« PoprzedniaDalej »
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
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
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