest of destructive spears Reard their stern stems, where late The bending harvest wav'd its rustling ears: Rome, through the swarming gate, Pour'd her ambitious hosts to slaughter forth: Such was the will of fate' From the cold regions of the North, At length, on raven wings, shall vengeance come, And justice pour the urn of bitterness on Rome.

« Roman! » 't was thus the chief of Asgand cried,
«Ambitious Roman triumph for a while;
Trample on freedom in thy victor pride;
Yet, though now thy fortune smile,
Though Mithaidates fly forlorn,
Once thy dread, but now thy scorn,
Odin will never live a shameful slave;
Some region will he yet explore,
Beyond the reach of Rome;

Where, upon some colder shore, Freedom yet thy force shall brave, Freedom yet shall find a home: There, where the Eagle dares not soar, Soon shall the Raven find a safe retreat. Asgard, farewell! farewell my native seat! Farewell for ever! yet, whilst life shall roll Her warm tide through thine injurd chieftain's breast, Oft will he to thy memory drop the tear: Never more shall Odin rest, Never quaff the sportive bowl, Or soothe in peace his slothful soul, Whilst Rome triumphant lords it here. Triumph in thy victor might, Mock the chief of Asgahd's slight; But soon the seeds of vengeance shall be sown, And Odin's race hurl down thy blood-cemented throne.”

Nurtur’d by Scandinavia's hardy soil, Strong grew the vigorous plant; Danger could ne'er the nation daunt, For war, to other realms a toil, Was but the pastime here; Skill'd the bold youth to hurl the unerring spear, To wield the falchion, to direct the dart, Firm was each warrior's frame, yet gentle was his heart.

Freedom, with joy, beheld the noble race, And fill'd each boson with her vivid fire; Nor vice, nor luxury, debase The free-born offspring of the free-born sire; There genuine Poesy, in freedom bright, Diffus'd o'er all her clear, her all-enlivening light.

From Helicon's meandering rills The inspiring goddess fled; Amid the Scandinavian hills In clouds she hid her head; There the bold, the daring muse, Every daring warrior woos; The sacred lust of deathless fame Burnt in every warrior's soul: « Whilst future ages hymn my name,” The son of Odin cries, • I shall quaff the foaming bowl With my forefathers in yon azure skies; Methinks I see my foeman's skull with the mantling beverage full; I hear the shield-roofd hall resound To martial music's echoing sound; I see the virgins, valour's meed,— Death is bliss—I rush to bleed.»

See where the murderer Egill stands, He grasps the harp with skilful hands, And pours the soul-emoving tide of song; Mute admiration holds the listening throng: The royal sire forgets his murder'd son; Eac forgives; a thousand years Their swift revolving course have run, Since thus the bard could check the father's tears, Could soothe his soul to peace, And never shall the fame of Egill cease.

Dark was the dungeon, damp the ground, Beneath the reach of cheering day,

Where Regner dying lay; Poisonous adders all around On the expiring warrior hung, Yet the full stream of verse flow'd from his dauntless tongue: ... We fought with swords,” the warrior cry'd, « We fought with swords,” he said—he died.

Jomsburg lifts her lofty walls, Sparta revives on Scandinavia's shore; Undismay’d each hero falls, And scorns his death in terror to deplore. « Strike, Thorchill, strike! drive deep the blow, Jomsburg's sons shall not complain, Never shall the brave appear Bound in slavery's shameful chain: Freedom ev’n in death is dear. Strike, Thonchill, strike drive deep the blow, We joy to quit this world of woe; We rush to seize the seats above, And gain the warrior's meed of happiness and love.”

The destin'd hour at length is come, And vengeful heaven decrees the queen of cities' doom; No longer heaven withholds the avenging blow From those proud domes whence Baurus fled; Where just Chen EA bow'd his head, And proud oppression laid the GRAcchi low: In vain the timid slaves oppose, For freedom led their sinewy foes, For valour sled with liberty: Rome bows her lofty walls, The imperial city falls, « She falls—and lo, the world again is free!»

THE DEATH OF ODIN.

