To wicked deeds I was inclined, I went my work about. Oft-times I thought to run away; Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me, God cursed me in my sore distress, They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see! From ten to five, from five to three, A lamb, a weather, and a ewe; And then at last, from three to two; And of my fifty, yesterday I had but only one, And here it lies upon my arm, Alas! and I have none; To-day I fetched it from the rock; THE DUNGEON. And this place our forefathers made for man! By ignorance and parching poverty, His energies roll back upon his heart, And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison, They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot; Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks→→→ And this is their best cure! uncomforted And friendless solitude, groaning and tears, Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon, With other ministrations thou, O nature! Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets, By the benignant touch of love and beauty. THE MAD MOTHER. Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, The sun has burnt her coal-black hair, Her eye-brows have a rusty stain, And she came far from over the main. She has a baby on her arm, Or else she were alone; And underneath the hay-stack warm, And on the green-wood stone, She talked and sung the woods among ; And it was in the English tongue, |