the pseudo-romantic; and therefore few of these longer poems can be read with satisfaction in each as a whole. Nothing of worth that Elliott wrote was caught out of the air; each poem had its roots in fact; but the colouring in his earlier pieces is sometimes extravagant: as he matured, his imagination gravitated from the romantic to the real. There are not many figures in English poetry drawn from real life worthier of regard than the Ranter, Elliott's pale preacher of reform on Shirecliffe height, and his Village Patriarch, the blind lone father, with wind-blown venerable hair, still unbowed after his hundred years; though seeming coeval with the cliffs around, still a living and heroic pattern of English manhood. The wild flowers and the free wild streams of Yorkshire never found a more eager and faithful lover than Ebenezer Elliott; but mere sunlight and pure air delight him. The silence or living sounds of the fields or the moor bring healing and refreshment to an ear harassed by the din of machinery; the wide peaceful brightness is a benediction to an eye smarting from blear haze of the myriad-chimneyed city. Animal refreshment rises, by degrees, to gratitude, exaltation, worship.

But from the wilderness his heart full of passionate tenderness drew him back to the troubled walks of men. not be like

His poetry could

'The child

That gathers daisies from the lap of May,

With prattle sweeter than the bloomy wild.'

is

The indignation of the workers of England against the injustice of their lot found a voice in the Corn Law Rhymer. His anger that of a sweet nature perforce turned bitter; this strife, he feels, may for ever mar his better self, yet it cannot be abandoned :

'My heart, once soft as woman's tear, is gnarled
With gloating on the ills I cannot cure;'

and still he 'wooes Contention,' for in the end 'her dower is sure.' The sorrows of oppressed toil were sung by Elliott with a sincerity which makes amends for some imaginative crudeness. His pathos is not hard and dry like that of Crabbe; it is not that of a student of human misery, but that of a loving fellow-sufferer. And his ideal of happiness for the working man is simple and refined— some leisure, flowers, a good book, a neat home, a happy wife, and glad innocent children.

EDWARD DOWDEN.

AN EXCURSION TO THE MOUNTAINS.

[From The Village Patriarch.]

I.

Come, Father of the Hamlet ! grasp again

Thy stern ash plant, cut when the woods were young; Come, let us leave the plough-subjected plain,

And rise, with freshened hearts, and nerves restrung,

Into the azure dome, that, haply, hung

O'er thoughtful power, ere suffering had begun.

II.

Flowers peep, trees bud, boughs tremble, rivers run;
The redwing saith, it is a glorious morn.

Blue are thy Heavens, thou Highest! and thy sun
Shines without cloud, all fire. How sweetly, borne
On wings of morning o'er the leafless thorn,
The tiny wren's small twitter warbles near !
How swiftly flashes in the stream the trout!
Woodbine! our father's ever-watchful ear
Knows, by thy rustle, that thy leaves are out.
The trailing bramble hath not yet a sprout;
Yet harshly to the wind the wanton prates,
Not with thy smooth lisp, woodbine of the fields!
Thou future treasure of the bee, that waits
Gladly on thee, spring's harbinger! when yields
All bounteous earth her odorous flowers, and builds
The nightingale, in beauty's fairest land.

III.

Five rivers, like the fingers of a hand,

Flung from black mountains, mingle, and are one
Where sweetest valleys quit the wild and grand,

And eldest forests, o'er the silvan Don,

Bid their immortal brother journey on,

A stately pilgrim, watched by all the hills.

Say, shall we wander where, through warriors' graves,
The infant Yewden, mountain-cradled, trills
Her doric notes? Or, where the Locksley raves
Of broil and battle, and the rocks and caves
Dream yet of ancient days? Or, where the sky
Darkens o'er Rivilin, the clear and cold,

That throws his blue length, like a snake, from high? ·
Or, where deep azure brightens into gold

O'er Sheaf, that mourns in Eden? Or, where rolled
On tawny sands, through regions passion-wild,
And groves of love, in jealous beauty dark,
Complains the Porter, Nature's thwarted child,
Born in the waste, like headlong Wiming? Hark!
The poised hawk calls thee, Village Patriarch!
He calls thee to his mountains! Up, away!
Up, up, to Stanedge! higher still ascend,
Till kindred rivers, from the summit grey,
To distant seas their course in beauty bend,
And, like the lives of human millions, blend
Disparted waves in one immensity!

SONG.

Child, is thy father dead?

Father is gone!

Why did they tax his bread?

God's will be done!
Mother has sold her bed:

Better to die than wed!

Where shall she lay her head?

Home we have none !

Father clammed1 thrice a week

God's will be done!

Long for work did he seek,

Work he found none.

1 Fasted; was hungry.

Tears on his hollow cheek

Told what no tongue could speak:

Why did his master break?

God's will be done!

Doctor said air was best-
Food we had none;
Father, with panting breast,
Groaned to be gone:
Now he is with the blest-
Mother says death is best!
We have no place of rest-
Yes, we have one!

BATTLE SONG.

Day, like our souls, is fiercely dark;
What then? 'Tis day!

We sleep no more; the cock crows-hark
To arms! away!

They come ! they come! the knell is rung Of us or them;

Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung Of gold and gem.

What collared hound of lawless sway,

To famine dear

What pensioned slave of Attila,

Leads in the rear?

Come they from Scythian wilds afar,

Our blood to spill?

Wear they the livery of the Czar ?

They do his will.

Nor tasselled silk, nor epaulette,

Nor plume, nor torse

No splendour gilds, all sternly met,
Our foot and horse.

But, dark and still, we inly glow,

Condensed in ire!

Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know
Our gloom is fire.

In vain your pomp, ye evil powers,
Insults the land;

Wrongs, vengeance, and the cause are ours,
And God's right hand!

Madmen! they trample into snakes
The wormy clod!

Like fire, beneath their feet awakes
The sword of God!
Behind, before, above, below,
They rouse the brave;

Where'er they go, they make a foe,
Or find a grave.

A POET'S EPITAPH.

Stop, Mortal! Here thy brother lies,

The Poet of the Poor.

His books were rivers, woods, and skies,
The meadow, and the moor;

His teachers were the torn hearts' wail,

The tyrant and the slave,

The street, the factory, the jail,

The palace and the grave!

The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,

He feared to scorn or hate;

And honoured in a peasant's form

The equal of the great.

But if he loved the rich who make

The poor man's little more,

Ill could he praise the rich who take

From plundered labour's store.

A hand to do, a head to plan,

A heart to feel and dare

Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man
Who drew them as they are.