That shattered roof-and this naked floor A table-a broken chair- For sometimes falling there! "Work-work-work! From weary chime to chime! Work-work-work As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. "Work-work-work In the dull December light! And work-work—work, SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. INTO the Silent Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand; Who leads us with a gentle hand Thither, O, thither! Into the Silent Land? Into the Silent Land! To you, ye boundless regions Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions Of beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and band! Who in Life's battle firm doth stand When the weather is warm and bright! Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs, And twit me with the Spring. "O! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweetWith the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet! For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want "O! but for one short hour A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, A little weeping would ease my heart; My tears must stop, for every drop With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Stitch! stitch! stitch! And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch- THOMAS HOOD. Into the Silent Land! Now all his labor's done! Take the soul home! CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY. THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. THERE's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot He's taking a drive in his carriage at last ; But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast: Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid! And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low, You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go! Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot; But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs; sad, To think that a heart in humanity clad And hark to the dirge which the sad driver Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate sings: Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! O, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none He has left not a gap in the world, now he 's gone Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man; To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can: Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din! The whip how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin! How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled! The pauper at length makes a noise in the world! Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach! LYCIDAS. YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, With wild thyme, and the gadding vine o'er grown, And all their echoes, mourn; The willows, and the hazel copses green, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. Shatter your leaves before the mellowing Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Begin then, Sisters of the Sacred Well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. With lucky words favor my destined urn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud; Together both, ere the high lawns appear- Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows; Where were ye, Nymphs, when the re morseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Ay me! I fondly dream, Had ye been there; for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself for her enchanting son, roar, His gory visage down the stream was sent, Alas! what boots it with incessant care (That last infirmity of noble minds) Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven To scorn delights, and live laborious days; |