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M A UD.
I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little
wood, Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood
The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of
And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers
For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was
His who had given me life-0 father! O God!
was it well ?
Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted
into the ground:
There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he
Did he fling himself down? who knows? for a
great speculation had fail'd,
And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever
wann'd with despair,
And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken
worldling wail'd, And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove
thro' the air.
I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were
By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by a
whisper'd fright, And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on
heart as I heard
The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the
Villainy somewhere! whose ? One says, we are
Not he: his honest fame should at least by me
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate
and the Hall,
Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us
flaccid and drain'd.
Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? we
have made them a curse,
Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is
not its own;
And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better
Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war
his own hearthstone ?
But these are the days of advance, the works of
the men of mind,
When who but a fool would have faith in a
tradesman's ware or his word ?
Is it peace or war ? Civil war, as I think, and
that of a kind
The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the