Around the murderer's wrists they lock the chain :
What, tyrant? whom hath Rapine's victim slain?
The widow, hunger-stung and sorrow-bent,
Who ask'd, with tears, her lodger's weekly rent!

O Wholesale Dealers in waste, want, and war!

Would that your deeds were written !—and they are! Written and graved, on minds and hearts oppress'd; Stamp'd deep, and blood-burnt-in, o'er realms unbless'd!

TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.

THY fruit full-well the schoolboy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!

So, put thou forth thy small white rose;
I love it for his sake.

Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,

Thou needst not be ashamed to show

Thy satin-threaded flowers;

For dull the eye, the heart is dull,

That cannot feel how fair,

Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are!

TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.

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How delicate thy gauzy frill!

How rich thy branchy stem!

How soft thy voice, when woods are still, 2
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;
The violet by the moss'd grey stone
Hath laid her weary head;

But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power,

The fresh green days of life's fair spring,
And boyhood's blossomy hour.

Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bid'st me be a boy,

To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,

In freedom and in joy.

SPENSERIAN.
CRIAN.

ALL unmatch'd Shakspeare, and the blind old Man
Of London, hymn in every land and clime
Our country's praise, while many an artisan
Spins for her glory school-taught lays sublime.
Them in her bosom, be they blank or rhyme,
Oblivious spirits gently will inter.

But three unborrow'd strains will to all time
Give honour, glory, highest laud to her-
Thalaba! Peter Bell! the Ancient Mariner !

THOMAS.

THOU art not dead, my son! my son !
But God hath hence removed thee:
Thou canst not die, my buried boy,
While lives the sire who loved thee.
How canst thou die, while weeps for thee
The broken heart that bore thee;

And e'en the thought that thou are not
Can to her soul restore thee?

Will grief forget thy willingness
To run before thy duty?

The love of all the good and true,

That fill'd thine eyes with beauty?

Thy pitying grace, thy dear request,
When others had offended,

That made thee look as angels look,

When great good deeds are ended?
The strength with which thy soul sustain'd
Thy woes and daily wasting?

Thy prayer, to stay with us, when sure
That thou from us wast hasting?
And that last smile, which seem'd to say-
"Why cannot ye restore me?"

Thy look'd farewell is in my heart,

And brings thee still before me.

What though the change, the fearful change,
From thought, which left thee never,
To unremembering ice and clay,
Proclaim thee gone for ever?

Thy half-closed lids, thy upturn'd eyes,
Thy still and lifeless tresses;
Thy marble lip, which moves no more,

Yet more than grief expresses;

The silence of thy coffin'd snow,

By awed remembrance cherish'd;

These dwell with me, like gather'd flowers

That in their April perish'd.

Thou art not gone, thou canst not go

My bud, my blasted blossom!

The pale rose of thy faded face

Still withers in my bosom.

O Mystery of Mysteries,

That took'st my poor boy from me!
What art thou, Death? all-dreaded Death!
If weakness can o'ercome thee?

We hear thee not! we see thee not,
E'en when thy arrows wound us;
But, viewless, printless, echoless,
Thy steps are ever round us.
Though more than life a mystery
Art thou, the undeceiver,
Amid thy trembling worshippers

Thou seest no true believer.

No! but for life, and more than life,
No fearful search could find thee:
Tremendous shadow! who is He

That ever stands behind thee?
The Power who bids the worm deny
The beam that o'er her blazes,
And veils from us the holier light
On which the seraph gazes,

Where burns the throne of Him, whose name The sunbeams here write faintly;

And where my child a stranger stands

Amid the blest and saintly,

And sobs aloud-while in his eyes

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The tears, o'erflowing, gather

They come not yet!—until they come,

Heav'n is not Heav'n, my Father!