THE POOR SINGING DAME
          
         Beneath an old wall, that went round an old castle, 
	         For many a year, with brown ivy o'erspread; 
         A neat little hovel, its lowly roof raising, 
	         Defied the wild winds that howl'd over its shed: 
         The turrets, that frown'd on the poor simple dwelling, 
	         Were rock'd to and fro, when the tempest would roar, 
         And the river, that down the rich valley was swelling, 
	         Flow'd swiftly beside the green step of its door. 
          
         The summer sun gilded the rushy roof slanting, 
	         The bright dews bespangled its ivy-bound hedge, 
         And above, on the ramparts, the sweet birds were chanting, 
	         And wild buds thick dappled the clear river's edge, 
         When the castle's rich chambers were haunted and dreary, 
	         The poor little hovel was still and secure; 
         And no robber e'er enter'd, nor goblin nor fairy, 
	         For the splendours of pride had no charms to allure. 
          
         The lord of the castle, a proud surly ruler, 
	         Oft heard the low dwelling with sweet music ring, 
         For the old dame that lived in the little hut cheerly, 
	         Would sit at her wheel, and would merrily sing: 
         When with revels the castle's great hall was resounding, 
	         The old dame was sleeping, not dreaming of fear; 
         And when over the mountains the huntsmen were bounding 
	         She would open her lattice, their clamours to hear. 
          
         To the merry-toned horn she would dance on the threshold, 
   	      And louder, and louder repeat her old song: 
         And when winter its mantle of frost was displaying, 
   	      She caroll'd, undaunted, the bare woods among: 
         She would gather dry fern, ever happy and singing, 
 	        With her cake of brown bread, and her jug of brown beer, 
         And would smile when she heard the great castle-bell ringing, 
 	        Inviting the proud to their prodigal cheer. 
   
         Thus she lived, ever patient and ever contented, 
	         Till envy the lord of the castle possess'd, 
         For he hated that poverty should be so cheerful, 
	         While care could the fav'rites of fortune molest; 
         He sent his bold yeomen with threats to prevent her, 
	         And still would she carol her sweet roundelay; 
         At last, an old steward relentless he sent her-- 
	         Who bore her, all trembling, to prison away! 
          
         Three weeks did she languish, then died broken-hearted, 
	         Poor dame! how the death-bell did mournfully sound! 
         And along the green path six young bachelors bore her, 
	         And laid her for ever beneath the cold ground! 
         And the primroses pale 'mid the long grass were growing, 
	         The bright dews of twilight bespangled her grave, 
         And morn heard the breezes of summer soft blowing, 
	         To bid the fresh flowerets in sympathy wave. 
          
         The lord of the castle, from that fatal moment 
	         When poor singing Mary was laid in her grave, 
         Each night was surrounded by screech-owls appalling, 
	         Which o'er the black turrets their pinions would wave! 
         On the ramparts that frown'd on the river, swift flowing, 
 	        They hover'd, still hooting a terrible song, 
         When his windows would rattle, the winter blast blowing, 
	         They would shriek like a ghost, the dark alleys among! 
          
         Wherever he wander'd they followed him crying; 
	         At dawnlight, at eve, still they haunted his way! 
         When the moon shone across the wide common they hooted, 
	         Nor quitted his path till the blazing of day. 
         His bones began wasting, his flesh was decaying, 
	         And he hung his proud head, and he perish'd with shame; 
         And the tomb of rich marble, no soft tear displaying, 
	         O'ershadows the grave of the poor singing dame! 
 
	
  
 
         MISTRESS GURTON'S CAT. A Domestic Tale 
          
         Old Mistress Gurton had a cat, 
	         A tabby, loveliest of the race, 
         Sleek as a doe, and tame and fat, 
	         With velvet paws and whisker'd face; 
         The doves of Venus not so fair, 
	         Nor Juno's peacock half so grand 
         As Mistress Gurton's tabby Rose, 
	         The proudest of the purring band:--     
         So dignified in all her paces, 
         She seem'd a pupil of the Graces! 
         There never was a finer creature 
         In all the varying whims of Nature! 
          
         All liked Grimalkin, passing well! 
         Save Mistress Gurton--and, 'tis said, 
         She oft with furious ire would swell, 
         When, through neglect or hunger keen, 
         Puss with a pilfer'd scrap was seen 
         Purring beneath the pent-house shed: 
         For, like some favourites, she was bent 
         On all things, yet with none content; 
         And still, whate'er her place or diet, 
         She could not pick her bone in quiet. 
          
