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Most certainly.

KARL.

BENEDICT.

Then these are things so near, That I might pardon one who hesitates, Doubting between them. But the Crop and Child! They are so opposite, that I should look Sooner to hear the Frog teach harmony, Than meet a man, with hairs so grey as thine, Who did not know the difference.

KARL.

Benedict!

The oldest, ere he die, something might learn; And I shall hear, gladly, the certain marks That show the Killcrop.

BENEDICT.

Father, listen then

The Killcrop, mark me, for a true man's child
At first might be mistaken-has two eyes
And nose and mouth, but these are semblances
Deceitful, and, as Father Luther says,
There's something underneath.

KARL.

Good Benedict!

If Killcrops look like children, by what power Know you they are not?

BENEDICT.

This from you, Why when they are pinch'd they squeak.

KARL.

All children cry when pinch'd.

BENEDICT.

Laid in my cradle, but I spied him out;
Thou'st never seen a creature so foul-mouth'd
And body'd too. But, knowing Satan's drift,
I balk'd him: to the lofty Church that stands
Over yon river, I the Killerop took,
To ask advice, how to dispose of him,

Of the holy Pastor. When, by the moon on high,
(T is true I fear'd him,) as I pass'd the bridge,
Bearing him in my arms, he gave a leap,
And over the rails jump'd headlong, laughing loud
With a fellow-fiend, that, from the waves beneath,
Bawl'd-Killcrop! Killerop!

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It needed iron arms

Doubt whate'er you will,

And when he reach'd the water,

Grasping the fiend, I never shall forget

The cries, the yells, the shouts; it seem'd to me But then their maws! That thunder was doves' cooing to the noise

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Why, Devil-like, When any evil happens, by his grin 'T will always tell ye, and when tidings good Come near, the beasts of twins delivered, or Corn sold at market, or the harvest in, The raven never croak'd more dismally Before the sick man's window, than this Crep, With disappointment howls. And then, a mark Infallible, that shows the Killcrop true, Is this, old man, he sucks his mother dry! 'Twas but the other day, in our village, A Killerop suck'd his mother and five more Dry as a whet-stone. Do you now believe?

KARL.

Good Benedict, all children laugh and cry! I have my doubts.

BENEDICT.

Doubts have you? Well-a-day!
In t'other world you'll sink ten fathoms deeper,
I promise you, for this foul heresy.

But nothing will move you,-you won't be moved.
I'll tell ye as true a story as ever man
Told to another. I had a Changeling once

These Killerops made, as, splashing, roaring, laughing,
With their ha, ha, ha, so ominous! they rush'd
Down the broad stream.-That very night our cow
Sicken'd and died. Saints aid us! Whilst these Crops
Poison the air, they'll have enough to do
To stay the pestilence.

KARL.

But, Benedict,

Be not outrageous! I am old, d' ye see;
Trust me, thou art mistaken; 't is no Killcrop:
See how he smiles! Poor infant: give him me.

BENEDICT.

Stand off! The Devil lent him, and again

I will return him honestly, and rid
Earth of one bane.

KARL.

Thou dost not mean to kill! Poor infant, spare him! I have young and old, The poor, a houseful, yet I'll not refuse To take one more, if thou wilt give him me. Let me persuade.

BENEDICT.

Away! I say, away!

Even if an Angel came to beg him of me,
I should suspect imposture, for I know
He could not ask a Killerop. 'Tis a thing
Heaven hath no need of. Ere an hour be past,
From yon tall rock I'll hurl him to perdition.

KARL.

Repeat it not! Oh, spare the infant! Spare His innocent laughter! My cold creeping blood

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Doth boil with indignation, at the thought
Most horrible. Thou must not do the deed!

Not punish Satan! I have learnt too well
From Father Luther. Once again, stand off!
I'll rocket him.

DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

Six months they stretch'd him on the rack of hope,
Then took his life.

ELLIS.

I would I were in England!

KLAUS.

Aye, get thee home again! you islanders
[Exeunt. Live under such good laws, so mild a sway,
That you are no more fit to dwell abroad
Than a doting mother's favourite to endure
His first school hardships. We in Holland here
Know 't is as idle to exclaim against

SCENE.-Holland. TIME, during the Government of These state oppressions, as with childish tears

the Duke of Alva.

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And what has followed?
KLAUS.

I saw him in his dungeon: 't is a place

Where the hell-haunted Murderer might almost
Rejoice to hear the hangman summon him.

