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I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little

wood, Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood

red heath, The red-ribb’d ledges drip with a silent horror of

blood, And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers

• Death.'

For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was

found, His who had given me life-O 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

vast 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

my heart as I heard The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the

shuddering night.

Villainy somewhere! whose? One says, we are

villains all. Not he : his honest fame should at least by me Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? we

be maintained : 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.

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

or worse Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on

his own bearthstone ?

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


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