Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,

And the fingers that once were so busy with your

blades,

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Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades ?

Down, down, for ever down with the mitre and the

crown,

With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of

the Pope;

There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham's Stalls:

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The Jesuit smites his bosom; the Bishop rends

his cope.

And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's

ills,

And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword ;

And the Kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear

What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.

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LORD MACAULAY.

302

BLACKMWORE MAIDENS

The primrwose in the sheäde do blow,
The cowslip in the zun,
The thyme upon the down do grow,
The clote where streams do run;
An' where do pretty maïdens grow
An' blow, but where the tow'r
Do rise among the bricken tuns,
In Blackmwore by the Stour?

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If you could zee their comely gaït,
An' pretty feäces' smiles,

A-trippèn on so light o' waïght,
An' steppèn off the stiles;

A-gwaïn to church, as bells do swing
An' ring within the tow'r,

You'd own the pretty maïdens' pleäce
Is Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you vrom Wimborne took your road,
To Stower or Paladore,

An' all the farmers' housen show'd
Their daeters at the door;

You'd cry to bachelors at hwome-
'Here, come: 'ithin an hour

You'll vind ten maïdens to your mind,
In Blackmwore by the Stour.'

An' if you looked 'ithin their door,
To zee em in their pleäce,

A-doèn housework up avore
Their smilèn mother's feäce;
You'd cry-'Why, if a man would wive
An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r,
Then let en look en out a wife
In Blackmwore by the Stour.'

As I upon my road did pass

A school-house back in May There out upon the beäten grass Wer maïdens at their play; An' as the pretty souls did twile An' smile, I cried, 'The flow'r O' beauty, then, is still in bud

In Blackmwore by the Stour.'

W. BARNES.

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15

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309

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40

303

THE WIFE A-LOST

Since I noo mwore do zee your feäce,
Up steärs or down below,

I'll zit me in the lwonesome pleäce,
Where flat-bough'd beech do grow ;
Below the beeches' bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't look to meet ye now,
As I do look at hwome.

Since you noo mwore be at my zide,
In walks in zummer het,

I'll goo alwone where mist do ride,
Droo trees a-drippèn wet;

Below the raïn-wet bough, my love,
Where you did never come,

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An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I do grieve at hwome.

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Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard
Your vaïce do never sound,
I'll eat the bit I can avword

A-vield upon the ground;

Below the darksome bough, my love,
Where you did never dine,

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An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I at hwome do pine.

Since I do miss your vaïce an' feäce
In prayer at eventide,

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I'll pray wi' oone sad vaïce vor greäce
To goo where you do bide;

Above the tree an' bough, my love,
Where you be gone avore,
An' be a-waïtèn vor me now,
To come vor evermwore.

W. BARNES.

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304

THE NAMELESS ONE

Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river,
That sweeps along to the mighty sea;
God will inspire me while I deliver
My soul of thee !

Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening Amid the last homes of youth and eld,

That once there was one whose veins ran lightning No eye beheld.

Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour, How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom, No star of all heaven sends to light our

Path to the tomb.

Roll on, my song, and to after ages
Tell how, disdaining all earth can give,

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He would have taught men, from wisdom's pages,
The way to live.

And tell how trampled, derided, hated,
And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,
He fled for shelter to God, who mated

His soul with song

With song which alway, sublime or vapid,
Flowed like a rill in the morning-beam,
Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid-

A mountain stream.

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20

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Tell how this Nameless, condemned for years long
To herd with demons from hell beneath,
Saw things that made him, with groansand tears, long
For even death.

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Go on to tell how, with genius wasted,
Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love,
With spirit shipwrecked, and young hopes blasted,
He still, still strove ;

133

Μα

Till spent with toil, dreeing death for others,

And some whose hands should have wrought for him

(If children live not for sires and mothers),

His mind grew dim ;

And he fell far through that pit abysmal,
The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns,
And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal
Stock of returns ;

But yet redeemed it in days of darkness,
And shapes and signs of the final wrath,
When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness,
Stood on his path.

And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow;

And want, and sickness, and houseless nights,
He bides in calmness the silent morrow,
That no ray lights.

And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoary
At thirty-nine, from despair and woe,
He lives, enduring what future story

Will never know.

Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble,
Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell!
He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble
Here, and in hell.

J. C. MANGAN.

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305

BRAHMA

If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near ;

Shadow and sunlight are the same ;
The vanished gods to me appear;

And one to me are shame and fame.

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