Laid in my cradle, but I spied bim out;
Most certainly

Thou 'st never seen a creature so foul-mouth'd

And body'd too. But, knowing Satan's drift,
Then these are things so near, I balk'd him: to the lofty Church that stands
That I might pardon one who hesitates,

Over yon river, I the Killcrop took, Doubting between them. But the Crop and Child ! To ask advice, how to dispose of him, They are so opposite, that I should look

Of tl' holy Pastor. When, by the moon on high, Sooner to hear the Frog teach harmony,

('T is true I fear'd him,) as I pass'd the bridge, Than meet a man, with hairs so grey as thine, Bearing him in my arms,


gave a leap, Who did not know the difference.

And over the rails jump'd headlong, laughing loud

With a fellow-fiend, that, from the waves beneath,
Benedict !

Bawld-Killerop! Killerop!
The oldest, ere be die, something might learn;
And I shall hcar, gladly, the certain marks

Are you sure he laugh'd, That show the Killcrop.

Might it not be a cry?
Father, listen then-

Why! that it might;
The Killcrop, mark me, for a true man's child

I won't be certain, but that he jump'd over At first might be mistaken-has two eyes

And splash'd and daslid into the water beneath, And nose and mouth, but these are semblances Making fierce gestures and loud bellowings : Deceitful, and, as Father Luther says,

I could as soon a witch's innocence There's something underneath.

Believe, as doubt it.

Good Benedict !

Benedict, now say,
If Killcrops look like children, by what power

Didst thou not throw him over?
Know you they are not ?

Throw him over!
This from

you, old Fathier! Why, man, I could as easily have held Why when they are pinch'd they squcak,

A struggling whale. It needed iron arms

To hold the monster. Doubt whate'er you will,
This is not strange ;

He surely laughid. And when he reach'd the water, All children cry when pinch'd.

Grasping the fiend, I never shall forget

The cries, the yells, the shouts; it seemd to me
But then their maws!

That thunder was doves' cooing to the noise
The veriest company of threshing clowns

These Killerops made, as, splashing, roaring, laughing, Would think they had no appetite, compared

With their ba, ha, ha, so ominous! they rushid With this and the rest of 'em.—Gormandizing beast !

Down the broad stream.—That very night our cow See how he yawns for food !

Sickend and died. Saints aid us! Whilst these Crops

Poison the air, they'll have enough to do
But, Benedict!

To stay the pestilence.
When hunger stings you, don't you ope your mouth?

What other evidence?

But, Benedict,
Be not outrageous! I am old, d' ye see;
Why, Devil-like,

Trust me, thou art mistaken; 't is no killerop:
When any evil happens, by his grin

See how he smiles! Poor infant: give him me.
'T will always tell ye, and when tidings good
Come near, the beasts of twins delivered, or

Stand off! The Devil lent him, and again
Corn sold at market, or the harvest in,
The raven never croakd more dismally

I will return him honestly, and rid

Earth of one banc.
Before the sick man's window, than this Crop,
With disappointment howls. And then, a mark

Thou dost not mean to kill !
Infallible, that shows the Killcrop true,
Is this, old man, he sucks bis mother dry!

Poor infant, spare him! I have young and old, 'T was but the other day, in our village,

The poor, a houseful, yet I'll not refuse A Killerop suck'd his mother and five more

To take one more, if thou wilt give him me. Dry as a whet-stone. Do you now believe?

Let me persuade.

Good Benedict, all children laugh and cry!

Away! I say, away!
I have my doubts.

Even if an Angel came to beg him of me,

I should suspect imposture, for I know
Doubts have you? Well-a-day!

He could not ask it killerop. 'Tis a thing
In t'other world you'll sink ten fathoms deeper,

Heaven hath no need of. Ere an hour be past,
I promise you, for this soul heresy.

From yon tall rock I'll hurl him to perdition.
But nothing will move you,-you won't be moved.
I'll tell ye as true a story as ever man

Repeat it not! Oh, spare the infant! Spare
Told to another. I had a Changeling once

His innocent laughter! My cold creeping blood







Doth boil with indignation, at the thought

Six months they stretch'd him on the rack of hope,
Most horrible. Thou must not do the deed!

