I feel no shock, I hear no groan, Lo! in that dot some mite like me, May crawl some atom-cliffs to see,- Lo! while he pauses and admires O God of terrors! what are we? But shouldst thou wreck our fatherland Safe in the hollow of thy hand Thy little ones would sleep. E. Elliott. CXLIV. CHRISTIAN PATRIOTISM. ATRIOTS have toiled, and in their country's cause, Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve, Receive proud recompense. We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic Muse, Proud of the treasure, marches with it down To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn, Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass To guard them, and to immortalize her trust : But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, To those, who, posted at the shrine of Truth, Their blood is shed In confirmation of the noblest claim, Yet few remember them. They lived unknown, And chased them up to Heaven. Their ashes flew He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free, CXLV. HOLY THURSDAY. WAS on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green : Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul's, they like Thames' waters flow. O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town, Seated in companies they were, with radiance all their own : The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among : Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor, Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. W. Blake. CXLVI. THE MILK-MAÏD O' THE FARM. (IN THE DORSET DIALECT.) BE the milk-maïd o' the farm : Wi' my white milk-païl in my eärm, An' I don't zit up ha'f the night, In zummer mornèns, when the lark My steps upon the dewy grass. An' in the evenèn, when the zun Do sheen upon the western brows An' never move, nor kick my païl, To hook, or switch me wi' her taïl. An' I at mornen an' at night Do skim the yaller cream, an' mould An' zee the butter vetched an' rolled. An' Tommas shan't be called the wo'st I be the milk-maïd o' the farm : W. Barnes. CXLVII. THE SUN RISES BRIGHT IN FRANCE. HE sun rises bright in France, And fair sets he; But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countree. O it's nae my ain ruin That saddens aye my e'e, My lanely hearth burned bonnie, An' smiled my ain Marie; I've left a' my heart behin' The bud comes back to summer, And the blossom to the bee; But I'll win back-O never, To my ain countree. R |