The hoary priest, the Chaldee sage, The slave, the gemmed and glittering page,— A dazzling ring round Pharaoh's throne. Told the dark king what step was near: He stooped not at the footstool-stone, His only words, "Be just, O king!" On Pharaoh's cheek the blood flushed high, Yet on the chief of Israel No arrow of his thousands fell; All mute and moveless as the grave, The forehead peeled, the shoulder bare? Shouted in pride the turbaned peers, Sailed vapory mountains, wild and dun. 66 Yet there is time," the prophet said: He raised his staff,-the storm was stayed: "King! be the word of freedom given! What art thou, man, to war with Heaven ?" There came no word.-The thunder broke! Like a huge city's final smoke; Or, in the chains of terror bound, Lay, corpse-like, on the smouldering ground. Like ocean on the midnight shore! Still swelled the plague,-the flame grew pale,- With arrowy keenness, iron weight, Still swelled the plague,-uprose the blast, And lo! that first fierce triumph o'er, To heaven the sage upraised his hand: The hour of wrath and death was done. Or make the infant's sinew strong as steel. This day's the birth of sorrows! This hour's work Edward Hovel Thurlow (Lord Thurlow). Will breed proscriptions. my lords! Look to your hearths, This nobleman (1781-1829) is sometimes confounded with Lord Thurlow, the celebrated Lord High Chancellor of England; but he was quite a different person. His poems were ridiculed by Moore and Byron, but, with many faults, show some rare beauties. His "Seleet Poems" were published in 1821. TO A BIRD THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS O melancholy bird! a winter's day, SONG TO MAY. May, queen of blossoms And fulfilling flowers, With what pretty music Shall we charm the hours? Wilt thou have pipe and reed, Blown in the open mead? Or to the lute give heed In the green bowers? Thou hast no need of us, Ripened with fire; And many thousand more Songsters that thee adore, Filling earth's grassy floor With new desire. Thou hast thy mighty herds, Tame, and free livers; Doubt not, thy music too, In the deep rivers; And the whole plumy flight, When with the jacinth Coy fountains are tressed; And for the mournful bird Green woods are dressed, That did for Tereus pine; Then shall our songs be thine, To whom our hearts incline: MAY, be thou blessed! Ebenezer Elliott. Elliott (1781-1849) was born at Masborough, in Yorkshire. His father was an iron-founder, and he himself wrought at the business for many years. His vigorous "Corn-Law Rhymes," published between 1830 and 1836, did much to compel Government to abolish all restrictions on the importation of corn. The champion of the poor and oppressed, an intense hater of all injustice, he was no Communist, as the following epigram shows: "What is a Communist? One who has yearnings Elliott had a genuine taste, and the eye of an artist for natural scenery. He was by nature a poet. There is a tenderness and grace that has rarely been excelled in some of his descriptive touches. In the religious sentiment and a devout faith in the compensations of Divine Providence he was also strong. His career was manly and honorable; and in the latter part of his life his circumstances, through his own exertions, were easy, if not affluent. FAREWELL TO RIVILIN. Beautiful River! goldenly shining Where with thee cistus and woodbines are twining, (Birklands around thee, mountains above thee): Rivilin wildest! do I not love thee? Why do I love thee, heart-breaking River? Love thee and leave thee? leave thee forever? Never to see thee, where the storms greet thee! Never to hear thee, rushing to meet me! Never to hail thee, joyfully chiming Beauty is music, Sister of Wiming! Playfully mingling laughter and sadness, Ribbledin's Sister, sad in thy gladness! Why must I leave thee, mournfully sighing Man is a shadow? River undying! Dream-like he passeth, cloud-like he wasteth, E'en as a shadow over thee hasteth. Oh, when thy poet, weary, reposes, Yes, for the spirit blooms ever vernal: While the rock reeleth, storm-struck and riven, There wilt thou hail me, joyfully chiming FROM "LYRICS FOR MY DAUGHTERS." For Spring, and flowers of Spring, Even as for heaven! Great God, thy will is done Down the worn cheeks! Done when the righteous bleed, When the wronged vainly plead,Done in the unended deed, When the heart breaks! Lo, how the dutiful Life the dead earth! Lo, how the clouds distil Blessed is the unpeopled down, Blessed is the crowded town, Pain but appears to be; What are man's fears to thee, God, if all tears shall be Gems on thy throne? HYMN. Nurse of the Pilgrim sires, who sought, Beyond the Atlantic foam, For fearless truth and honest thought, A refuge and a home! Who would not be of them or thee A not unworthy son, That hears, amid the chained or free, The name of Washington? Cradle of Shakspeare, Milton, Knox! King-shaming Cromwell's throne! Home of the Russells, Watts, and Lockes! Earth's greatest are thine own: And shall thy children forge base chains For men that would be free? No! by thy Elliots, Hampdens, Vanes, Pyms, Sydneys, yet to be! No! for the blood which kings have gorged While every lie that fraud hath forged But time shall change the despot's mood: If round the soul the chains are bound But bless through her all other lands, For freedom if thy Hampden fought; For peace and love if Bentham wrote, Then, Father, will the nations all, As with the sound of seas, In universal festival, Sing words of joy, like these:— Let each love all, and all be free, Receiving as they give; Lord!-Jesus died for love and thee! So let thy children live! NOT FOR NAUGHT. Do and suffer naught in vain; If the salt of life is pain, Let even wrongs bring good to thee; Good to others, few or many,— Good to all, or good to any. If men curse thee, plant their lies Preaching peace where'er thou go: If the nation-feeding corn Thriveth under icéd snow; If the small bird on the thorn Bid thy cares thy comforts double, See the rivers! how they run, Strong in gloom, and strong in light! Like the never-wearied sun, Through the day and through the night, Each along his path of duty, Turning coldness into beauty! SPRING: A SONNET. Again the violet of our early days Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun, The streams, rejoiced that winter's work is done, Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly light |