Soul of my much-lov'd Faeya yes, I come! No pale disease's slow-consuming power Has hasten’d on thy husband's hour; Nor pour’d by victor's thirsty hand Has Odin's life bedev'd the land: I rush to meet thee by a self-will'd doom. No more my clattering iron car Shall rush amid the throng of war; No more, obedient to my heavenly cause, Shall crimson conquest stamp his Odin's laws. I go—I go; Yet shall the nations own my sway Far as yon orb shall dart his all-enlivening ray: Big is the death-fraught cloud of woe That hangs, proud Rome, impending o'er thy wall, For Odin shall avenge his Asgard's fall. Thus burst from Odin's lips the fated sound, As high in air he rear'd the gleaming blade; His faithful friends around In silent wonder saw the scene, affray'd: He, unappall'd, towards the skies Uplifts his death-denouncing eyes; * Ope wide WAlhalla's shield-roofd hall, Virgins of bliss' obey your master's call; From these injurious realms below The sire of nations hastes to go.”

Say, faulters now your chieftain's breath?
Or chills pale terror now his death-like face?

Then weep not, Thon, thy friend's approaching death,
Let no unmanly tears disgrace
The first of mortal's valiant race:
Dauntless Heimdal, mourn not now,
Balden! clear thy cloudy brow;
I go to happier realms above,
To realms of friendship and of love.

This unmanly grief dispelling, List to glory's rapturous call; So with Odin ever dwelling, Meet him in the shiclal-roofd hall: Still shall ODIN's fateful lance Before his daring friends advance; When the bloody fight beginning, Helms and shields, and hauberks ringing, Streaming life each fatal wound Pours its current on the ground; Still in clouds portentous riding O'er his comrade host presiding, Odin, from the stormy air, O'er your affrighted foes shall scatter wild despair.

"Mid the mighty din of battle, Whilst conflicting chariots rattle, Floods of purple slaughter streaming, Fate-fraught falchions widely gleaming; When Mista marks her destin'd prey, When dread and death deform the day; Happy he amid the strife, Who pours the current of his life; Every toil and trouble ending, Odin from his hall descending, Sluail bear him to his blest retreat, Shall place him in the warrior's seat.

Not such the destin'd joys that wait The wretched dastard's future fate: Wild shrieks shall yell in every breath, The agonizing shrieks of death. Adown his wan and livid face Big drops their painful way shall trace; Each limb in that tremendous hour Shall quiver in disease's power. Grim Hels o'er his couch shall hang, Scoff at his groans, and point each pang; No Virgin Goddess him shall call To join you in the shield-roofd hall; No Walkery for him prepare The smiling mead with lovely care: Sad and scorn'd the wretch shall lie, Despairing shriek—despairing die! No Scald in never-dying lays Shall rear the temple of his praise; No Virgin in her vernal bloom Bedew with tears his high-rear'd tomb; No Soldier sound his honour'd name; No song shall hand him down to fame; But rank weeds o'er the inglorious grave Shall to the blast their high heads wave; And swept by time's strong stream away, He soon shall sink—oblivion's prey; And deep in Nitlehim—dreary cell, Aye shall his sprite tormented dwell,

Where grim Remorse for ever wakes, Where Anguish feeds her torturing snakes, Where Disappointment and Delay For ever guard the doleful way; Amid the joyless land of woe Keen and bleak the chill blasts blow; Drives the tempest, pours the rain, Showers the hail with force amain; Yell the night-birds as they fly Flitting in the misty sky; Glows the adder, swells the toad, For sad is HELA's cold abode. Spread then the Gothic banners to the sky, Lift your sable banners high; Yoke your coursers to the car, Strike the sounding shield of war; Go, my lov'd companions, go, Trample on the opposing foe; Be like the raging torrent's force, That, rushing from the hills, speeds on its foaming CouTSé.

Haste, my sons, to war's alarms, Triumph in the clang of arms; Joy amid the warlike toil, Feed the raven with your spoil; Go, prepare the eagle's food, Go, and drench the wolf with blood, Till ye shall hear dark Hella's call, And virgins waft ye to my hall; There, wrapt in clouds, the shadowy throng To airy combat glide along; Till wearied with the friendly fight, SERIMNER's flesh recruits their might; There, whilst I grasp the Roman skull, With hydromel sweet-smiling full, The festive song shall echo round, The Scald repeat the deathless sound: Then, Thor, when thou from fight shall cease, When death shall lay that arm in peace, Still shall the nations fear thy nod, The first of warriors now, and then their god; But be each heart with rage possest, Let vengeance glow in every breast; Let conquest fell the Roman wall, Revenge on Rome my AsGARD's fall.

