THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 161 The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play; The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneei to pray : And full of love, and peace, and rest, its daily labour o'er Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore. A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there; No sound, except the throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air. The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm; The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that glide, Must trust their oars, methinks not few, against the ebbing tide. Oh! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore. All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet. A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! "The roof is in a flame!" From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame And meet, upon the threshold-stone, the gleaming sabres' fall, And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl The yell of "Allah" breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar— Oh! fearful fate! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore ! Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword; Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored; Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild; Then fled the maiden, moaning faint, and nestled with the child; But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel, While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel! Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, There's one hearth well avengèd in the sack of Baltimore! Mid-summer morn!-in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing They see not now the milking-maids; deserted is the spring! Mid-summer day!-this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown; They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent; And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went, Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and saw, five leagues before, The pirate-galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore, THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 163 "Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed, This boy will bear a Schiek's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. Oh! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles ; And some are for the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey". She's safe-he's dead-she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai : And when to die a death of fire that noble maid they bore, She only smiled-O'Driscol's child-she thought of Baltimore ! 'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band, And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand, Where high upon the gallows tree a yelling wretch is seen 'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan-he who steered the Algerine ! He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore! TO A REDBREAST. J. LANGHORNE. LITTLE bird, with bosom red, Eat thee, bones and all, my boy! AUTUMN. JOHN KEATS. SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless run; AUTUMN. To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, Until they think warm days will never cease; For summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 165 Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers; And sometimes, like a gleaner, thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring ?-ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn, Among the river sallows, borne aloft, Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; |