EBENEZER ELLIOTT. compound of earnest perseverance, restless observation, and instinctive or habitual hatred of oppression. He protests against being considered a coarse and careless writer; and asserts that he has never printed a careless line. EBENEZER ELLIOTT was born on the seventeenth His genius, according to his own view of it, is a of March, 1781, at Masbro, a village near the town of Sheffield; where he has since resided, and where he follows the calling of an Ironmonger. His birth, he informs his biographer, was registered only in the family Bible; his father being 'a dissenter, and a thorough hater of the Church as by law established." The boyhood of the Poet was neglected, in consequence of his supposed inability to learn any thing useful; and he was left, for the most part, to his own guidance during the years which generally form the character of the future man. His nature was dull and slow, but thoughtful and affectionate. Happily his "idle time" was not "idly spent;" his wanderings in the woods and fields laid the foundation of his afterfame; and Thompson's Seasons made him a benevolence." versifier: "His books were rivers, woods, and skies, The meadow and the moor.' When at the age which determines destiny; or, as he quaintly expresses it," while it was doubtful whether he would become a man or a malt-worm," a country curate bequeathed to his home a library of valuable theological works. To this new source of profit and enjoyment, tinctured though it was with gloom, and to the conversation and amateur-preaching of his father, "an old Cameronian and born rebel," whose religion was of the severest kind, and whose "dreadful declamations it was his misfortune to hear," may be traced the character, literary and political, of the future Corn-Law Rhymer. Blessed or cursed with a hatred of wasted labour, he was never known to read a bad book through; but he has read again and again, and deeply studied all the master-pieces of the mind, original and translated; and the master-pieces only: a circumstance to which he attributes his success. "There is not," he says, "a good thought in his works which has not been suggested by some object actually before his eyes, or by some real occurrence, or by the thoughts of other men,"-" but," he adds, “I can make other men's thoughts breed." So far my notice is indebted to the Corn-Law Rhymer himself. For the rest, I learn that he is indefatigable in application to his unpoetic business; a most kind husband and father, a pleasant associate, and a faithful friend; energetic to an extreme in conversation; roughly but powerfully eloquent; and that his "countenance bespeaks deep thought, and an enthusiastic temperament; his overhanging brow is stern to a degree, while the lower part of his face indicates mildness and It is impossible to avoid some comment on the harsh, ungenerous, and we must add, un-English, political principles, which so continually influence, so thoroughly saturate, and so essentially impair the poetry of the Rhymer. In his " Corn-Law Rhymes," and poems avowedly political, we look for and pardon his strong and ungentle opinions; but he can rarely ramble through a green lane, climb the mountain's brow, or revel amid the luxuries of nature, without giving them expression. He has wooed Liberty with an unchaste passion. His fancy is haunted by images of tyrant-kings, tax-fed aristocrats, and bigoted oppressors. Still, with the highest and most enduring of British Poets, we must class Ebenezer Elliott. Among his poems there are many glorious and true transcripts of nature; full of pathos and beauty, vigorous and original in thought; and clear, eloquent, and impassioned in language. His feelings, though at times kindly and gentle, are more often dark, menacing, and stern; but they are never grovelling or low. He has keen and burning sympathies; but unhappily he forgets that the high-born and wealthy claim them and deserve them, as well as the poor, and those who are more directly "bread-taxed;"-that suffering is the common lot of humanity. SONGS. SONGS. LET IDLERS DESPAIR. LET idlers despair! there is hope for the wise, That our land is the noblest of lands. et knaves fear for England, whose thoughts wear a mask, While a war on our trenchers they wage: Free Trade, and no favour! is all that we ask; Fair play, and the world for a stage! Secure in their baseness, the lofty and bold In the warm sun of knowledge, that kindles our blood, And fills our cheer'd spirits with day, Their splendour, contemn'd by the brave and the good, Like a palace of ice, melts away. Our compass, which married the east and the And redeem'd from the bonds of the base. The ark of our triumph, far, far as seas roll, Shall ride o'er the wealth-freighted waves; The chain'd of the drones be the chainless in soul, And tyrants made men by their slaves. The Hall of our Fathers-with Heav'n for its dome, And the steps of its portals the sea- LIKE A ROOTLESS ROSE OR LILY. LIKE a rootless rose or lily; Like a sad and life-long sigh: Tardy day of hoarded ruin! Vainly seeking work and food! YE WINTRY FLOWERS. YE wintry flowers, whose pensive dyes But