The Druid throng shall fall away, And sink beneath your victor sway; No more shall nations bow the knee, Wanquish'd TARAN is, to thee; No more upon the sacred stone, TENTATEs, shall thy victims groan; The vanquish'd Odin, Rome, shall cause thy fall, And his destruction shake thy proud imperial wall.

Yet, my faithful friends, beware Luxury's enerving snare; 'T was this that shook our Asg ARD's dome, That drove us from our native home; 'T was this that smooth'd the way for victor Rome: Gaul's fruitful plains invite your sway, Conquest points the destin'd way; Conquest shall attend your call, And your success shall gild still more VALHALLA's hall.

So spake the dauntless chief, and pierc'd his breast, Then rush'd to seize the seat of endless rest.

TO INDOLENCE.

I do not woo thy presence, Indolences
Goddess, I would not rank
A votary in thy train.

I will not ask to wear thy fett ring flowers,
O thou on whose cold lips
Faint plays the heartless smile!

Pale, sickly as the unkindly shaded fruit,
Thy languid cheek displays.
No sunny hues of health;

There is no radiance in thy listless eye,
No active joy that fires
Its sudden glances with life.

I do not wish upon thy downy couch,
As in a conscious dream
To doze away the hours,

Dead to all noble purposes of man,
Useless among mankind,
To live, unworthy life.

But to thy sister Leisure I would pour The supplicating prayer, And woo her aid benign:

Nymph, on whose sunny cheek the hue of health
Blooms like the ruddy fruit
Matur'd by southern rays,

Whose eye beam sparkles to the speaking heart,
Like the reflected noon
Quick glancing on the waves.

Her would I pray that not for ever thus
The ungentle voice of toil
Might claim my daily task,

So should my hand a votive temple rear,
Through many a distant age
That undestroy'd should stand.

Long should the stately monument proclaim
That no ungrateful heart
Goddess! received thy boon.

OLD CIIRISTOVAL'S ADVICE,

AND The ReASON Why he GAVE IT.

Recibio un Cavallero, paraque cultivasse sus tierras, a un Quintero, y para pagarle algo adelantado lepidio fiador, y no teniendo quieu le finsse, le prometio delante del sepulcro de San Isidro, que cumpliria su palabra, y si no, que el santo le castigasse: con lo qual el Cavallero !e pago toda su soldada, ye le fió. Mas desegradecido aquel hombre, no haciendo caso de su prolnessa, se luyo, sin acabar de servir el tiempo concertado. Passo de not he sin reparar en ella, por la Iglesia de San Audres, donde estaba el cuerpo del siervo de Dios. Fue cosa maravéillosa, que andanuo corrieudo toda la coche, no se aparto de la Iglesia, sino que toda se le sue en dar mil bucltas a rededor de ella, hasta que por la manana, yendo el amo a quexarse de San Isidro, y peditle campliesse su fianza,

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halló a su Quintero alli, dandomns y mas bueltas, sin poderse haver I shook like a palsy and fell on my knees, apartado de aquel sitio. Pidio perdon al “anto, y a su amo, al qual And for pardon devoutly I pray'd : oilfizo después enteramente poc so trabajo.-Flo, Sant", " When my master came up—what! Christoval,

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If thy debtor be poor, old Christoval cried,
Exact not too hardly thy due,

For he who preserves a poor man from want
May preserve him from wickedness too.

If thy neighbour should sin, old Christoval cried,
Never never unmerciful be!

For remember it is by the mercy of God
That thou art not as wicked as he.

At sixty and seven the hope of heaven.
Is my comfort, Old Christoval cried,

But if God had cut me off in my youth -
I might not have gone there when I died.

You shall have the farm, young Christoval,
My good master Henrique said;

But a surely provide, in whom I can conside,
That duly the rent shall be paid.

I was poor and I had not a friend on earth,
And I knew not what to say,

we stood by the porch of St Andres' church,
And it was on St Isidro's day.