         Sometimes, new milk Grimalkin stole, 
         And sometimes--overset the bowl! 
         For over eagerness will prove 
         Oft times the bane of what we love; 
         And sometimes, to her neighbour's home 
         Grimalkin like a thief would roam, 
         Teaching poor cats of humbler kind, 
         For high example aways the mind! 
         Sometimes she paced the garden wall, 
         Thick guarded by the shatter'd pane, 
         And, lightly treading with disdain, 
         Fear'd not ambition's certain fall! 
         Old china broke, or scratch'd her dame, 
         And brought domestic friends to shame! 
         And many a time this cat was cursed, 
         Of squalling thieving things the worst! 
         Wish'd dead, and menaced with a string, 
         For cats of such scant fame deserved to swing! 
          
         One day Report, for every busy, 
         Resolved to make Dame Gurton easy; 
         A neighbour came, with solemn look, 
         And thus the dismal tidings broke. 
          
         "Know you that poor Grimalkin died 
         Last night, upon the pent-house side? 
         I heard her for assistance call;  
         I heard her shrill and dying squall! 
         I heard her, in reproachful tone, 
         Pour to the stars her feeble groan! 
         Alone I heard her piercing cries-- 
         'With not a friend to close her eyes!' 
          
         "Poor puss! I vow it grieves me sore 
         Never to see thy beauties more! 
         Never again to hear thee purr, 
         To stroke thy back of zebra fur; 
         To see thy emerald eyes so bright, 
         Flashing around their lust'rous light 
         Amid the solemn shades of night! 
          
         "Methinks I see her pretty paws-- 
         As gracefully she paced along; 
         I hear her voice, so shrill, among 
         The chimney rows! I see her claws, 
         While like a tyger she pursued 
         Undauntedly the pilfering race: 
         I see her lovely whisker'd face 
         When she her nimble prey subdued! 
         And then how she would frisk and play, 
         And purr the evening hours away: 
         Now stretch'd beside the social fire; 
         Now on the sunny lawn at noon, 
         Watching the vagrant birds that flew 
         Across the scene of varied hue, 
         To peck the fruit. Or when the moon 
         Stole o'er the hills in silvery suit, 
         How would she chant her lovelorn tale, 
         Soft as the wild Eolian Iyre! 
         Till every brute, on hill, in dale, 
         Listen'd with wonder mute!" 
          
         "O cease!" exclaim'd Dame Gurton straight, 
         "Has my poor puss been torn away? 
         Alas! how cruel is my fate, 
         How shall I pass the tedious day? 
         Where can her mourning mistress find 
         So sweet a cat? so meek, so kind! 
         So keen a mouser, such a beauty, 
         So orderly, so fond, so true,  
         That every gentle task of duty 
         The dear domestic creature knew! 
         Hers was the mildest tenderest heart! 
         She knew no little cattish art; 
         Not cross, like favourite cats, was she, 
         But seem'd the queen of cats to be! 
         I cannot live--since doom'd, alas! to part 
         From poor grimalkin kind, the darling of my heart!" 
          
         And now Dame Gurton, bathed in tears, 
         With a black top-knot vast appears: 
         Some say that a black gown she wore, 
         As many oft have done before, 
         For beings valued less, I ween, 
         Than this of tabby cats the favourite queen! 
         But, lo! soon after, one fair day, 
         Puss, who had only been a roving, 
         Across the pent-house took her way 
         To see her dame, so sad and loving; 
         Eager to greet the mourning fair, 
         She enter'd by a window, where 
         A china bowl of luscious cream 
         Was quivering in the sunny beam. 
          
         Puss, who was somewhat tired and dry 
         And somewhat fond of bev'rage sweet, 
         Beholding such a tempting treat, 
         Resolved its depth to try. 
         She saw the warm and dazzling ray 
         Upon the spotless surface play; 
         She purr'd around its circle wide, 
         And gazed, and long'd, and mew'd, and sigh'd! 
         But fate, unfriendly, did that hour control, 
         She overset the cream, and smash'd the gilded bowl! 
          
         As Mistress Gurton heard the thief, 
	         She started from her easy chair, 
         And, quite unmindful of her grief, 
	         Began aloud to swear! 
         "Curse that voracious beast!" she cried, 
	         "Here, Susan, bring a cord-- 
         I'll hang the vicious, ugly creature-- 
         The veriest plague e'er form'd by nature!" 
	         And Mistress Gurton kept her word-- 
         And poor Grimalkin--died! 
          
