English

The stormy west was scowling,
And wolves, far off, were howling.
The starv'd she-fox, from Ravensly,
Yelp'd o'er oak-waving Denaby.
Deep in the wath of Addersmarsh,
The bittern strain'd her trumpet harsh.
The mast-fed boar had crunch'd his fill.
Beneath the blast, increasing still,
The ash-twigs snapp'd, aloft in air:
Their fall disturb'd the drowsy bear,
And every falling leaf the hare.
" The coming night is glooming, "
She said; " the night is coming;

Beside the grave, where evermore,
Unknell'd, uncoffin'd, not unwept,
Her widow'd mother slept,
Beneath the copse of willows hoar,
With dwarf ash mix'd, and crab, and sloe,
And brambles for the gadding vine;
Close to the deep lake's western shore,
In restless mood, walk'd to and fro
The orphan Etheline.
Lone daughter of a wizard sire,
(So, by her policy deceived,
Men eagerly believ'd,)
Fear'd was her power, and widely known:
Her spells could rule the thunder-stone,
That floods the heavens with fire;

She sank — the baby floated,
As if its life was boated.
Swift Adwick soon the struggler caught,
And almost touch'd the mother's hair,
The sinking face of her despair.
He plac'd the infant in the boat;
Then, from its stooping side,
Plung'd deep beneath the tide;
Rose, dived, and rose, to dive in vain;
Yet liv'd to see that face again!
Recovering soon his rocking boat,
He sate awhile in painful thought:
" Another victim! women run
To Konig's lord, to be undone.

The west wind, gusting boldly,
From Cadeby's falls sent far
The roar of Don and Dar,
Flooding with watery howl and groan,
Their wild abyss of riven stone.
After a day of rain,
The setting sun shone coldly,
Like one who smiles in pain,
O'er woods that seem'd to floor the sky
With ocean-like profundity;
And on the lake's dark grey and blue
The oaken towers of Konig threw
A red and shatter'd glare.
'Twas then, that, in despair,
A woman young and fair

BOOK I.

Dear Ellen Rendall! seers have said
That of his realm of giant oak,
O'er valley, plain, and mountain spread
Ere echo mock'd the woodman's stroke,
Barbarian man the temple made,
Where first Religion kneel'd and pray'd;
The green cathedral of the soul
Whose god was in the thunder's roll.
'Twas finely thought, and sagely, too;
The beautiful is ever true.
But I the temple dread would paint
Where primal fraud was terror's saint.
Thou Ellen, thy young grace and truth,

Lo, here comes farmer Nimrod, on his grey!
Eager his victim's well-earn'd hate to brave,
And proud to be a tyrant and a slave,
He damns his feeders twenty times a day:
" What right to think of his concerns have they? "
Well can he bear the trader's land-made cares:
" Happy the poor, " quoth he; " for thrive who may,
A comfortable Workhouse still is theirs. "
Yet swaps he not his happiness for ours!
But in the page that lauds his right to wrong,
Reads weekly, That Trade's gains to him belong;

We are not lonely, Kinderscout! I stand
Here, with thy sire, and gaze, with Him and thee,
On desolation. This is Liberty!
I want no wing, to lift me from the land,
But look, soul-fetter'd, on the wild and grand.
Oh, that the dungeon'd of the earth were free
As these fix'd rocks, whose summits bare command
Yon cloud to stay, and weep for Man, with me!
Is this, then, solitude? To feel our hearts
Lifted above the world, yet not above
The sympathies of brotherhood and love?
To grieve for him who from the right departs?

DEPLORING ITS UNWORTHINESS THE MORE, BECAUSE EXCELLENCE ALONE CAN HARMONIZE WITH WORTH LIKE HIS; AND ALTHOUGH HIS BROTHER FOXHUNTERS WILL MARVEL WHY SUCH A COMPOSITION SHOULD BE ADDRESSED TO ONE OF THEM; — I DEDICATE THIS CYCLE OF REVOLUTIONARY SONNETS .

Toy of the Titans! Tiny Harp! again
I quarrel with the order of thy strings,
Establish'd by the law of sonnet-kings,
And us'd by giants who do nought in vain.
Was Petrarch, then mistaken in the strain
That charms Italia? Were they tasteless things.
That Milton wrought? And are they mutterings

Pale
Thro' the thick vagueness of the vaporous night,
From the dark alley, with a clouded light,
Two rheumy, melancholy lampions flare.
They are the eyes of the Police.
In there,
Down the dark archway, thro' the greasy door,
Passionately pushing past the three or four
Complacent constables that cluster'd round
A costermonger, in the gutter found
Incapably, but combatively, drunk,
The woman hurried. Thro' the doorway slunk
A peaky pinch'd-up child with frighten'd face,

Hurriedly, she bent
Above her grim companion, in whose ear
She mutter'd, hoarse and quick ... " Make haste! see here.
There's bread enough for all of us. Get up!
Quick! quick! and come away. To-night we'll sup,
To-morrow we'll not starve ... another day,
Another ... and then, let come what come may!
Off! off! "
No answer.
To the stolid sky
The stolid face was turn'd immovably.
The sky was dark: the face was dark. The face
And sky were silent both: you could not trace