Accept for my surety St Isidro,
I ventured to make reply,

The Saint in Heaven may perhaps he my friend,
But friendless on earth am I.

we enter'd the church and came to his grave,
And I fell on my bended knee;

I am friendless, holy St Isidro,
And I venture to call upon thee.

I call upon thee my surety to be,
Thou knowest my honest intent,

And if ever 1 break my plighted word,
Let thy vengeance make me repent!

I was idle, the day of payment came on,
And I had not the money in store,

I fear'd the wrath of St Isidro
But I fear'd Henrique more.

On a dark night I took my flight
And hastily fled away,

It chanced by St Andres church
The road I had chosen lay.

As I pass'd the door I thought what I had swore
Upon St Isidro's day,

And I seem'd to fear because he was near,
And faster I hasten’d away.

So all night long I hurried on,
Pacing full many a mile,

I knew not his Avenging hand
Was on me all the while.

weary I was, and safe I thought,
But when it was day-light,

I had, I found, been running round
And round the church all might.

You are here betimes, he said.

I have been idle good master! I cried,
Good master and I have been wrong,

And I have been running round the church
In penance all night long.

If thou hast been idle, Henrique said,
Go home and thy fault amend;

I will not oppress thee, Christoval,
May the Saint thy labour befriend.

Homeward I went a penitent,
And I never was idle more;

St Isidro blest my industry,
As he punish'd my fault before.

When my debtor was poor, Old Christoval said,
I have never exacted my due,

I remembered Henrique was good to me
And copied his goodness too.

When my neighbour has sinn'd, Old Christoval said,
I have ever forgiven his sin,

For I thought of the night by St Andres' church,
And remember'd what I might have been.

VERSES
INtENDED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED to His GRACE

The DUKE of Portland, chancellon of The
UNIvensity, Etc. on his INSTALLATIon, 1793.

IN evil hour, and with unlıallowed voice
Profaning the pure gift of Poesy,
Did he begin to sing, he first who sung
Of arms, and combats, and the proud array
Of warriors on the embattled plain, and rais'd
The aspiring spirit to hopes of fair renown
By deeds of violence. For since that time
The imperious victor, oft, unsatisfied
With bloody spoil and tyrannous conquest, dares
To challenge fame and honour; and too oft
The Poet bending low to lawless power
Hath paid unseemly reverence, yea, and brought
Streams, clearest of the Aonian fount, to wash
Blood-stain’d ambition. If the stroke of war
Fell certain on the guilty head, none else;
If they that make the cause might taste the effect,
And drink themselves the bitter cup they mix,
Then might the Bard (though child of Peace) delight
To twine fresh wreaths around the conqueror's brow,
Or haply strike his high-toned harp to swell
The trumpel's martial sound, and bid them on,
Whom Justice arms for vengeance: but, alas!
That undistinguishing and deathful storm
Beats heaviest on the exposed innocent;
And they that stir its fury, while it raves,
Stand at safe distance; send their mandate forth
Unto the mortal ministers that wait
To do their bidding. Ah, who then regards
The widow's tears, the friendless orphan's cry,
And famine, and the ghastly train of woes
That follow at the dogged heels of war?
They in the pomp and pride of victory

Rejoicing, o'er the desolated earth,
As at an altar wet with human blood,
And flaming with the fire of cities burnt,
Sing their mad hymns of triumph, hymns to God
O'er the destruction of his gracious works,
Hymns to the Father o'er his slaughter'd sons.
Detested be their sword, abhorr'd their name,
And scorn'd the tongues that praise them : Happier,
Thou,
Of Peace and Science friend, hast held thy course
Flameless and pure, and such is thy renown.
And let that secret voice within thy breast
Approve thee; then shall those high sounds of praise
Which thou hast heard, be as sweet harmony,
Beyond this concave to the starry sphere
Ascending, where the spirits of the blest
Hear it well-pleas'd. For Fame can enter heaven,
If Truth and Virtue lead her; else forbid,
She rises not above this earthly spot;
And then her voice, transient and valueless,
Speaks only to the herd. With other praise,
And worthier duty may she tend on thee;
Follow thee still with honour, such as Time
Shall never violate, and with just applause,
Such as the wise and good might love to share.

THE KILLCROP.