         Thus often we with anguish sore 
         The dead in clamorous grief deplore; 
         Who, were they once alive again, 
         Would meet the sting of cold disdain! 
         For friends, whom trifling faults can sever, 
         Are valued most--when lost for ever! 
 
 	        THE LASCAR. In Two Parts 
          
         "Another day, ah! me, a day 
	         Of dreary sorrow is begun! 
         And still I loath the temper'd ray, 
	         And still I hate the sickly sun! 
         Far from my native Indian shore, 
         I hear our wretched race deplore; 
         I mark the smile of taunting scorn, 
         And curse the hour when I was born! 
         I weep, but no one gently tries 
         To stop my tear, or check my sighs; 
         For while my heart beats mournfully, 
         Dear Indian home, I sigh for thee! 
          
         "Since, gaudy sun! I see no more 
	         Thy hottest glory gild the day; 
         Since, sever'd from my burning shore, 
	         I waste the vapid hours away; 
         O! darkness come! come deepest gloom; 
         Shroud the young summer's opening bloom! 
         Burn, temper'd orb, with fiercer beams 
         This northern world! and drink the streams 
         That through the fertile valleys glide 
         To bathe the feasted fiends of pride! 
         Or hence, broad sun! extinguish'd be! 
         For endless night encircles me! 
    
         "What is to me the city gay? 
	         And what the board profusely spread? 
         I have no home, no rich array, 
	         No spicy feast, no downy bed! 
         I with the dogs am doom'd to eat, 
         To perish in the peopled street, 
         To drink the tear of deep despair, 
         The scoff and scorn of fools to bear! 
         I sleep upon the pavement stone, 
         Or pace the meadows, wild--alone! 
         And if I curse my fate severe 
         Some christian savage mocks my tear! 
          
         "Shut out the sun, O! pitying night! 
	         Make the wide world my silent tomb! 
         O'ershade this northern, sickly light, 
	         And shroud me in eternal gloom! 
         My Indian plains now smiling glow, 
         There stands my parent's hovel low, 
         And there the towering aloes rise, 
         And fling their perfumes to the skies! 
         There the broad palm trees covert lend, 
         There sun and shade delicious blend; 
         But here, amid the blunted ray, 
         Cold shadows hourly cross my way. 
          
         "Was it for this, that on the main 
	         I met the tempest fierce and strong, 
         And steering o'er the liquid plain, 
	         Still onward, press'd the waves among? 
         Was it for this the Lascar brave 
         Toil'd like a wretched Indian slave; 
         Preserved your treasures by his toil, 
         And sigh'd to greet this fertile soil? 
         Was it for this, to beg, to die! 
         Where plenty smiles, and where the sky 
         Sheds cooling airs; while feverish pain 
         Maddens the famish'd Lascar's brain? 
          
         "Oft I the stately camel led, 
	         And sung the short-hour'd night away; 
         And oft, upon the top-mast's head, 
	         Hail'd the red eye of coming day.  
         The Tanyan's back my mother bore; 
         And oft the wavy Ganges roar 
         Lull'd her to rest, as on she pass'd, 
         'Mid the hot sands an burning blast! 
         And oft beneath the Banyan tree 
         She sate and fondly nourish'd me; 
         And while the noontide hour pass'd slow 
         I felt her breast with kindness glow. 
          
         "Where'er I turn my sleepless eyes 
	         No cheek so dark as mine I see, 
         For Europe's suns with softer dyes 
	         Mark Europe's favour'd progeny! 
         Low is my stature, black my hair, 
         The emblem of my soul's despair! 
         My voice no dulcet cadence flings, 
         To touch soft pity's throbbing strings; 
         Then wherefore, cruel Briton, say, 
         Compel my aching heart to stay? 
         To-morrow's sun may rise to see 
         The famish'd Lascar bless'd as thee!" 
          
         The morn had scarcely shed its rays, 
	         When from the city's din he ran; 
         For he had fasted four long days, 
	         And faint his pilgrimage began! 
         The Lascar now, without a friend, 
         Up the steep hill did slow ascend; 
         Now o'er the flowery meadows stole, 
         While pain and hunger pinch'd his soul; 
         And now his feverish lip was dried, 
         And burning tears his thirst supplied, 
         And ere he saw the evening close, 
         Far off, the city dimly rose. 
          
