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Laid in my cradle, but I spied bim out;
Thou 'st never seen a creature so foul-mouth'd
And body'd too. But, knowing Satan's drift,
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,
Are you sure he laugh'd, That show the Killcrop.
Might it not be a cry?
Why! that it might;
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.
Benedict, now say,
Didst thou not throw him over?
Throw him over!
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,
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
That thunder was doves' cooing to the noise
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
To stay the pestilence.
Trust me, thou art mistaken; 't is no killerop:
See how he smiles! Poor infant: give him me.
Stand off! The Devil lent him, and again
I will return him honestly, and rid
Earth of one banc.
Thou dost not mean to kill !
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.
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 it killerop. 'Tis a thing
Heaven hath no need of. Ere an hour be past,
From yon tall rock I'll hurl him to perdition.
Repeat it not! Oh, spare the infant! Spare
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,
Then took his life.
I would I were in England !
Aye, get thee home again! you islanders
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
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
Stamping for pain!
FOR THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES.
Nay-an it please you,
And what lias followed ?
In its summer pride arrayed,
I saw him in his dungeon: 't is a place
Ye wliose relics rest around,
Henry, thou of saintly worth,
Passive as that humble spirit,
Of the poide of Norfolk's line,
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
WRITTEN AFTER THE KING'S VISIT TO THAT COUNTRY.
At length hath Scotland seen
pomp of royalty
From all parts far and near,
The silent mountain Jake, the busy port,
In generous joy convened
Slowly by time matured,
And where inhuman force
Peace came, and polity,
Their sojourn undisturb'd.
Such blessings for her dowry Scotland drew
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
Nor hath the sister kingdom borne,
In science, and in arms
Alone, her poble part;
There is an empire which survives
The downfall, and decay, and death
Of intellectual man
By indefeasible right
(A goodly tree, whose leaf
No winter e'er shall nip:)
Will have their heritage;
Jo eastern and in occidental Ind;
And plough'd by British keels;
To western Oregan;
And from the southern gulf,
Speak ye, too, works of peace;
For ye too have a voice
And place, his rising and his reiluent tide
And that which, high in air,
Menai's Straits, as if
Aloft, a dizzying leight,
As if by Nature laid,
The British fleet, securely riding there,
And from its depths commoved,
Infuriate ocean raves.
Have plannd and perfected!
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
Spell-bound, shall feel
Strong as realities,
These Scotland are thy glories; and thy praise
Is England's, even as her power
So hath our happy union made
For Brunswick and for liberty it waved
C House of Stuart, to thy memory still
For this best benefit
A deeper tragedy
The historic page, nor given
O House severely tried,
And in prosperity alone
Thy tragic story now!
Magnanimous suffering, vice,
Wrongs, calumnies, heart wounds,
Religious resignation, earthly hopes,
And over them in peace
But this good work endures,
The indissoluble union stands.
Nor hath the sceptre from that line
Departed, though the name hath lost
A scign from the stock
Beneath whose sacred shade,
Whose branches far and near
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!
TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG OFFICER, WHO WAS
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
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;