A scene between beNEdict, A German PEASANT, AND FATHER KARL, AN old Neighboun.

Eight years since (said Luther), at Dessaw, I did see and touch a changed childe, which was twelv years of age; Hee had his eies and all his members like another childe: Hee did nothing but feed, and would eat as much as two clowns, or threshers, were able to eat.-When one touched it, then it cried out: When any evil happened in the Hous, then it laughed and was joiful; but when all went well, then it cried, and was very sad. I told the Prince of Anhalt, if I were Prince of that countrie, so would I venture Homicidium thereon, and would throw it into the River Moldaw. I admonished the people dwelling in that place devoutly to praie to God to take away the Divel; the same was done accordingly, and the second year after the Changelins; died. In Saxonia, near unto IIalberstad, was a man that also had a Killcrop, who sucked the mother and five other women drie: and besides, devoured very much. This man was advised that hee should in his pilgrimage at Halberstad make a promiss of the killcrop to the Virgin Marie, and should caus him there to bee rocked. This advice the man followed, and carried the changeling thither in a basket. But going over a river, beeing upon the bridg, another Divel that was below in the river called and said Killcrop, Killcrop Then the childe in the basket (which never before spake one word) answered, Ho, Ho. The Divel in the water asked further, Whither art thou going? The childe in the basket said, I am going towards Hocklestad to our loving Mother to be rocked. The man being much affrighed thereat, threw the childe, with the basket, over the bridg into the water. Whereupon the two Divels flew away together, and cried, Ho, Ho, Ho, tumbling themselvs. one over another, and so vanished. Such Changelings and Killcrops (said Luther) supponit Satan in locum verorum filiorum; for the Devil hath this power, that hee changeth children, and instead thereof laieth Divels in the cradles, which prosper not, onely they feed and suck: but such Changelings live not above eighteen or nineteen years. It oftentimes falleth out, that the children of women in childe-bed are changed, and Divels are laid in their stead, the mothers in such sort are sucked out, that afterwards they are able to give suck no more. Such Changelings (said Luther) are also baptized, in regard that they cannot be known the first year; but are known only by sucking the mothers drie. —Luthra's Dirine Discourtes, folio, p. 387. In justice however to Luther, it should be remembered, that this superstition was common to the age in which he lived.

brn Edict. You squalling imp, lie still! Is not it enough To eat two pounds for a breakfast, but again, Before the Sun's half risen, I must hear This cry?—as though your stomach was as empty As old Karl's head, that yonder limps along Mouthing his crust. I'll haste to Isocklestad 1 A short mile only. Enter FAthen KARL. RAR L. Benedict, how now ! Earnest and out of breath, why in this haste? What have you in your basket? Benedict. Stand aside! No moment this for converse. Ask to-morrow, And I will answer you, but I am now About to punish Belzebub. Take care! My business is important. KARL. What! about To punish the Arch-Fiend old Belzebub? A thing most rare.—But can't I lend a hand On this occasion? BEN edict. Father, stand aside : I hate this parley. Stand aside, I say! KARL. Good Benedict, be not o'ercome by rage, But listen to an old man.—What is't there Within your basket? BENEdict. 'Tis the Devil's changeling: A thumping Killcrop! [Uncovers the basket. Yes, 'tween you and I, [Whispering. Our neighbour Balderic's changed for his son Will. KARL. An idle thought ! I say it is a child,— A fine one too. BEN edict. A child! you dreaming grey-beard' Nothing will you believe like other people. Did ever mortal man see child like this? why, 'tis a Killcrop, certain, manifest; Look there! I'd rather see a dead pig snap At the butcher's knife, than call this thing a child. View how he stares! I'm no young cub, d'ye see. KAR L. Why, Benedict, this is most wonderful To my plain mind. I've often heard of Killcrops, And laugh'd at the tale most heartily; but now I'll mark him well, and see if there's any truth In these said creatures. [Looks at the basket. A sincr child ne'er breath'd : Thou art mistaken, Benedict! thine eyes See things confused. But let me hear thee say what are the signs by which thou know'st the difference Twixt Crop and Child. Benedict. The diff'rence! mercy on us! That I should talk to such a Heretic– D ye know the difference 'twixt the Moon and Stars 1

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