But, oh, though worlds of cruel waves My William, thou art present still 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? 1 HE WROTE. He did not come, but letters came, But he would quickly come, they said- Because she knew that her true love Would weep upon her grave. "No parish hirelings," oft she said, 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 And o'er her long, with lifted dart, And life in her seem'd like a sleep, "Is William come?" she wildly ask'd; She's dead!—but through her closing lids 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, "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 VOL. II. K She stood in comely mourning there, Self-stay'd in her distress; The dead maid's toil bought earth and prayer; But thou, meet parent of the dead! Where now wilt thou abide ? With William in a foreign land; Oh! William's broken heart is sworn Full soon will men cry-" Hark! again! ON THE DEATH OF EARL FITZWILLIAM. O YE who died, trampled, at Peterloo, By England's Juggernaut! Ye too who drank 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 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 clouds expect thee-Rise! the stonechat hops Go tell the plover, on the mountain tops, Of streams in Heav'n-our labour is an ode |