But, oh, though worlds of cruel waves
Between our torn hearts rise,

My William, thou art present still
Before my weeping eyes.

Why hast thou sought a foreign land,

And left me here to weep?

Man man! thou should'st have sent our foes

Beyond that dismal deep!

For when I die, who then will toil,

My mother's life to save?

What hope will then remain for her?
A trampled workhouse grave!

1

HE WROTE.

He did not come, but letters came,
And money came in one;

But he would quickly come, they said-
"When I," she sigh'd, "am gone!"
Thenceforth she almost welcomed death,
With feelings high and brave;

Because she knew that her true love

Would weep upon her grave.

"No parish hirelings," oft she said,
"My wasted corpse shall bear ;
The honest labour of my hands
Hath purchased earth and prayer:
Nor childless will my mother be;"

The dying sufferer smiled;

"Thou wilt not want, for William's heart Is wedded to thy child!"

But Death seem'd loath to strike a form
So beautiful and young;

And o'er her long, with lifted dart,
The pensive tyrant hung;

And life in her seem'd like a sleep,
As she drew nearer home;
But when she waked, more eagerly
She ask'd, "Is William come?"

"Is William come?" she wildly ask'd;
The answer still was, "No!"—

She's dead!—but through her closing lids
The tears were trickling slow;
And like the fragrance of a rose,
Whose snowy life is o'er,
Pale beauty linger'd on the lips

Which he will kiss no more.

HE CAME.

AT length he came.

None welcomed him;

The decent door was closed;

But near it stood a matron meek,

With pensive looks, composed:

She knew his face, though it was changed,
And gloom came o'er her brow;

"They're gone," she said, "but you're in time; They're in the churchyard now."

He reach'd the grave, and sternly bade

The impatient shovel wait:

"Ann Spencer, agèd twenty-five," He read upon the plate.

"Why did'st thou seek a foreign land,

And leave me here to die?"

The sad inscriptions seem'd to say—

But he made no reply.

Her mother saw him through her tears,

But not a word she said

Nor could he know that days had pass'd
Since last she tasted bread.

VOL. II.

K

She stood in comely mourning there,

Self-stay'd in her distress;

The dead maid's toil bought earth and prayer;
Sleep on, proud Britoness!

But thou, meet parent of the dead!

Where now wilt thou abide ?

With William in a foreign land;
Or by thy daughter's side?

Oh! William's broken heart is sworn
To cross no more the foam !

Full soon will men cry-" Hark! again!
Three now! they're all at home!"

ON THE DEATH OF EARL FITZWILLIAM.

O YE who died, trampled, at Peterloo,

By England's Juggernaut! Ye too who drank
Slowly life's bitterest cup, not drugg'd with rue,
But brimm'd with hopeless pain; and ye who sank
In blood at Wexford, rolling rank o'er rank,
Like storm-swept waves! the golden door throw wide,
(It needs no golden key,) and hail and thank
The meek, the merciful, who ne'er denied

His aid to want and grief, when they for succour cried.

ON THE DEATH OF EARL FITZWILLIAM.

But ye who plough the flint with curses! ye
Who scalding tears o'er wrongs inflicted weep,
And drink them from your eyes of misery,
To quench with fire the burning soul, or creep
To cold discomfort's bed, and, dreaming, steep
Your straw in agonies! keep, pallid slaves,

131

Who still wear chains! your worm that dies not keep! And kneeling, in your hearts, on tyrants' graves, Swear deathless hate to them, their gods, their fools and knaves.

SABBATH MORNING.

RISE, young Mechanic! Idle darkness leaves
The dingy town, and cloudless morning glows:
O rise and worship Him who spins and weaves
Into the petals of the hedge-side rose
Day's golden beams and all-embracing air!
Rise! for the morn of Sabbath riseth fair!

The clouds expect thee-Rise! the stonechat hops
Among the mosses of thy granite chair:

Go tell the plover, on the mountain tops,
That we have cherish'd nests and hidden wings.
Wings? Ay, like those on which the seraph flings
His sun-bright speed from star to star abroad;
And we have Music, like the whisperings

Of streams in Heav'n-our labour is an ode