The price is life.

The dower is death.
Accursed loss! Accursed gain!

For her thou givest the blessedness of Seth,

And to thine arms she brings the curse of Cain. Round the dark curtains of the fiery throne

Pauses awhile the voice of sacred song:

From all the angelic ranks goes forth a groan,

'How long, O Lord, how long?'

The still small voice makes answer, Wait and see,
Oh 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,
Is laughter and the sound of glad acclaim,
Loud as when, on wings of fire,
Fulfilled of his malign desire,

From Paradise the conquering serpent came.
The giant ruler of the morning star

From off his fiery bed

Lifts high his stately head,

Which Michael's sword hath marked with many a scar.
At his voice the pit of hell
Answers with a joyous yell,

66

And flings her dusky portals wide

For the bridegroom and the bride.

But louder still shall be the din

In the halls of Death and Sin,

When the full measure runneth o'er,
When mercy can endure no more,
When he who vainly proffers grace,

Comes in his fury to deface

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 :
Bridegroom, quit thy virgin bride:
Brother, pass thy brother by:
"Tis for life, for life, ye fly.
Along the drear horizon raves
The swift advancing line of waves.

On: on their frothy crests appear
Each moment nearer and more near.
Urge the dromedary's speed;

Spur to death the reeling steed;
If perchance ye yet may gain

The mountains that o'erhang the plain.

"Oh thou haughty land of Nod,
Hear the sentence of thy God.
Thou hast said Of all the hills
Whence, after autumn rains, the rills
In silver trickle down,

The fairest is that mountain white
Which intercepts the morning light
From Cain's imperial town.
On its first and gentlest swell
Are pleasant halls where nobles dwell;
And marble porticoes are seen

Peeping through terraced gardens green.
Above are olives, palms, and vines;
And higher yet the dark-blue pines;
And highest on the summit shines
The crest of everlasting ice.

Here let the God of Abel own

That human art hath wonders shown
Beyond his boasted paradise.'

"Therefore on that proud mountain's crown
Thy few surviving sons and daughters
Shall see their latest sun go down

Upon a boundless waste of waters.

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
The blackness of the roaring sky.
And each successive billow booms
Nigher still and still more nigh.
And now upon the howling blast

The wreaths of spray come thick and fast;
And a great billow by the tempest curled

Falls with a thundering crash; and all is o'er.
And what is left of all this glorious world?

A sky without a beam, a sea without a shore.

"Oh 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,
The shepherd pens his fold;

Ye purple moors on which the setting sun
Leaves a rich fringe of gold;

Ye wintry deserts where the larches grow;
Ye mountains on whose everlasting snow
No human foot hath trod;

Many a fathom shall ye sleep

Bencath the grey and endless deep,
In the great day of the revenge of God."

THE

COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE.

AN ELECTION BALLAD. (1827.)

As I sate down to breakfast in state,
At my living of Tithing-cum-Boring,
With Betty beside me to wait,

Came a rap

that almost beat the door in.

I laid down my basin of tea,

And Betty ceased spreading the toast,

"As sure as a gun, sir," said she,
"That must be the knock of the post."

A letter and free-bring it here—

I have no correspondent who franks.
No! yes! Can it be? Why, my dear,

'Tis our glorious, our Protestant Bankes.

"Dear sir, as I know you 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,
That the Ministers fully design

To suppress each cathedral and college,
And eject every learned divine.

To assist this 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 faggots 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,
Sore wounded with horror and pity;
So I flew, with all possible speed,

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,
And assailed him with scandalous stories,
Till the coach for the voters was ready.
That coach might be well called a casket
Of learning and brotherly love :

There were parsons in boot and in basket;
There were parsons below and above.

There were Sneaker and Griper, a pair

Who stick to Lord Mulesby like leeches;

A smug chaplain of plausible air,

Who writes my Lord Goslingham's speeches. Dr. Buzz, who alone is a host,

Who, with arguments weighty as lead,

Proves six times a week in the Post

That flesh somehow differs from bread.