Then took his life.

Not punish Satan! I have learnt too well

I would I were in England !
From Father Luther. Once again, stand off!

I'll rocket him.

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
SCENE.— Holland. Time, during the Government of These state oppressions, as with childish tears

Know 't is as idle to exclaim against
the Duke of Alva.

To weep in the stone, or any other curse

Wherewith God's wrath afflicts us. And for struceling,

Not complain! Why 't would be like an idiot in the gout
Endure in silence! suffer with beast patience

Stamping for pain!
Oppressions such as these !





Nay-an it please you,
Rail on, rail on! and when the rod of power
Falls heavy, why, no doubt 't will comfort you
Amid your dungeon miseries, to reflect
How valiantly you talk'd! you know Count Roderick ;-
He would be railing, too!


And what lias followed ?


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
Js the Flower of Brunswick laid!

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.

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Ye wliose 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.

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Henry, thou of saintly worth,
Thou, to whom tly Windsor gave
Nativity, and name, and grave;
Thou art in this ballowed 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.

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Passive as that humble spirit,
Lies his bold dethroner 100;
A dreadful debt did he inherit
To his injured lineage due;
JU-starred Prince, whose martial merit
His own England long might rue!

Of the poide 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!

Mournful was that Edward's fame, Won in fields contested well, While he sought his rightful claim : Witness Aire's unbappy 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 thousaud 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; Ilalf 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 thiae.

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 wakiny 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 eartı; Such awful warning from the dead Was given by that portentous eye ; Then it cl eternally

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.

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.

But thou, Seymour, with a greeting, Such as sisters use at meeting; Joy, and Sympathy, and love, Wilt hail her in the seats above. Like in loveliness were ye, By a like lamented doom, Hurried to an early tomb; While together spirits blest, Here your earthly relics rest. Fellow angels shall ye be In the angelic company.



Henry, too, liath here his part; At the gentle Seymour's side, With his best beloved bride, Cold and quiet, here are laid The ashes of that fiery heart. Not with bis tyrannic spirit, Shall our Charlotte's soul inlierit; No, by Fisher's hoary head, By More, the learned and the good, By Katharine's wrongs and Boleyn's blood, l'y the life so basely shed


At length hath Scotland seen
The presence long desired;

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 Jake, 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 kiog.

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Slowly by time matured,
A happier order then for Scotland rose :

And where inhuman force
And rapine unrestrained
Had lorded o'er the land,

Peace came, and polity,
And quiet industry, and frugal wealth;
And there the household virtues fix'd

Their sojourn undisturb'd.

Such blessings for her dowry Scotland drew
From that benignant union; nor less large

The portion that she brought.

She brought security and strength, True hearts, and strenuous hands, and poble minds. Say Ocean, from the shores of Camperdown, What Caledonia brought! Say thou,

Egypt! Let India tell!

And let tell Victory
From her Brabantine field,
The proudest field of fame!

Nor hath the sister kingdom borne,

In science, and in arms

Alone, her poble 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 pari 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;

Jo eastern and in occidental Ind;
The new antarctic world, where sable swans
Glide upon waters, called by British pames,

And plough'd by British keels;
Ja 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.

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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 reiluent 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 columas raised

Aloft, a dizzying leight,
The laden barye 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 plannd and perfected!
With grateful wonder shall posterity

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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 ils 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.

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 tlap exultantly,
When Douro, with its wide stream interposed,
Saved not the French invaders from allack,
Discomtiture, and ignominious rout.
My name is Thomas: undisgraced lave I
Transınitted it. He who in days to come
May bear the honoured banner to the field
Will think of Albuhera, and of me!


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 filla

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 scign 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 Heaveu!


MORTALLY WOUNDED IN THE BATTLE OF CORONA. MYSTERIOUS are the ways of Providence;Old men who have growo grey in camps, and wished, And prayed, and sought in battle to lay down The burihen of their age, have seen the young Fall round, themselves untouched; and halls beside The craceless 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 loveness 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 Be 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, por 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 Had 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

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 sale rebuked.
And yet so frank and affable a form
His virtue wore, that wheresoe'er he moved

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;

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