Around the murderer's wrists they lock the chain : 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, So, put thou forth thy small white rose; Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow 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. 53 How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem! How soft thy voice, when woods are still, 2 But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring, The fresh green days of life's fair spring, Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, In freedom and in joy. SPENSERIAN. ALL unmatch'd Shakspeare, and the blind old Man But three unborrow'd strains will to all time THOMAS. THOU art not dead, my son! my son ! And e'en the thought that thou are not Will grief forget thy willingness The love of all the good and true, That fill'd thine eyes with beauty? Thy pitying grace, thy dear request, That made thee look as angels look, When great good deeds are ended? Thy prayer, to stay with us, when sure Thy look'd farewell is in my heart, And brings thee still before me. What though the change, the fearful change, Thy half-closed lids, thy upturn'd eyes, 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! We hear thee not! we see thee not, Thou seest no true believer. No! but for life, and more than life, That ever stands behind thee? 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 66 The tears, o'erflowing, gather They come not yet!—until they come, Heav'n is not Heav'n, my Father! |