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On the hedge elms in the narrow lane
Still swung the spikes of corn: Dear Lord! it seems but yesterday
Young Edward's marriage-morn.
Up through that wood behind the church,
There leads from Edward's door A mossy track, all over-bough'd
For half a mile or more.
And from their house-door by that track
The Bride and Bridegroom went; Sweet Mary, though she was not gay,
Seem'd cheerful and content.
But when they to the church-yard came,
I've heard poor Mary say,
Her heart it died away.
And when the vicar join'd their hands,
Her limbs did creep and freeze ; But when they pray’d, she thought she saw
Iler mother on her knees.
which must be supposed to have been narrated in the first and second parts, is as follows.
Edwird, a young farmer, meets, at the house of Ellen, her borond-fnend, Mary, and commences an acquaintance, which ends in a mutual attachment. With her consent, and by the sdrine of their common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes &cd utentions to Mary's Mother, a widow-woman bordering on het forlieth year, and from constant health, the possession of a competent property, and from having had no other children bat Mary and another daughter (the Father died in their infancy), retaining, for the greater part, her personal attractions and comeliness of appearance; but a woman of low education and violent temper. The answer which she at once returned to Edward's application was remarkable-"Well, Edward ! you are a handsome young fellow, and you shall have my Daughter,"? From this time all their wooing passed under the Mother's eye; and, in fine, she became herself enamoured of her fature Sop-in-law, and practised every art, both of endearment end of calumny, to transfer his affections from her daughter to kerult. The outlines of the Tale are positive facts, and of no very distant date, though the author has purposely altered the name ud the scene of action, as well as invented the characters of th parties and the detail of the incidente.) Edward, however, though perplesed by her strange detraction from her danchter's good qualities, yet in the innocence of his own heart xil mistaking her increasing fondness for motherly affection i b, at lerzth overcome by her miserable passion, after much aluse of Mary's temper and moral tendencies, exclaimed with violent emotion-"( Edward! indeed, indeed, she is not fit for 500-she has not a heart to love you as you deserve. It is I that love you! Marry me, Edward! and I will this very day Beride all my property on you."- The Lover's eyes were now opened; and thus taken by surprise, whether from the effect of the horror which he felt, acting as it were hysterically on his nervous system, or that at the first moment he lost the sense of the proposal in the feeling of its strangeness and absurdity, be ftung her from him and burst into a fit of laughter. Irritated by this almost to frenzy, the woman feil on her knees, and in a kood coice that approached to a scream, she prayed for a Curse both on him and on her own Child. Mary happened to be in the roon directly above them, heard Edward's laugh and her Mother's blasphemous prayer, and forinted away. He, hearing the fall, ran up stairs, and taking her in his arms, carried her ofī to Elen's home; and after some fruitless attempts on her part toward a reconciliation with her Mother, she was married to him.-And here the third part of the Tale begins.
I was not bed to choose this story from any partiality to trapic, much less to monstrous events (though at the time that I composed the verres, somewhat more than twelve years ago, I was legs are to such kulujorts than at present), but from finding in it a sinking proof of the possible effect on the imagipation, from an idea violently and suddenly impressed on it. I had been trading Bryon Edword='s account of the effect of the 06 Witchcraft on the Negrocy in the West Indies, and Ileme's deep's interesting Anecdotes of similar workings on the imagination of the Copper Indians (thuse of my readers who brve it in their power will be well repaid for the trouble of rekors to those works for the passages alluded to), and I conceved the design of showing that instances of this kind are not berular to srage or barbarous tribes, and of illustrating the made in which the mind is affected in these cases, and the proFrage ard symptoms of the morbid action on the fancy from the tegining.
The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a Bountry church-yard, to a Traveller whose curiosity bad been awakened by the appearance of three graves, close by cach other, to two only of which there were grave-stones. On the fast of these were the name, and dates, as usual: on the second, bo name, but only a date, and the words, The Mercy of God is infinite.)
And o'er the church-path they return'd
I saw poor Mary's back,
Into the mossy track.
Her feet upon the mossy track
The married maiden set: That moment I have heard her say
She wish'd she could forget.
The shade o'erflush'd her limbs with heat
Then came a chill like death: And when the merry bells rang out,
They seem'd to stop her breath.
Beneath the foulest Mother's curse
No child could ever thrive: A Mother is a Mother still,
The holiest thing alive.
So five month's pass'd: the Mother still
Would never heal the strife ; But Edward was a loving man,
And Mary a fond wife.
“My sister may not visit us,
My mother says her nay: O Edward! you are all to me,. I wish for your sake I could be
More lisesome and more gay.
