And loosened crags, down, down they rolled with rush
And bound, and thundering force. Such was the fall,
As when some city, by the labouring earth
Heaved from its strong foundations is cast down,
And all its dwellings, towers, and palaces
In one wide desolation prostrated.
Froin end to end of that long strait, the crash
Was heard continuous, and commixt with sounds
More dreadful-shrieks of horror, and despair,
And death-the wild and agonizing cry
Of that whole host in one destruction whelmed.
Vain was all valour there, all martial skill;
The valiant arm is helpless now; the feet
Swift in the race, avail not now to save;
They perish, all their thousands perish there;
Horsemen and infantry, they perish all,—
The outward armour, and the bones within,
Broken, and bruised, and crushed. Echo prolonged
The long uproar: a silence then ensued,
Through which the sound of Deva's stream was heard,
A lonely voice of waters, wild and sweet.
The lingering groan, the faintly-uttered prayer,
The louder curses of despairing death,
Ascended not so high. Down from the cave
Pelayo hastes, the Asturians hasten down;
Fierce and unmitigable, down they speed
On all sides, and along the vale of blood
The avenging sword did mercy's work that hour.
Aye, Idleness! the rich folks never fail
To find some reason why the poor deserve
Their miseries !-Is it idleness, I pray you,
That brings the fever or the ague fit?
That makes the sick one's sickly appetite
Turn at the dry bread and potato meal?
Is it idleness that makes small wages fail
For growing wants? Six years ago, these bells
Rung on my wedding-day, and I was told
What I might look for, but I did not heed
Good counsel. I had lived in service, Sir,
Knew never what it was to want a meal;
Laid down without one thought to keep me sleepless,
Or trouble me in sleep; had for a Sunday
My linen gown, and when the pedlar came
Could buy me a new ribbon. And my husband,
A towardly young man and well to do.
He had his silver buckles and his watch;
There was not in the village one who looked
Sprucer on holidays. We married, Sir,
And we had children, but as wants increased
Wages did not. The silver buckles went,
So went the watch; and when the holiday coat
Was worn to work, no new one in its place.
For me-you see my rags! but I deserve them,
For wilfully, like this new-married pair,
Aye, it falls heavy there; and yet their pittance
Just serves to keep life in. A blessed prospect,
To slave while there is strength, in age the workhouse,
A parish shell at last, and the little bell
Tolled hastily for a pauper's funeral!
Aye, Sir; and were he drest
And cleaned, he'd be as fine a boy to look on
As the Squire's young master.
Let comfortably in the summer wind;
But when the winter comes, it pinches me
To see the little wretch! I've three besides ;
And, God forgive me! but I often wish
To see them in their coffins.
'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep
As undisturbed as Justice! but no more
The wretched slave, as on his native shore,
Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep!
Though through the toil and anguish of the day
No tear escaped him, not one suffering groan
Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone
In bitterness; thinking that far away
Though the gay Negroes join the midnight song,
Though merriment resounds on Niger's shore,
She whom he loves, far from the cheerful throng
Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door
With dim-grown eye, silent and wo-begone,
And weeps for him who will return no more.
Pizarro here was born; a greater name
The list of glory boasts not.
Toil and pain,
Famine, and hostile elements, and hosts
Embattled, failed to check him in his course;
Not to be wearied, not to be deterred,
Not to be overcome. A mighty realm
He overran, and with relentless arms
Slew or enslaved its unoffending sons,
And wealth, and power, and fame, were his rewards.
There is another world, beyond the grave,
According to their deeds where men are judged,
O Reader! if thy daily bread be earned
By daily labour,-yea, however low,
However wretched be thy lot assigned,
Thank thou, with deepest gratitude, the God
Who made thee, that thou art not such as he
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old, mossy bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,
A balmy night! and tho' the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,
"Most musical, most melancholy" Bird!
A melancholy Bird? Oh! idle thought!
In nature there is nothing melancholy.
But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pie.ced
With the resemblance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper, or neglected love,
And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself
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