         Again the summer sun flamed high, 
	         The plains were golden far and wide; 
         And fervid was the cloudless sky, 
	         And slow the breezes seem'd to glide: 
         The gossamer, on briar and spray, 
         Shone silvery in the solar ray; 
         And sparkling dew-drops, falling round, 
         Spangled the hot and thirsty ground;            
         The insect myriads humm'd their tune 
         To greet the coming hour of noon, 
         While the poor Lascar boy, in haste, 
         Flew, frantic, o'er the sultry waste. 
          
         And whither could the wand'rer go? 
	         Who would receive a stranger poor? 
         Who, when the blasts of night should blow, 
	         Would ope to him the friendly door? 
         Alone, amid the race of man, 
         The sad, the fearful alien ran! 
         None would an Indian wand'rer bless; 
         None greet him with the fond caress; 
         None feed him, though with hunger keen 
         He at the lordly gate were seen 
         Prostrate, and humbly forced to crave 
         A shelter for an Indian slave. 
          
         The noon-tide sun, now flaming wide, 
	         No cloud its fierce beam shadow'd o'er, 
         But what could worse to him betide 
	         Than begging at the proud man's door? 
         For closed and lofty was the gate, 
         And there in all the pride of state, 
         A surly porter turn'd the key, 
         A man of sullen soul was he-- 
         His brow was fair; but in his eye 
         Sat pamper'd scorn and tyranny; 
         And near him a fierce mastiff stood, 
         Eager to bathe his fangs in blood. 
          
         The weary Lascar turn'd away, 
	         For trembling fear his heart subdued, 
         And down his cheek the tear would stray, 
	         Though burning anguish drank his blood! 
         The angry mastiff snarl'd as he 
         Turn'd from the house of luxury; 
         The sultry hour was long, and high 
         The broad sun flamed athwart the sky-- 
         But still a throbbing hope possess'd 
         The Indian wanderer's feverish breast, 
         When from the distant dell a sound 
         Of swelling music echoed round. 
    
         It was the church-bell's merry peal; 
	         And now a pleasant house he view'd: 
         And now his heart began to feel 
	         As though it were not quite subdued! 
         No lofty dome show'd loftier state, 
         No pamper'd porter watch'd the gate, 
         No mastiff like a tyrant stood, 
         Eager to scatter human blood; 
         Yet the poor Indian wanderer found, 
         E'en where Religion smiled around, 
         That tears had little power to speak 
         When trembling on a sable cheek! 
          
         With keen reproach, and menace rude, 
	         The Lascar boy away was sent; 
         And now again he seem'd subdued, 
	         And his soul sicken'd as he went. 
         Now on the river's bank he stood; 
         Now drank the cool refreshing flood; 
         Again his fainting heart beat high; 
         Again he rais'd his languid eye; 
         Then from the upland's sultry side 
         Look'd back, forgave the wretch, and sigh'd 
         While the proud pastor bent his way 
         To preach of charity--and pray! 
          
		         PART SECOND. 
          
         The Lascar boy still journey'd on, 
	         For the hot sun he well could bear, 
         And now the burning hour was gone, 
	         And Evening came, with softer air. 
         The breezes kiss'd his sable breast, 
         While his scorch'd feet the cold dew press'd; 
         The waving flowers soft tears display'd, 
         And songs of rapture fill'd the glade; 
         The south wind quiver'd o'er the stream, 
         Reflecting back the rosy beam; 
         While as the purpling twilight closed, 
         On a turf bed--the boy reposed. 
          
         And now, in fancy's airy dream, 
	         The Lascar boy his mother spied; 
         And from her breast a crimson stream 
	         Slow trickled down her beating side: 
         And now he heard her, wild, complain, 
         As loud she shriek'd--but shriek'd in vain! 
         And now she sunk upon the ground, 
         The red stream trickling from her wound; 
         And near her feet a murderer stood, 
         His glittering poniard tipp'd with blood! 
         And now, "farewell, my son!" she cried, 
         Then closed her fainting eyes--and died! 
          