" I'm dull and sad ! indeed, indeed
I know I have no reason! Perhaps I am not well in health,
And 't is a gloomy season.” 'Twas a drizzly time-no ice, no snow!
And on the few fine days She stirr'd not out, lest she might meet
Her Mother in her ways. But Ellen, spite of miry ways
And weather dark and dreary, Trudged every day to Edward's house, And made them all more cheery.
Were ripe as ripe could be ;
Were falling from the tree.
Dear Ellen did not weep at all,
But closelier did she cling, And turn'd her face, and look'd as if She saw some frightful thing.
And oft she said, I'm not grown thin!
And then her wrist she spann'd; And once, when Mary was downcast,
She took her by the hand,
She gently press'd her hand; Then harder, till her grasp at length
Did gripe like a convulsion ! Alas! said she, we ne'er can be Made happy by compulsion !
Within this arbor, which was still
With scarlet berries hung, Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, Just as the first bell rung.
"Tis sweet to hear a brook, 't is sweet To hear the Sabbath-bell,
DEJECTION; "Tis sweet to hear them both at once,
Late, late yestreen, I saw the new Moon,
With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens. That brook e'en on a working day Might chatter one to sleep.
WELL! if the Bard was weather-wise, who made And he had pass'd a restless night,
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, And was not well in health ;
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence The women sat down by his side.
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draught, that moans and rakes The sun peeps through the close thick leaves,
Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom light,
But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread) “A tiny sun, and it has got
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
The coming on of rain and squally blast.
And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, Make up a glory, gay and bright,
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Round that small orb, so blue.'
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst
And sent my soul abroad, And then they argued of those rays,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, What color they might be:
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and Says this, “ they're mostly green;" says that,
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear-
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene, “A Mother too!” these self-samo words Have I been gazing on the western sky, Did Edward mutter plain ;'
And its peculiar tint of yellow green: His face was drawn back on itself,
And still I gaze--and with how blank an eye! With horror and huge pain.
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars;
Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Both groan'd at once, for both knew well
Now sparkling, now bedimm’d, but always seen: What thoughts were in his mind;
Yon crescent Moon, as fix'd as if it grow
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair,
I seo, not feel, how beautiful they are!
My genial spirits fail, "O God forgive me! (he exclaim'd)
And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
It were a vain endeavor,
Though I should gaze for ever,
On that green light that lingers in the west :
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within
IV. Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! O Lady! we receive but what we give, and To-morrow! and To morrow
And in our life alone does nature live :
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ! Makest Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
And would we aught behold, of higher worth, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Than that inanimate cold world allow'd
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to Frenzy bold ! Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,
What tell'st thou now about ? A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
"T is of the Rushing of an Host in rout, Enveloping the Earth
With groans of trampled men, with smarting And from the soul itself must there be sent
woundsA sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence ! of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, What this strong music in the soul may be!
With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is What, and wherein it doth exist,
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
A tale of less aflright,
And temper'd with delight,
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,
"T is of a little child Life, and Life's Efluence, Cloud at once and Shower,
Upon a lonesome wild,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, A new Earth and new Heaven,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother
hear. Endreamt of by the sensual and the proudJoy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud
VIII. We in ourselves rejoice!
| "T is midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, Full seldomi may my friend such vigils keep! All melodies the echoes of that voice,
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing, All colors a suffusion from that light.
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hung bright above her dwelling, VI.
Silent as though they watchi'd the sleeping Earth! There was a time when, though my path was
With light heart may she rise, rough,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, This joy within me dallied with distress,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice: And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
To her may all things live, from Pole to Pole, Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness :
Their life the eddying of her living soul! For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
O simple spirit, guided from above, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine.
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice, But now afflictions bow me down to earth :
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.
But oh! each visitation
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCIIESS OF But to be still and patient, all I can;
DEVONSHIRE, And haply by abstruse research to steal
ON THE TWENTY-FOURTII STANZA IN HER “PASSAGE
OVER MOUNT GOTHARD.'
And hail the Chanel! hail the Platform wild !
Where Tell directed the avenging Dart,
With well-strung arm, that first preserved his Child, Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Then aim'd the arrow at the Tyrant's heart.
Jor's fondly foster'd child!
And did you hail the Platform wild, That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell?
Whence learnt you that heroic measure ? Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, Light as a dream your days their circlets ran, Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, From all that teaches Brotherhood to Man; Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Far, far removed! from wani, from hope, from fear!
Enchanting music lull d your infant ear, • Taim is a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart : the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of
Emblazonments and old ancestral crests, those in the valleys. This address to the Storm wind will not with many a bright obtrusive form of art, appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country.
Detain'd your eye from nature : stately vests,