Down he tumbles as dead as bricks! Red-bearded and tall, With whom, at that very particular nick, In a recent bloody affair No wonder, feeling a little sick, With pulses beating uncommonly quick, He longs for the open air! Three paces, or four, And he gains the door; But ere he accomplishes one, The sound of a blow comes, heavy and dull, And, clasping his fingers round his skull, However the deed was done, That gave him that florid Red gash on the forehead With a roll of the eyeballs perfectly horrid, There's a tremulous quiver, The last death-shiver, And Red-Beard's course is run! Halloo! Halloo ! They have done for two! But a heavyish job remains to do! Like elder Sons of Giant Despair, A couple of Cyclops make a stand, And, fiercely hammering here and there, Keep at bay the Powers of Air But desperation is all in vain! They faint- they choke, For the sulphurous smoke Is poisoning heart, and lung, and brain ; Then rolls a corpse across the other! Hulloo! Hulloo ! And Hullabaloo ! There is only one more thing to do Yea, crooked horn, and tusky jaw, The four huge bodies are hauled and shoven The Eisen Hutte is standing still; Go to the Hartz whenever you will, And there it is beside a hill, And a rapid stream that turns many a mill; The self-same Forge,- you'll know it at sight Casting upward, day and night, Flames of red, and yellow, and white! Ay, half a mile from the mountain gorge, There it is, the famous Forge, With its furnace, the same that blazed of yore,Hugely fed with fuel and ore; But ever since that tremendous revel, Whatever iron is melted therein, As travellers know who have been to Berlin. Is all as black as the Devil! ΤΟ COMPOSED AT ROTTERDAM. I GAZE upon a city,—a city new and strange; Down many a watery vista my fancy takes a range: Before me lie dark waters in broad canals and deep, Tall houses with quaint gables, where frequent windows shine, THE SEASON. SUMMER'S gone and over! Boughs are daily rifled Round the tops of houses, Skies, of fickle temper, Weep by turns, and laugh— Night and Day together So September endeth Cold, and most perverse LOVE. O, LOVE! what art thou, Love? the ace of hearts, Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits; A player, masquerading many parts In life's odd carnival; - a boy that shoots, From ladies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts; A gardener, pulling heart's-ease up by the roots; The Puck of Passion-partly false-part realA marriageable maiden's "beau ideal”? O, Love! what art thou, Love? a wicked thing, Making green misses spoil their work at school; A melancholy man, cross-gartering! Grave ripe-faced Wisdom made an April fool? A youngster, tilting at a wedding-ring? A sinner, sitting on a cuttie-stool? O, Love! what art thou, Love? one that is bad A necklace of her garters — fell design! Ending his sonnets with a hempen line? O, Love!-but whither, now? forgive me, pray: I'm not the first that Love hath led astray. FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. AN OLD BALLAD. YOUNG Ben he was a nice young man, A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Brown, But as they fetched a walk one day, Whilst Ben he was brought to. The boatswain swore with wicked words. Enough to shock a saint, That though she did seem in a fit, 'T was nothing but a feint. |