         The Indian wanderer, waking, gazed, 
	         With grief, and pain, and horror, wild; 
         And though his feverish brain was crazed, 
	         He raised his eyes to heaven and smiled: 
         And now the stars were twinkling clear, 
         And the blind bat was whirling near 
         And the lone owlet shriek'd, while he 
         Still sate beneath a sheltering tree; 
         And now the fierce-toned midnight blast 
         Across the wide heath howling pass'd, 
         When a long cavalcade he spied 
         By torch-light near the river's side. 
          
         He rose, and hastening swiftly on, 
	         Call'd loudly to the sumptuous train, 
         But soon the cavalcade was gone, 
	         And darkness wrapp'd the scene again. 
         He follow'd still the distant sound; 
         He saw the lightning flashing round; 
         He heard the crashing thunder roar; 
         He felt the whelming torrents pour; 
         And now, beneath a sheltering wood, 
         He listened to the tumbling flood-- 
         And now, with faltering, feeble breath, 
         The famish'd Lascar pray'd for death. 
          
         And now the flood began to rise, 
	         And foaming rush'd along the vale; 
         The Lascar watch'd, with stedfast eyes, 
	         The flash descending quick and pale;        
         And now again the cavalcade 
         Pass'd slowly near the upland glade; 
         But he was dark, and dark the scene, 
         The torches long extinct had been; 
         He call'd, but in the stormy hour 
         His feeble voice had lost its power, 
         Till, near a tree, beside the flood, 
         A night-bewilder'd traveller stood. 
          
         The Lascar now with transport ran, 
	         "Stop! stop!" he cried, with accents bold; 
         The traveller was a fearful man, 
	         And next his life he prized his gold. 
         He heard the wanderer madly cry; 
         He heard his footsteps following nigh; 
         He nothing saw, while onward prest, 
         Black as the sky the Indian's breast, 
         Till his firm grasp he felt; while cold 
         Down his pale cheek the big drop roll'd; 
         Then, struggling to be free, he gave 
         A deep wound to the Lascar slave. 
          
         And now he groan'd, by pain oppress'd, 
	         And now crept onward, sad and slow: 
         And while he held his bleeding breast 
	         He feebly pour'd the plaint of wo: 
         "What have I done!" the Lascar cried, 
         "That Heaven to me the power denied 
         To touch the soul of man, and share 
         A brother's love, a brother's care? 
         Why is this dingy form decreed 
         To bear oppression's scourge and bleed? 
         Is there a God in yon dark heaven, 
         And shall such monsters be forgiven. 
          
         "Here, in this smiling land we find 
	         Neglect and misery sting our race; 
         And still, whate'er the Lascar's mind, 
	         The stamp of sorrow marks his face!" 
         He ceased to speak; while from his side 
         Fast roll'd life's sweetly-ebbing tide, 
         And now, though sick and faint was he, 
         He slowly climb'd a tall elm tree,   
         To watch if near his lonely way 
         Some friendly cottage lent a ray, 
         A little ray of cheerful light, 
         To gild the Lascar's long, long night! 
          
         And now he hears a distant bell, 
	         His heart is almost rent with joy 
         And who but such a wretch can tell 
	         The transports of the Indian boy? 
         And higher now he climbs the tree, 
         And hopes some sheltering cot to see; 
         Again he listens, while the peal 
         Seems up the woodland vale to steal; 
         The twinkling stars begin to fade, 
         And dawnlight purples o'er the glade; 
         And while the severing vapours flee 
         The Lascar boy looks cheerfully. 
          
         And now the sun begins to rise 
	         Above the eastern summit blue; 
         And o'er the plain the day-breeze flies, 
	         And sweetly bloom the fields of dew. 
         The wandering wretch was chill'd, for he 
         Sate shivering in the tall elm tree; 
         And he was faint, and sick, and dry, 
         And bloodshot was his feverish eye; 
         And livid was his lip, while he 
         Sate silent in the tall elm tree, 
         And parch'd his tongue, and quick his breath, 
         And his dark cheek was cold as death! 
          
         And now a cottage low he sees, 
	         The chimney smoke, ascending grey, 
         Floats lightly on the morning breeze 
	         And o'er the mountain glides away. 
         And now the lark, on fluttering wings, 
         Its early song, delighted, sings; 
         And now, across the upland mead, 
         The swains their flocks to shelter lead; 
         The sheltering woods wave to and fro; 
         The yellow plains far distant glow; 
         And all things wake to life and joy, 
         All! but the famish'd Indian boy! 
 
