THIS formidable poetical antagonist of the Corn Laws was born at Masbro', a village near the town of Sheffield, in 1781. As his father was a Dissenter, and thoroughly opposed to the established order of things in Church and State, the youth of the poet was nourished in that spirit of political resistance which his maturity was to exhibit in such strangely-flavoured fruits. While a boy, he was reckoned so dull as to be unfit to learn any thing, and accordingly his education was neglected; but he soon found a school for himself among the scenes of nature, where he learned to wander and contemplate, and where he acquired those quick habits of observation, and vigorous and correct powers of description, for which his poetry stands so conspicuous. He was also so fortunate as to obtain the unlimited use of a library, which a country curate had bequeathed to his father. On reaching manhood, he settled in Sheffield, and is now an extensive steel refiner and merchant.
The poetry of Elliott was for a considerable time unnoticed and unknown, and this was probably owing to his choice of subjects, as well as the fierce and frequently offensive style in which they were expressed. Taxation was his inspiration and his theme, and his Muse seemed to have been trained exclusively for the hustings, to harangue against the iniquity of the Corn Laws, and denounce the aristocracy. At last, however, attention was directed to his productions, and even those who were most opposed to his views as a politician, were obliged to acknowledge his merits as a poet. Indeed, society at large seemed to be ashamed of the neglect with which it had treated him: but the reparation was generous, and not too late, in the rapidly growing popularity which his poetry acquired. The Corn Law Rhymer holds an exalted rank among our living poets, which we hope he will long continue to enjoy.
WRITTEN FOR THE PRINTERS OF SHEFFIELD ON THE PASSING OF THE
REFORM BILL.
God said, "Let there be light!”
Grim Darkness felt his might,
And fled away;
Then, startled seas and mountains cold
Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold,
And cried, ""Tis day! 'tis day!"
"Hail, holy light!" exclaim'd
The thund'rous cloud, that flamed
O'er daisies white;
And, lo, the rose, in crimson dress'd,
Lean'd sweetly on the lily's breast,
And, blushing, murmur'd, "Light!”
Then was the skylark born;
Then rose th' embattled corn;
Then floods of praise
Flow'd o'er the sunny hills of noon;
And then, in stillest night, the moon
Pour'd forth her pensive lays.
Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad!
Lo, trees and flowers, all clad
In glory, bloom!
And shall the mortal sons of God,
Be senseless as the trodden clod,
And darker than the tomb?
No, by the mind of man!
By the swart artisan!
By God, our Sire!
Our souls have holy light within,
And every form of grief and sin
Shall see and feel its fire.
By earth, and hell, and heaven,
The shroud of souls is riven!
Mind, mind alone
Is light, and hope, and life, and power!
Earth's deepest night from this blest hour,
The night of minds, is gone!
“The Press!" all lands shall sing;
The Press, the Press we bring,
All lands to bless:
Oh, pallid want! oh, labour stark!
Behold, we bring the second ark!
The Press! the Press! the Press!
FROM THE SPLENDID VILLAGE.
Yes, ye green hills, that to my soul restore
The verdure which in happier days it wore!
And thou, glad stream, in whose deep waters laved
Fathers, whose children were not then enslaved!
Yes, I have roam'd where Freedom's spirit fires
The stern descendants of self-exiled sires;
Men, who transcend the herd of human kind,
A foot in stature, half a man in mind.
But tired, at length, I seek my native home,
Resolved no more in gorgeous wilds to roam;
Again I look on thee, thou loveliest stream!
And, seeming poor, am richer than I seem.
Too long in woods the forest-Arab ran,
A lonely, mateless, childless, homeless man;
Too long I paced the ocean, and the wild,—
Clinging to Nature's breast, her petted child;
But only plough'd the seas, to sow the wind,
And chased the sun, to leave my soul behind.
But when hot youth's and manhood's pulses cool'd,
When pensive thought my failing spirit school'd,—
Lured by a vision which, where'er I rove,
Still haunts me with the blush of earliest love-
A vision, present still, by night, by day,
Which not Niagara's roar could chase away-
I left my palace, with its roof of sky,
To look again on Hannah's face, and die.
I saw, in thought, beyond the billow's roar,
My mother's grave-and then my tears ran o'er:
And then I wept for Hannah, wrong'd, yet true;
I could not-no-my wasted life renew;
But I could wiselier spend my wiser years,
And mix a smile with sinking vigour's tears.
Sweet Village! where my early days were pass'd!
Though parted long, we meet-we meet at last!
Like friends, embrown'd by many a sun and wind,
Much changed in mien, but more in heart and mind.
Fair, after many years, thy fields appear
With joy beheld, but not without a tear.
I met thy little river miles before
I saw again my natal cottage door;
Unchanged as Truth, the river welcomed home
The wanderer of the sea's heart-breaking foam;
But the changed cottage, like a time-tried friend,
Smote on my heart-strings, at my journey's end.
For now no lilies bloom the door beside;
The very houseleek on the roof hath died;
The window'd gable's ivy-bower is gone,
The rose departed from the porch of stone;
The pink, the violet, have fled away,
The polyanthus and auricula!
And round my home, once bright with flowers, I found, Not one square yard,-one foot of garden grouud.
CONSEQUENCES OF THE CORN LAWS.
What shall bread-tax yet for thee,
Palaced pauper? We shall see.
It shall tame thee, and thy heirs,
Beggar them, and beggar theirs,
Melt thy plate, for which we paid,
Buy ye breeches ready made,
Sell my lady's tax-bought gown,
And the lands thou call'st thine own.
Then of courses five or more,
Grapery, horse-race, coach and four,
Pamper'd fox-hounds, starving men,
Whores and bastards, nine or ten,
Twenty flunkies fat and gay,
Whip and jail for holiday,
Paid informer, poacher pale,
Sneaker's license, poison'd ale,
Seat in senate, seat on bench,
Pension'd lad, or wife, or wench,
Fiddling parson, Sunday card,
Pimp, and dedicating bard,—
On the broad and bare highway,
Toiling there for groat a day,
We will talk to thee and thine,
Till thy wretches envy mine,
Till thy paunch of baseness howl,
Till thou seem to have a soul.
Peer, too just, too proud to share
Millions wrung from toil and care!
Righteous peer, whose fathers fed
England's poor with untax'd bread!
Ancient peer, whose stainless name
Ages old have given to fame!-
What shall bread-tax do for thee?
Make thee poor as mine and me:
Drive thee from thy marble halls
To some hovel's squalid walls;
Drive thee from the land of crimes,
Houseless into foreign climes,
There to sicken, there to sigh,
Steep thy soul in tears, and die-
Like a flower from summer's glow,
Withering on the polar snow.
Where the poor cease to pay,
Go, loved one, and rest!
Thou art wearing away
To the land of the blest.
Our father is gone
Where the wrong'd are forgiven,
And that dearest one,
Thy husband, in heaven.
No toil in despair,
No tyrant, no slave,
No bread-tax is there,
With a maw like the grave.
But the poacher, thy pride,
Whelm'd in ocean afar;
And his brother who died
Land-butcher'd in war;
And their mother, who sank
Broken-hearted to rest;
And the baby, that drank
"Till it froze on her breast;
With tears, and with smiles,
Are waiting for thee,
In the beautiful isles,
Where the wrong'd are the free.
Go, loved one, and rest
Where the poor cease to pay!
To the land of the blest
Thou art wearing away.
But the son of thy pain
Will yet stay with me,
And poor little Jane
Look sadly like thee.
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