One feebly clasp'd a dying child,
Sobbing; another said,

"Thank God for Plague !" and darkly smiled:

A third said, "God is dead!"

Their famine grinn'd-What could it less?

Their sadness wore a frown;

Their "loop'd and window'd raggedness'
Blasphemed the parson's gown.
But when that grey-hair'd pastor spoke,
Their prostrate hearts arose,

And trembling hope, like starlight, broke
On each despairer's woes:

"In life,” he said, we are in death,

Through death to life we rise:

In fear man draws his fleeting breath,

In sorrow lives and dies:

We come like shadows-and are gone ;

Dust are we, dust to be; Until this mortal hath put on

Its immortality."

DEVIL BYRON.

A BALLAD.

A STRANGE man own'd yon Abbey once,
Men call'd him Devil Byron ;

Yet he a sister had who loved

Well that man of iron.

* I had the facts on which this ballad is founded from Luke Adams, an old forgeman, who had worked many years, when young, in a small Charcoal Bloomery near Newstead Abbey; but I have not adhered strictly to his narrative. The words uttered by the lady were "Speak to me, my lord! Do speak to me, my lord!" uttering which words, she was often seen on horseback, accompanying her brother in his drives. The character which Luke Adams gave me of the old lord of Newstead, differs from the received and accredited one. He seems to have been rather a kind man. His rich neighbours sneered at him, because he was poor, and hated him because the poor loved him. Never was it said of Devil Byron, that he prosecuted any one for killing God's hares; but Chaworth was a strict game-preserver. The duel, however, was not caused by disputes about game alone. Chaworth was in the habit of calling Byron, "A poor little lord!" his lordship being not only poor, but of low stature. My informant was himself a character. It is still told of him, that when he became too old to work, and retired to a quiet place, there to live on his club-money, (which he received from two or three clubs,) he could not sleep out of the sound of the Masbro' forge-hammer! He lost his sight, at last, but still found his way to my house on the Saturdays, when he knew my boys were not at school, bringing ginger-bread for them; and was never satisfied till they took it out of his pocket-a smile passing over his rough face, as he felt the touch of their hands.

And well he loved that sister-Love

Is strong in rugged bosoms; Even as the barren-seeming bough

Oft hoards richest blossoms.

Yet from his heart, when she espoused
A peasant, he dismissed her;
And thenceforth Devil Byron spoke
Never, to his sister.

Therefore, whene'er he drove abroad,
She chased the Man of iron,
Rode by his wheels, and riding cried,
"Speak to me, Lord Byron !"

Thus, at his chariot's side, she pray'd;
For was he not her brother?
"Do speak to me, my lord!" she said;
Was he not her brother?

Her quivering hand, her voice, her looks,
Might wring soft speech from iron;
But he speaks not !-her heart will break :
He is Devil Byron.

Yet down his cheeks tears shoot, like hail;
Then, speak, thou Angel's brother!
Why struggle, in thy burning soul
Wordless fire to smother?

Oh, Power is cruel!-Wilful Man!

Why kill thy helpless sister? Relent! repent! already, lo,

Beauteous blight hath kiss'd her

Men say, a spectre with thee walks,
And will not from thee sever;
A shadow-not, alas, thy own!

Pointing at thee ever.

Oh, think of Chaworth rashly slain,
And wrath, too late repenting !
Think of the kiss men give the dead!
Vainly, then, relenting.

Think of thy sister's mother's grave;
Think of your days of childhood-
The little hands in fondness join'd,

Wandering through the wild-wood.

The hedgerose, then, was not so fair
As she, in gladness ranging;
Now, sorrowful as beautiful!

Changed, and sadly changing!

The wither'd hand, the failing voice,
Moved they the Man of iron?

The live rose took the dead one's hue:

God, forgive thee, Byron !

As rainbow fades, she perish'd. Then,

How fared the stubborn-hearted?

With her, the wrong'd and lost, he livedNever to be parted.

The Abbot's garden well he liked,
But there a shape was sighing;
There, in each pale, reproachful flower,
Sinless love seem'd dying.

The bird that on the belfry wail'd,
It all her tones did borrow;
The shadows in his banquet-hall
Wore her brow of sorrow.

Where'er he went, she with him went-
Alas, thou stubborn-hearted!
The grey old Abbey's gloom did groan,
"Life and Death, be parted!"

He wish'd, but did not pray, for death-
Pray, pray, thou Heart of iron !
Dying he heard her heart's last pray'r,
"Speak to me, Lord Byron!"

Dying, he saw her dying face;

And as with poison'd lashes,

It look'd forgiveness, its slow smile,
Smote him-He is ashes.