A shadow woven of the oak And willow o'er it closes.

Within, a Druid's mound is seen,

Set round with stony warders;
A fountain, gushing through the turf,
Flows o'er its grassy borders.

And whoso bathes therein his brow,
With care or madness burning,
Feels once again his healthful thought
And sense of peace returning.

O restless heart and fevered brain,
Unquiet and unstable,
That holy well of Loch Maree
Is more than idle fable!

Life's changes vex, its discords stun,

Its glaring sunshine blindeth,
And blest is he who on his way
That fount of healing findeth!

The shadows of a humbled will
And contrite heart are o'er it;
Go read its legend - "TRUST IN
GOD"

On Faith's white stones before it.

Lo once again our feet we set
On still green wood-paths, twilight wet,
By lonely brooks, whose waters fret
The roots of spectral beeches;
Again the hearth-fire glimmers o'er
Home's whitewashed wall and painted
floor,

And young eyes widening to the lore
Of faery-folks and witches.

Dear heart!- the legend is not vain
Which lights that holy hearth again,
And calling back from care and pain,
And death's funereal sadness,
Draws round its old familiar blaze
The clustering groups of happier days,
And lends to sober manhood's gaze
A glimpse of childish gladness.
And, knowing how my life hath been
A weary work of tongue and pen,
A long, harsh strife with strong-willed

sage

Turn coldly from my playful page,
And count it strange that ripened age
Should stoop to boyhood's folly;
I know that thou wilt judge aright
Of all which makes the heart more light,
Or lends one star-gleam to the night
Of clouded Melancholy.

Away with weary cares and themes !-
Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams!
Leave free once more the land which
teems

With wonders and romances ! Where thou, with clear discerning eyes, Shalt rightly read the truth which lies Beneath the quaintly masking guise Of wild and wizard fancies.

"God is good and God is light, In this faith I rest secure ; Evil can but serve the right,

Over all shall love endure.

"Of your spectral puppet play

I have traced the cunning wires; Come what will, I needs must say, God is true, and ye are liars." When the thought of man is free, Error fears its lightest tones; So the priest cried, "Sadducee!" And the people took up stones. In the ancient burying-ground, Side by side the twain now lie,

TO PIUS IX.50

THE cannon's brazen lips are cold; No red shell blazes down the air; And street and tower, and temple old, Are silent as despair.

The Lombard stands no more at bay, Rome's fresh young life has bled in vain;

The ravens scattered by the day
Come back with night again.

Now, while the fratricides of France

Are treading on the neck of Rome, Hider at Gaeta, -seize thy chance! Coward and cruel, come!

Creep now from Naples' bloody skirt; Thy mummer's part was acted well, While Rome, with steel and fire begirt, Before thy crusade fell!

Her death-groans answered to thy prayer;

Thy chant, the drum and bugle-call; Thy lights, the burning villa's glare; Thy beads, the shell and ball!

Let Austria clear thy way, with hands
Foul from Ancona's cruel sack,
And Naples, with his dastard bands
Of murderers, lead thee back!

Rome's lips are dumb; the orphan's wail, The mother's shriek, thou mayst not hear

Above the faithless Frenchman's hail, The unsexed shaveling's cheer!

Go, bind on Rome her cast-off weight, The double curse of crook and crown, Though woman's scorn and manhood's hate

From wall and roof flash down!

Nor heed those blood-stains on the wall,
Not Tiber's flood can wash away,
Where, in thy stately Quirinal,
Thy mangled victims lay!

Let the world murmur; let its cry
Of horror and disgust be heard;
Truth stands alone; thy coward lie
Is backed by lance and sword!

The cannon of St. Angelo,

And chanting priest and clanging bell, And beat of drum and bugle blow, Shall greet thy coming well!

Let lips of iron and tongues of slaves Fit welcome give thee;-for her part, Rome, frowning o'er her new-made graves,

Shall curse thee from her heart!

No wreaths of sad Campagna's flowers Shall childhood in thy pathway fling; No garlands from their ravaged bowers Shall Terni's maidens bring;

But, hateful as that tyrant old,

The mocking witness of his crime, In thee shall loathing eyes behold The Nero of our time!

Stand where Rome's blood was freest shed,

Mock Heaven with impious thanks,
and call

Its curses on the patriot dead,
Its blessings on the Gaul!

Or sit upon thy throne of lies,

A poor, mean idol, blood-besmeared, Whom even its worshippers despise, Unhonored, unrevered!

Yet, Scandal of the World! from thee One needful truth mankind shall learn,

That kings and priests to Liberty
And God are false in turn.

Earth wearies of them; and the long Meek sufferance of the Heavens dothfail;

Woe for weak tyrants, when the strong
Wake, struggle, and prevail !

Not vainly Roman hearts have bled
To feed the Crozier and the Crown,
If, roused thereby, the world shall tread
The twin-born vampires down!

ELLIOTT.51

HANDS off! thou tithe-fat plunderer ! play

No trick of priestcraft here!
Back, puny lordling! darest thou lay
A hand on Elliott's bier?

Alive, your rank and pomp, as dust,
Beneath his feet he trod:

He knew the locust swarm that cursed
The harvest-fields of God.

On these pale lips, the smothered thought

Which England's millions feel,
A fierce and fearful splendor caught,
As from his forge the steel.

Strong-armed as Thor,-a shower of fire
His smitten anvil flung;

God's curse, Earth's wrong, dumb Hunger's ire,

He gave them all a tongue!

Then let the poor man's horny hands Bear up the mighty dead,

And labor's swart and stalwart bands Behind as mourners tread.

Leave cant and craft their baptized bounds,

Leave rank its minster floor; Give England's green and daisied grounds

The poet of the 1
poor

Lay down upon his Sheaf's green verge
That brave old heart of oak,
With fitting dirge from sounding forge,
And pall of furnace smoke!

Where whirls the stone its dizzy rounds,
And axe and sledge are swung,
And, timing to their stormy sounds,
His stormy lays are sung.