By day he may divert his solitude

With watching through the grate the snow-flakes fall,
Or counting the long icicles above him;

Or he may trace upon the ice-glazed wall
Lines of most brave sedition! and at night
The frosty moon-beam for his meditation
Lends light enough. He told me that his feet
Were ulcered with the biting cold.-I would
Thou hadst been with me, Ellis.

ELLIS.

But does Philip Command these things, or knowingly permit The punishment to go before the judgment?

KLAUS.

Knowest thou not with what confidence the King
Reposes upon Alva? we believe

That 't is with Philip a twin act to know
Injustice, and redress; this article

Of our state-creed, 't were heresy to doubt.
But the dead echo of the dungeon groan,
How should it pierce the palace? how intrude
Upon the delicate ear of royalty?

ELLIS.

But sure Count Roderick's service

KLAUS.

Powerful plea!
He served his country, and his country paid him
The wages of his service. Why but late
A man that in ten several fields had fought
His country's battles, by the hangman's hand
Died like a dog; and for a venial crime-
A deed that could not trouble with one doubt
A dying man! At Lepanto he had shared
The danger of that day whose triumph broke
The Ottoman's power, and this was pleaded for him:

To weep in the stone, or any other curse
Wherewith God's wrath afflicts us. And for struggling,
Why 't would be like an idiot in the gout
Stamping for pain!

FUNERAL SONG

FOR THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES.

In its summer pride arrayed,
Low our Tree of Hope is laid!
Low it lies:-in evil hour,
Visiting the bridal bower,

Death hath levelled root and flower.
Windsor, in thy sacred shade,
(This the end of pomp and power!)
Have the rites of death been paid:
Windsor, in thy sacred shade

Is the Flower of Brunswick laid!

Ye whose relics rest around,
Tenants of this funeral ground!
Know ye, Spirits, who is come,
By immitigable doom

Summoned to the untimely tomb?

Late with youth and splendour crown'd,

Late in beauty's vernal bloom,

Late with love and joyaunce blest;
Never more lamented guest

Was in Windsor laid to rest.

Henry, thou of saintly worth,
Thou, to whom thy Windsor gave
Nativity, and name, and grave;
Thou art in this hallowed earth
Cradled for the immortal birth.
Heavily upon his head
Ancestral crimes were visited.
He, in spirit like a child,
Meek of heart and undefiled,
Patiently his crown resigned,

And fixed on heaven his heavenly mind,
Blessing, while he kiss'd the rod,

His Redeemer and his God.
Now may he in realms of bliss
Greet a soul as pure as his.

Passive as that humble spirit,
Lies his bold dethroner too;
A dreadful debt did he inherit
To his injured lineage due;
Ill-starred Prince, whose martial merit
His own England long might rue!

Mournful was that Edward's fame,
Won in fields contested well,
While he sought his rightful claim:
Witness Aire's unhappy water,
Where the ruthless Clifford fell;

And when Wharfe ran red with slaughter,
On the day of Towcester's field,
Gathering, in its guilty flood,

The carnage and the ill-spilt blood,

That forty thousand lives could yield.
Cressy was to this but sport,
Poictiers but a pageant vain,
And the victory of Spain

Seem'd a strife for pastime meant,
And the work of Agincourt

Only like a tournament;

Half the blood which there was spent,
Had sufficed again to gain
Anjou and ill-yielded Maine:
Normandy and Aquitaine,
And our Lady's ancient towers,
Maugre all the Valois' powers,
Had a second time been ours.
A gentle daughter of thy line,
Edward, lays her dust with thine.

Thou, Elizabeth, art here:
Thou to whom all griefs were known:
Thou wert placed upon the bier
In happier hour than on the throne.
Fatal Daughter, fatal Mother,
Raised to that ill-omen'd station,
Father, uncle, sons, and brother,
Mourn'd in blood her elevation;
Woodville, in the realms of bliss,
To thine offspring thou mayst say,
Early death is happiness;

And favour'd in their lot are they
Who are not left to learn below
That length of life is length of woe.
Lightly let this ground be prest;
A broken heart is here at rest.

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Of the pride of Norfolk's line,
By the axe so often red,
By the fire with martyrs fed,
Hateful Henry, not with thee
May her happy spirit be!

And here lies one, whose tragic name A reverential thought may claim; The murdered monarch, whom the grave, Revealing its long secret, gave Again to sight, that we might spy His comely face, and waking eye; There, thrice fifty years, it lay, Exempt from natural decay, Unclosed and bright, as if to say, A plague, of bloodier, baser birth Than that beneath whose rage he bled, Was loose upon our guilty earth; Such awful warning from the dead Was given by that portentous eye; Then it closed eternally.

