THE Wolf may howl, the jackal may prowl,
Rare brave beasts are they;
The worm may crawl in the carcase foul,
The tiger may glut o'er his prey;—
The bloodhound may hang with untiring fang, He is cunning and strong I trow;
But Death's staunch crew holds none more true Than the broad-wing'd Carrion Crow.
My roost is the creaking gibbet's beam,
Where the murderer's bones swing bleaching;
Where the clattering chain rings back again
To the night-wind's desolate screeching.
To and fro, as the fierce gusts blow,
Merrily rock'd am I;
And I note with delight the traveller's fright
As he cowers and hastens by.
I scent the deeds of fearful crime,
I wheel o'er the parricide's head;
I have watch'd the sire who, mad with ire,
The blood of his child hath shed.
I can chatter the tales at which
The ear of innocence starts;
And ye would not mark my plumage as dark, If ye saw it beside some hearts.
I have seen the friend spring out as a foe,
And the guest waylay his host,
And many a right arm strike a blow
The lips never dared to boast.
I have seen the soldier millions adored
Do other than deed of the brave,
When he wore a mask as well as a sword,
And dug a midnight grave.
I have flutter'd where secret work has been done, Wrought with a trusty blade;
But what did I care, whether foul or fair,
If I shared the feast it made?
A struggle, a cry, a hasty gash,
A short and heavy groan;
Revenge was sweet, its work was complete, The dead and I were alone.
I plunged my beak in the marbling cheek,
I perch'd on the clammy brow;
And a dainty treat was that fresh meat
To the greedy Carrion Crow.
I have follow'd the traveller dragging on
O'er the mountains long and cold;
For I knew at last he must sink in the blast,
Though spirit was never so bold.
I hover'd close-his limbs grew stark,
His life-stream stood to congeal;
And I whetted my claw, for I plainly saw
I should soon have another meal.
He fell, and slept like a fair young bride,
In his winding-sheet of snow;
And quickly his breast had a table guest
In the hungry Carrion Crow.
If my pinions ache in the journey I take,
No resting-place will do,
Till I light alone on a churchyard stone,
Or a branch of the gloomy yew.
Famine and plague bring joy to me,
For I love the harvest they yield;
And the fairest sight I ever see
Is the crimson battle-field.
Far and wide is my charnel range,
And rich carousal I keep,
Till back I come to my gibbet home,
To be merrily rock'd to sleep.
When the world shall be spread with tombless
And darkness shroud all below,
What triumph and glee to the last will be
For the sateless Carrion Crow!
THE WILD DUCK AND HER BROOD.
How calm that little lake! no breath of wind
Sighs through the reeds; a clear abyss it seems,
Held in the concave of the inverted sky,-
In which is seen the rook's dull flagging wing
Move o'er the silvery clouds. How peaceful sails
Yon little fleet, the Wild Duck and her brood!
Fearless of harm, they row their easy way;
The water-lily, 'neath the plumy prows,
Dips, re-appearing in their dimpled track.
Yet, even amid that scene of peace, the noise
Of war, unequal, dastard war, intrudes.
Yon revel rout of men, and boys, and dogs,
Boisterous approach; the spaniel dashes in ;
Quick he descries the prey; and faster swims,
And eager barks; the harmless flock, dismay'd,
Hasten to gain the thickest grove of reeds,
All but the parent pair; they, floating, wait
To lure the foe, and lead him from their young;
But soon themselves are forced to seek the shore.
Vain then the buoyant wing; the leaden storm
Arrests their flight; they fluttering, bleeding fall,
And tinge the troubled bosom of the lake.
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