         And now the village throngs are seen, 
	         Each lane is peopled, and the glen 
         From every opening path-way green 
	         Sends forth the busy hum of men. 
         They cross the meads, still, all alone, 
         They hear the wounded Lascar groan! 
         Far off they mark the wretch, as he 
         Falls, senseless, from the tall elm tree! 
         Swiftly they cross the river wide, 
         And soon they reach the elm tree's side; 
         But ere the sufferer they behold, 
         His wither'd heart is dead--and cold! 


 	        THE WIDOW'S HOME 

         Close on the margin of a brawling brook 
         That bathes the low dell's bosom, stands a cot, 
         O'ershadow'd by broad alders. At its door 
         A rude seat, with an ozier canopy, 
         Invites the weary traveller to rest. 
         Tis a poor humble dwelling; yet within 
         The sweets of joy domestic oft have made 
         The long hour not uncheerly, while the moor 
         Was covered with deep snow, and the bleak blast 
         Swept with impetuous wing the mountain's brow! 
         On every tree of the near sheltering wood 
         The minstrelsy of Nature, shrill and wild, 
         Welcomes the stranger guest, and carolling 
         Love-songs spontaneous, greets him merrily. 
         The distant hills, empurpled by the dawn, 
         And thinly scatter'd with blue mists that float 
         On their bleak summits dimly visible, 
         Skirt the domain luxuriant, while the air 
         Breathes healthful fragrance. On the cottage roof 
         The gadding ivy, and the tawny vine 
         Bind the brown thatch, the shelter'd winter-hut 
         Of the tame sparrow, and the red-breast bold. 
          
         There dwells the soldier's widow! young and fair, 
         Yet not more fair than virtuous. Every day 
         She wastes the hour-glass, waiting his return,-- 
         And every hour anticipates the day 
         (Deceived, yet cherish'd, by the flatterer Hope) 
         When she shall meet her hero. On the eve 
         Of sabbath rest, she trims her little hut 
         With blossoms fresh and gaudy, still herself 
         The queen-flower of the garland! The sweet rose 
         Of wood-wild beauty, blushing through her tears. 
          
         One little son she has, a lusty boy, 
         The darling of her guiltless mourning heart, 
         The only dear and gay associate 
         Of her lone widowhood. His sun-burnt cheek 
         Is never blanch'd with fear, though he will climb 
         The broad oak's branches, and with brawny arm 
         Sever the limpid wave. In his blue eye             
         Beams all his mother's gentleness of soul; 
         While his brave father's warm intrepid heart 
         Throbs in his infant bosom. 'Tis a wight 
         Most valorous, yet pliant as the stem 
         Of the low vale-born lily, when the dew 
         Presses its perfumed head. Eight years his voice 
         Has cheer'd the homely hut, for he could lisp 
         Soft words of filial fondness, ere his feet 
         Could measure the smooth path-way. 
			         On the hills 
         He watches the wide waste of wavy green 
         Tissued with orient lustre, till his eyes 
         Ache with the dazzling splendour, and the main, 
         Rolling and blazing, seems a second sun! 
         And, if a distant whitening sail appears, 
         Skimming the bright horizon, while the mast 
         Is canopied with clouds of dappled gold, 
         He homeward hastes rejoicing. An old tree 
         Is his lone watch-tower; 'tis a blasted oak 
         Which from a vagrant acorn, ages past, 
         Sprang up to triumph like a savage bold, 
         Braving the season's warfare. There he sits 
         Silent and musing the lone evening hour, 
         'Till the short reign of sunny splendour fades 
         At the cold touch of twilight. Oft he sings; 
         Or from his oaten pipe, untiring pours 
         The tune mellifluous which his father sung, 
         When he could only listen. 
			         On the sands 
         That bind the level sea-shore, will he stray, 
         When morn unlocks the east, and flings afar 
         The rosy day-beam! There the boy will stop 
         To gather the dank weeds which ocean leaves 
         On the bleak strand, while winter o'er the main 
         Howls its nocturnal clamour. There again 
         He chants his father's ditty. Never more, 
         Poor mountain minstrel, shall thy bosom throb 
         To the sweet cadence! never more thy tear 
         Fall as the dulcet breathings give each word 
         Expression magical! Thy father, boy, 
         Sleeps on the bed of death! His tongue is mute, 
         His fingers have forgot their pliant art, 
         His oaten pipe will ne'er again be heard            
         Echoing along the valley! Never more 
         Will thy fond mother meet the balmy smile 
         Of peace domestic, or the circling arm 
         Of valour, temper'd by the milder joys 
         Of rural merriment. His very name 
         ls now forgotten! for no trophied tomb 
         Tells of his bold exploits: such heraldry 
         Befits not humble worth; for pomp and praise 
         Wait in the gilded palaces of pride 
         To dress ambition's slaves. Yet, on his grave, 
         The unmark'd resting place of valour's sons, 
         The morning beam shines lust'rous; the meek flower 
         Still drops the twilight tear, and the night breeze 
         Moans melancholy music! 
			         Then, to me, 
         O! dearer far is the poor soldier's grave, 
         The widow's lone and unregarded cot, 
         The brawling brook, and the wide alder-bough, 
         The ozier canopy, and plumy choir, 
         Hymning the morn's return, than the rich dome 
         Of gilded palaces! and sweeter far-- 
         O! far more graceful, far more exquisite, 
         The widow's tear bathing the living rose, 
         Than the rich ruby, blushing on the breast 
         Of guilty greatness. Welcome then to me-- 
         The widow's lowly home: The soldier's heir; 
         The proud inheritor of Heaven's best gifts-- 
         The mind unshackled, and the guiltless soul! 