Ye, whose relics rest around, Tenants of this funeral ground; Even in your immortal spheres, What fresh yearnings will ye feel, When this earthly guest appears! Us she leaves in grief and tears; But to you will she reveal Tidings of old England's weal; Of a righteous war pursued, Long, through evil and through good, With unshaken fortitude;

Of peace, in battle twice achiev'd;

Of her fiercest foe subdued,

And Europe from the yoke relieved,
Upon that Brabantine plain :
Such the proud, the virtuous story,
Such the great, the endless glory
Of her father's splendid reign.
He, who wore the sable mail,
Might, at this heroic tale,
Wish himself on earth again.

One who reverently, for thee, Raised the strain of bridal verse, Flower of Brunswick! mournfully Lays a garland on thy herse.

SCOTLAND.

'AN ODE,

WRITTEN AFTER the king's VISIT TO THAT COUNTRY.

AT length hath Scotland seen

The presence long desired;
The pomp of royalty

Her ancient palace desolate how long!

From all parts far and near,

Highland and lowland, glen and fertile carse,
The silent mountain lake, the busy port,
Her populous cities, and her pastoral hills,
In generous joy convened

By the free impulse of the loyal heart,

Her sons have gather'd, and beheld their king.

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Speak ye, too, works of peace;

For ye too have a voice

Which shall be heard by ages! The proud bridge,
Through whose broad arches, worthy of their name

And place, his rising and his refluent tide
Majestic Thames, the royal river, rolls!
And that which, high in air,

A bending line suspended, shall o'erhang
Menai's Straits, as if

By Merlin's mighty magic there sustain'd!
And Pont-Cyssylté, not less wondrous work;

Where on gigantic columns raised

Aloft, a dizzying height,
The laden barge pursues its even way,
While o'er his rocky channel the dark Dee
Hurries below, a raging stream, scarce heard!
And that huge mole, whose deep foundations, firm
As if by Nature laid,

Repel the assailing billows, and protect
The British fleet, securely riding there,
Though southern storms possess the sea and sky,
And from its depths commoved,
Infuriate ocean raves.

Ye stately monuments of Britain's power,
Bear record ye, what Scottish minds
Have plann'd and perfected!
With grateful wonder shall posterity

See the stupendous works, and Rennie's name And Telford's shall survive, till time Leave not a wreck of sublunary things.

Him too may I attest for Scotland's praise, Who seized and wielded first

The mightiest element
That lies within the scope of man's control;
Of evil and of good

Prolific spring, and dimly yet discern'd
The immeasureable results.

The mariner no longer seeks

Wings from the wind; creating now the power
Wherewith he wins his way,

Right on across the ocean-flood, he steers
Against opposing skies;

And reaching now the inmost continent, Up rapid streams, innavigable else, Ascends with steady progress, self-propell'd.

Nor hath the sister kingdom borne,
In science, and in arms
Alone, her noble part;

There is an empire which survives

The wreck of thrones, the overthrow of realms,
The downfall, and decay, and death
Of nations. Such an empire in the mind
Of intellectual man

Rome yet maintains, and elder Greece; and such
By indefeasible right

Hath Britain made her own.

How fair a part doth Caledonia claim
In that fair conquest! Whereso'er
The British tongue may spread,

(A goodly tree, whose leaf
No winter e'er shall nip:)

Earthly immortals, there, her sons of fame,
Will have their heritage;

In eastern and in occidental Ind;
The new antarctic world, where sable swans
Glide upon waters, called by British names,
And plough'd by British keels;

In vast America, through all its length
And breadth, from Massachusett's populous coast
To western Oregan;

And from the southern gulf,

Where the great river with his turbid flood
Stains the green ocean, to the polar sea.

There nations yet unborn shall trace In Hume's perspicuous page, How Britain rose, and through what storms attain'd Her eminence of power.

In other climates, youths and maidens there Shall learn from Thomson's verse in what attire The various seasons, bringing in their change Variety of good,

Revisit their beloved English ground. There Beattie! in thy sweet and soothing strain Shall youthful poets read

Their own emotions. There too, old and young,
Gentle and simple, by Sir Walter's tales
Spell-bound, shall feel

Imaginary hopes and fears

Strong as realities,

And, waking from the dream, regret its close.

These Scotland are thy glories; and thy praise
Is England's, even as her power
And opulence of fame are thine;

So hath our happy union made
Each in the other's weal participant,
Enriching, strengthening, glorifying both.

