The robber to his haunt; and from their lanes
And unfrequented walks, the haggard shapes

Of Poverty and crime come creeping forth,

Like spectres crawling out of dusky tombs !

The heavens are visor'd; hark! the dreary howl Of Thunder challenging the night; or, like

An unseen monster, moaning as he prowls :

Awhile 'tis hush'd; then flash the riven clouds
Asunder, and a lake of lightning gleams,

Like shining water, through the cloven dark,
While rain-drops hiss along the sultry air.

Woe to the houseless wand'rer, doom'd to walk Through the drench'd streets barefooted, or bereft Of life's sweet charities, at such an hour :

Glance down yon lane of gloom!—upon the cold And dripping steps,-with garments moistly clung

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Round her shrunk form,—a lifeless woman lies,

With face upturn'd unto the flooding shower.

Despair hath just unlink'd the chain of life;
And on her cheek an agonizing trace

Of parting spirit, as it work'd and writhed,

And with the body wrestled,—still remains. Approach! and with the lamp-beam learn her fate, In mournful lines upon her visage mapp'd,—

A chronicle of sorrow, and of sin,

And shame, whose fountain is a brain of fire:

A heart for ever on the rack of care;

Oppression from without, and pangs within ; Despair,―then death, the master-cure of woe,— Survey her features, and you read it all!

Unhappy maiden! round whose days of bloom A father's prayers their holy influence cast, And from whose eyes a mother reap'd delight,—

Death should have torn thee earlier to the tomb,
And in thy native churchyard heap'd thy grave

Of grassy mould;-for once, along the mead

Fleet as the fawn thou boundedst; bright and

fair,

The beauty of the valleys o'er thy form

And features breathed, while in each glance there

shone

The magic of an uncorrupted mind:

And this is all that now of thee remains!

In Heaven's dread book thy sorrow hath a page,
And when 'tis open'd, who shall quail the most,

The man who tempted, or the maid who fell?

Thy ceaseless havoc through the realms of Life.Let others paint thee on the desert heath,

Where, melting into blood, with lukewarm limbs,

The gory wretch lies gasping and alone;

Or in the roofless and deserted domes,

Where fires have blacken'd on the blister'd walls;

Or in the suicide,-lo! where he stands,

With visage colourless, with look aghast,

And spirit shiv'ring through his guilty frame!

Yes! far or near, where'er the life-blood flows,

By ruin, violence, or calm decay,

Death's ravages are felt the very dust

That in our daily walks we tread, hath once

Some breathing mould of beauty been! O earth Thou grave, and mother!—in thy hollow breast What faded myriads are entomb'd!-Give back Your dead, departed Ages; and arise,

Ye spirits of the Past!-they come, they come!

From mountain, and from cave, from vault and tomb,
The de ad are darting into life again!

The ge nerations that have been,-from Earth's
Young dawn, to moments on their very wing,

Behold them! sumless as the ocean sand!

A world of life walks o'er a world of death;
Till all ar e buried in one deep abyss,

The tomb of passion, prejudice, and time!

To die, is nature's universal doom;

The Past ha th braved it, and the Future shall;
Though little deem we, as we laugh the hours
Along, like echoes dandled by the wind,

How swift our path is verging to the grave.

Terrific Power! how often in the trance

Of midnight, when the thoughtless learn to think,
The gay grows olemn, and the foolish wise,

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