          
	         THE HA UNTED BEACH. 
          
         Upon a lonely desert beach, 
 	        Where the white foam was scatter'd, 
         A little shed uprear'd its head, 
	         Though lofty barks were shatter'd. 
         The sea-weeds gathering near the door, 
	         A sombre path display'd; 
         And, all around, the deafening roar    
         Re-echoed on the chalky shore, 
	         By the green billows made. 
          
         Above a jutting cliff was seen 
	         Where sea-birds hover'd craving; 
         And all around the craggs were bound 
	         With weeds--for ever waving. 
         And here and there, a cavern wide 
	         lts shadowy jaws display'd; 
         And near the sands, at ebb of tide, 
         A shiver'd mast was seen to ride 
	         Where the green billows stray'd. 
          
         And often, while the moaning wind 
	         Stole o'er the summer ocean, 
         The moonlight scene was all serene, 
	         The waters scarce in motion; 
         Then, while the smoothly slanting sand 
	         The tall cliff wrapp'd in shade, 
         The fisherman beheld a band 
         Of spectres gliding hand in hand-- 
	         Where the green billows play'd. 
          
         And pale their faces were as snow, 
	         And sullenly they wander'd; 
         And to the skies with hollow eyes 
	         They look'd as though they ponder'd. 
         And sometimes, from their hammock shroud, 
	         They dismal howlings made, 
         And while the blast blew strong and loud, 
         The clear moon mark'd the ghastly crowd, 
	         Where the green billows play'd. 
          
         And then above the haunted hut 
	         The curlews screaming hover'd; 
         And the low door, with furious roar, 
	         The frothy breakers cover'd. 
         For in the fisherman's lone shed 
	         A murder'd man was laid, 
         With ten wide gashes in his head, 
         And deep was made his sandy bed 
	         Where the green billows play'd. 
 
        A shipwreck'd mariner was he, 
	         Doom'd from his home to sever 
         Who swore to be through wind and sea 
	         Firm and undaunted ever! 
         And when the wave resistless roll'd, 
	         About his arm he made 
         A packet rich of Spanish gold, 
         And, like a British sailor bold, 
	         Plung'd where the billows play'd. 
          
         The spectre band, his messmates brave, 
	         Sunk in the yawning ocean, 
         While to the mast he lash'd him fast, 
	         And braved the storm's commotion. 
         The winter moon upon the sand 
	         A silvery carpet made, 
         And mark'd the sailor reach the land, 
         And mark'd his murderer wash his hand 
	         Where the green billows play'd. 
          
         And since that hour the fisherman 
	         Has toil'd and toil'd in vain; 
         For all the night the moony light 
	         Gleams on the specter'd main! 
         And when the skies are veil'd in gloom, 
	         The murderer's liquid way 
         Bounds o'er the deeply yawning tomb, 
         And flashing fires the sands illume, 
	         Where the green billows play. 
          
         Full thirty years his task has been, 
	         Day after day more weary; 
         For Heaven design'd his guilty mind 
	         Should dwell on prospects dreary. 
         Bound by a strong and mystic chain, 
	         He has not power to stray; 
         But destined misery to sustain, 
         He wastes, in solitude and pain, 
	         A loathsome life away.