For thou hast bought her with a fearful price, Accursed loss! Accursed gain! For her thou givest the blessedness of Seth, And to thine arms she brings the curse of Cain. From all the angelic ranks goes forth a groan, The still small voice makes answer, Wait and see, O sons of glory, what the end shall be" "But, in the outer darkness of the place Where God hath shown his power without his grace, From Paradise the conquering serpent came. From off his fiery bed Lifts high his stately head, Which Michael's sword hath marked with many a scar. And flings her dusky portals wide "But louder still shall be the din The fair creation of his hand; When from the heaven streams down amain For forty days the sheeted rain; And from his ancient barriers free, With a deafening roar the sea Comes foaming up the land. Mother, cast thy babe aside: The mountains that o'erhang the plain. "O thou haughty land of Nod, Thou hast said Of all the hills, The fairest is that mountain white Peeping through terraced gardens green "Therefore on that proud mountain's crown None salutes and none replies; None heaves a groan or breathes a prayer; They crouch on earth with tearless eyes, And clenched hands, and bristling hair. The rain pours on: no star illumes Nigher still and still more nigh. The wreaths of spray come thick and fast; A sky without a beam, a sea without a shore. “O thou fair land, where from their starry home Cherub and seraph oft delight to roam, Thou city of the thousand towers, Thou palace of the golden stairs, Ye gardens of perennial flowers, Ye moated gates, ye breezy squares; Ye parks amidst whose branches high Oft peers the squirrel's sparkling eye; Ye vineyards, in whose trellised shade Pipes many a youth to many a maid; Ye ports where rides the gallant ship; Ye marts where wealthy burghers meet; Ye dark green lanes which know the trip Of woman's conscious feet; Ye grassy meads where, when the day is done, Ye purple moors on which the setting sun Ye wintry deserts where the larches grow; Many a fathom shall ye sleep Beneath the grey and endless deep, 108 THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE. AN ELECTION BALLAD. (1827.) As I sate down to breakfast in state, Came a rap that almost beat the door in. And Betty ceased spreading the toast, 'As sure as a gun, sir," said she, A letter and free-bring it here I have no correspondent who franks. No! Yes! Can it be? Why, my dear, "Dear sir, as I know your desire That the Church should receive due protection, I humbly presume to require Your aid at the Cambridge election. "It has lately been brought to my knowledge, To suppress each cathedral and college, To assist his detestable scheme Three nuncios from Rome are come over; They left Calais on Monday by steam, And landed to dinner at Dover. "An army of grim Cordeliers, Well furnished with relics and vermin, Will follow, Lord Westmoreland fears, To effect what their chiefs may determine. Lollard's bower, good authorities say, Is again fitting up for a prison; And a wood-merchant told me to-day "Tis a wonder how fagots have risen. "The finance scheme of Canning contains A new Easter-offering tax; And he means to devote all the gains To a bounty on thumb-screws and racks. Your living, so neat and compact Pray, don't let the news give you pain !--Is promised, I know for a fact, To an olive-faced Padre from Spain." I read, and I felt my heart bleed, To our Protestant champion's committee. True gentlemen, kind and well-bred! No fleering! no distance! no scorn! They asked after my wife who is dead, And my children who never were born. They then, like high-principled Tories, Called our Sovereign unjust and unsteady, There were parsons in boot and in basket; |