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; Blue are thy Heavens, thou Highest! and thy sun III. Five rivers, like the fingers of a hand, Flung from black mountains, mingle, and are one 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, That throws his blue length, like a snake, from high? O'er Sheaf, that mourns in Eden? Or, where rolled SONG. Child, is thy father dead? Father is gone! Why did they tax his bread ? God's will be done! 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- BATTLE SONG. Day, like our souls, is fiercely dark; We sleep no more; the cock crows-hark; 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 In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, Wrongs, vengeance, and the cause are ours, The wormy clod! Like fire, beneath their feet awakes Behind, before, above, below, Where'er they go, they make a foe, A POET'S EPITAPH. Stop, Mortal! Here thy brother lies, The Poet of the Poor. His books were rivers, woods, and skies, 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 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 THE THREE MARYS AT CASTLE HOWARD, IN 1812 AND 1837. The lifeless son--the mother's agony, And strength and joy had strung my soul with steel. A thing of life, that feels he lives in vain- To look on this, thy tale of tears, again ; PLAINT. Dark, deep, and cold the current flows O'er its sad gloom still comes and goes Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goes Though myriads go with him who goes, For all must go where no wind blows, |