Gonne to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
Whyterre yannes the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Heere, uponne mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee one hallie Seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys death-bedde,
Alle under the wyllowe tree.

25

30

35

40

waves

555

Though pressed with hunger oft, or come-
lier clothes,
Though pinched with cold, asks never.—
Kate is crazed.

I see a column of slow-rising smoke O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung 560 Between two poles upon a stick transverse, Receives the morsel; flesh obscene of dog, Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloined From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race!

They pick their fuel out of every hedge, 565 Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquenched

The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide

And worse than all, and most to be deplored,

As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his Sweat

With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding heart,

Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast.25 Then what is man? And what man seeing this,

And having human feelings, does not blush

And hang his head, to think himself a man?

I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,

30

And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth

That sinews bought and sold have ever earned.

No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
Just estimation prized above all price,
I had much rather be myself the slave
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on
him.

35

That even our enemies, so oft employed In forging chains for us, themselves were free:

For he that values liberty, confines
His zeal for her predominance within
No narrow bounds; her cause engages

395

him Wherever pleaded; 'tis the cause of man.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY
MOTHER'S PICTURE

Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed

With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Those lips are thine-thy own sweet

smile I see,

The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"

6

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalise, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim

To quench it) here shines on me still the

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bidst me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long,