like the hopes that linger yet THE DAY WAS DARK. THE day was dark, save when the beam Lo, splendour, like a spirit came! While there I sat, and named her name, I started from the seat in fear; Like gather'd flowers half-blown. Again the bud and breeze were met, The thrush proclaim'd in accents sweet I think, I feel-but when will she But God does nought in vain : ARTISANS' OUT-DOOR HYMN. WHEN Stuart reign'd, God's people fled, Lord! we too suffer; we too pray That thou wilt guide our steps aright; And bless this day-tir'd Labour's dayAnd fill our souls with heavenly light. For failing bread, six days in seven We till the black town's dust and gloom; But here we drink the breath of heaven, And here to pray the poor have room. The stately temple, built with hands, Therefore we seek the daisied plain, Or climb thy hills to touch thy feet; There, far from splendour's heartless fane, Thy weary sons and daughters meet. Is it a crime to tell thee here, That here the sorely-tried are met; To seek thy face, and find thee near; And on thy rock our feet to set ? Where, wheeling wide, the plover flies; Where sings the woodlark on the tree; Beneath the silence of thy skies, Is it a crime to worship thee? We waited long, and sought thee, Lord, Thy truth and thee we bade them fear; * See Rebecca's Hymn in "Ivanhoe." MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE WONDERS OF THE LANE. STRONG climber of the mountain's side, His purple, green, and gold. Here coils in light the snake; Its beauteous nest to make. The glories of the lane! For, oh, I love these banks of rock, This roof of sky and tree, These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock And wakes the earliest bee! As spirits from eternal day Look down on earth secure ; Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey A world in miniature; A world not scorn'd by Him who made O'er storm-lov'd mountains spread, Thy glorious thoughts are read; Thy bright small hand is here. That down from heav'n in madness flings Do I not hear his thunder roll The roar that ne'er is still? 'Tis mute as death!-but in my soul It roars, and ever will. What forests tall of tiniest moss Clothe every little stone! What pigmy oaks their foliage toss O'er pigmy valleys lone! With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, Ambitious of the sky, Thy feather o'er the steepest edge Of mountains mushroom high. Oh, God of marvels! who can tell What myriad living things On these gray stones unseen may dwell! While fate perchance o'erwhelms A hundred ruin'd realms! Impell'd by woe or whim, Lo, while he pauses, and admires The works of nature's might, Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires, And all to him is night! Oh, God of terrors! what are we ? Poor insects, spark'd with thought! But shouldst thou wreck our father-land, THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BEFORE thy leaves thou com'st once more, Thy leaves will come as heretofore; A month at least before thy time Thou com'st, pale flower, to me; Why here in winter? No storm lours But blithe larks meet the sunny showers, Sweet violets in the budding grove Peep where the glad waves run; And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, Hears bees chaunt hymns to God, The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold, But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, For as the rainbow of the dawn A sunbeam on the saddened lawn Thy leaves will come! but songful spring Her bells will ring, her bride's-maids sing, Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath, Even as the blushes of the morn To love my mother, and to die- Is this my sad, brief history.- He lived and loved-will sorrow say- My mother smiles, then turns away, O, love is sorrow! sad it is To be both tried and true; I ever trembled in my bliss: But woodbines flaunt when bluebells fade, Then panting woods the breeze will feel, Well, lay me by my brother's side, Where late we stood and wept; For I was stricken when he died,— A POET'S EPITAPH. STOP, Mortal! Here thy brother lies, His books were rivers, woods, and skies, His teachers were the torn heart's wail, The street, the factory, the jail, The palace and the grave! Sin met thy brother every where! And is thy brother blamed? The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, The equal of the great, He bless'd the steward, whose wealth makes Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes A hand to do, a head to plan, A heart to feel and dare Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. THY fruit full well the schoolboy knows, Wild bramble of the brake! So, put thou forth thy small white rose; Though woodbines flaunt, and roses glow Thy satin-threaded flowers; Thy tender blossoms are! How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem! How soft thy voice, when woods are still, And thou sing'st hymns to them! While silent showers are falling slow, And 'mid the general hush, A sweet air lifts the little bough, Lone whispering through the bush! The primrose to the grave is gone; The hawthorn flower is dead; To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, |