C House of Stuart, to thy memory still
For this best benefit

Should British hearts in gratitude be bound!
A deeper tragedy

Than thine unhappy tale hath never fill'd
The historic page, nor given

Poet or moralist his mournful theme!
O House severely tried,

And in prosperity alone
Found wanting; Time hath closed
Thy tragic story now!

Errors and virtues fatally betrayed,

Magnanimous suffering, vice,
Weakness, and headstrong zeal, sincere though blind,
Wrongs, calumnies, heart wounds,
Religious resignation, earthly hopes,
Fears and affections, these have had their course,
And over them in peace

The all-engulfing stream of years hath closed,
But this good work endures,
'Stablish'd and perfected by length of days,
The indissoluble union stands.

Nor hath the sceptre from that line Departed, though the name hath lost Its regal honours. Trunk and root have failed: A scion from the stock

Liveth and flourisheth. It is the Tree

Beneath whose sacred shade,
In majesty and peaceful power serene,
The Island Queen of Ocean hath her seat;
Whose branches far and near

Extend their sure protection; whose strong roots
Are with the isle's foundations interknit;
Whose stately summit when the storm careers
Below, abides unmoved,
Safe in the sunshine and the peace of Heaven!

A SOLDIER'S EPITAPH.

STEEP is the soldier's path; nor are the heights
Of Glory to be won without long toil
And arduous efforts of enduring hope,
Save when death takes the aspirant by the hand,
And cutting short the work of years, at once
Lifts him to that conspicuous eminence.

Such fate was mine.-The standard of the Buffs

I bore at Albuhera, on that day

When, covered by a shower, and fatally
For friends misdeemed, the Polish lancers fell
Upon our rear. Surrounding me, they claimed
My precious charge!-« Not but with life!» I cried,
And life was given for immortality!

The flag which to my heart I held, when wet
With that heart's blood, was soon victoriously
Regained on that great day. In former times,
Marlborough beheld it borne at Ramillies;

For Brunswick and for liberty it waved
Triumphant at Culloden; and bath seen
The lilies on the Caribbean shores
Abased before it; then too in the front
Of battle did it flap exultantly,

When Douro, with its wide stream interposed,
Saved not the French invaders from attack,
Discomfiture, and ignominious rout..
My name is Thomas: undisgraced have I
Transmitted it. He who in days to come

May bear the honoured banner to the field
Will think of Albuhera, and of me!

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG OFFICER, WHO WAS MORTALLY WOUNDED IN THE BATTLE OF CORUNA.

MYSTERIOUS are the ways of Providence ;

Old men who have grown grey in camps, and wished,
And prayed, and sought in battle to lay down
The burthen of their age, have seen the young
Fall round, themselves untouched; and balls beside
The graceless and the unblest head have past,
Harmless as hail, to reach some precious life,
For which clasped hands, and supplicating eyes,
Duly at morn and eve were raised to Heaven;
And, in the depth and loneness of the soul
(Then boding all too truly) midnight prayers
Breathed from an anxious pillow wet with tears,
But blessed, even amid their grief, are they
Who, in the hour of visitation, bow
Beneath the unerring will, and look toward
Their Heavenly Father, merciful as just!
They, while they own his goodness, feel that whom
He chastens them he loves. The cup He gives
Shall they not drink it? Therefore doth the draught
Resent of comfort in its bitterness,

And carry healing with it. What but this
Could have sustained the mourners who were left,
With life-long yearnings, to remember him
Whose early death this monumental verse
Records? For never more auspicious hopes
Were nipt in flower, nor finer qualities
From Goodliest fabric of mortality
Divorced, nor virtues worthier to adorn

The world transferred to heaven, than when ere time
Had measured him the space of nineteen years,
Paul Burrard on Coruna's fatal field
Received his mortal hurt. Not unprepared
The heroic youth was found: for in the ways
Of piety had he been trained; and what
The dutiful child upon his mother's knees
Bad learnt the soldier faithfully observed.
In chamber or in tent, the book of God
Was his beloved manual: and his life
Beseemed the lessons which from thence he drew.
For gallant as he was and blithe of heart,
Expert of hand, and keen of eye, and prompt
In intellect, religion was the crown
Of all his noble properties. When Paul
Was by, the scoffer, self-abased, restrained
The licence of his speech: and ribaldry
Before his virtuous presence sate rebuked.
And yet so frank and affable a form
His virtue wore,
that wheresoe'er he moved

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