A husband's love, a father's anxiousness; That from the wages of his toil he fed The distant dear ones, and would talk of them At midnight when he trod the silent deck With him he valued,-talk of them, of joys Which he had known-oh God! and of the hour When they should meet again, till his full heart His manly heart, at last would overflow Even like a child's with very tenderness. Peace to his honest spirit! suddenly It came, and merciful the ball of death, For it came suddenly and shattered him, And left no moment's agonizing thought On those he loved so well. He ocean-deep Now lies at rest. Be thou her comforter, She gazed upon her children, and behold TO A SPIDER. SPIDER! thou need'st not run in fear about I wont humanely crush thy bowels out, One day roast me. Thou art welcome to a rhymer sore-perplext, There's many a one who on a better text Then shrink not, old free-mason, from my view, As I will mine. Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the ways Hell's huge black spider for mankind he lays When Betty's busy eye runs round the room The earth shall clean? Spider of old thy flimsy webs were thought, To emblem laws in which the weak are caught And if a victim in thy toils is ta'en, Like some poor client is that wretched fly— His life-blood dry. And is not thy weak work like human schemes Such are young hopes and love's delightful dreams So does the statesman, whilst the avengers sleep, His work away. Thou busy labourer! ole resemblance more For spider, thou art like the poet poor, Both busily our needful food to win, We work, as nature taught, with ceaseless pains, Thy bowels thou dost spin, I spin my brains. THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. Ir is the funeral march. I did not think They follow silently, their earnest brows Speak instant, and on all these various minds But such better thoughts Will pass away, how soon! and these who here Are following their dead comrade to the grave, Ere the night fall, will in their revelry Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life Unnaturally rent, a man who knew No resting place, no dear delights of home, We are indeed ELEGY ON A QUID OF TOBACCO. Ir lay before me on the close-grazed grass, Without one serious thought? now heaven forbid ! Perhaps some idle drunkard threw thee there, Ah! luckless was the day he learnt to chew! Then to the alehouse went to quench his thirst. So great events from causes small arise, The forest oak was once an acorn seed: Let not temptation, mortal, ere come nigh! Perhaps I wrong thee, O thou veteran chaw, One who has suffered fortune's hardest knocks, And whilst he rolls his quid, forgets his cares. Even so it is with human happiness, Each seeks his own according to his whim; One toils for wealth, one fame alone can bless, One asks a quid, a quid is all to him. O veteran chaw, thy fibres savoury strong, A happy man, O cast-off quid, is he TO A FRIEND SETTLED IN THE COUNTRY. RICHARD, the lot which fate to thee has given, Almost excites my envy. This green field Sweet solace to the wearied mind must yield; And yonder wide circumference of heaven, At morn or when the day-star rides on high, Or when the calm and mellowed light of even Softens the glory of the western sky, Spreads only varied beauties to thine eye. And when these scenes, these lovely scenes so fair, Hill, vale, and wood, are hidden from thy sight, Still through the deepness of the quiet air, Canst thou behold the radiant host of night, And send thy spirit through the infinite, Till lofty contemplation end in prayer. Richard, the lot which fate to thee has given, I not unenvying shall recall to mind, In that foul town, by other fate confined, Where never running brook, nor verdant field, Nor yonder wide circumference of heaven, Sweet solace to the wearied soul can yield. |