'Twas here Avaro dwelt, who daily told
His useless heaps of wealth in selfish joy;
Who loved to ruminate o'er hoarded gold,
And hid those stores he dreaded to employ.

In vain to him benignant Heaven bestow'd The golden heaps to render thousands blest; Smooth aged penury's laborious road,

And heal the sorrows of affliction's breast.

For, like the serpent of romance, he lay Sleepless and stern to guard the golden sight;

With ceaseless care he watch'd his heaps by day,

With causeless fears he agonized by night.

Ye honest rustics, whose diurnal toil

Enrich'd the ample fields this churl possest; Say, ye who paid to him the annual spoil, With all his riches, was Avaro blest?

Rose he, like you, at morn, devoid of fear,
His anxious vigils o'er his gold to keep?
Or sunk he, when the noiseless night was near,
As calmly on his couch of down to sleep?

Thou wretch! thus curst with poverty of soul, What boot to thee the blessings fortune gave?

What boots thy wealth above the world's control,

If riches doom their churlish lord a slave?

Chill'd at thy presence grew the stately halls, Nor longer echoed to the song of mirth; The hand of art ne more adorn'd thy walls, Nor blazed with hospitable fires the hearth.

On well-worn hinges turns the gate no more, Nor social friendship hastes the friend to meet;

Nor, when the accustom'd guest draws near the door,

Run the glad dogs, and gambol round his feet.

Sullen and stern Avaro sat alone,

In anxious wealth amid the joyless hall, Nor heeds the chilly hearth with moss o'ergrown,

Nor sees the green slime mark the mouldering wall.

For desolation o'er the fabric dwells,

And time, on restless pinion, hurried by; Loud from her chimney'd seat the night-bird yells,

And through the shatter'd roof descends the sky.

Thou melancholy mansion! much mine eye Delights to wander o'er thy sullen gloom, And mark the daw from yonder turret fly, And muse how man himself creates his doom.

For here, had justice reign'd, had pity known With genial power to sway Avaro's breast, These treasured heaps which fortune made his

own,

By aiding misery might himself have blest. And charity had oped her golden store,

To work the gracious will of Heaven intent, Fed from her superflux the craving poor,

And paid adversity what Heaven had lent. Then had thy turrets stood in all their state, Then had the hand of art adorn'd thy wall, Swift on its well-worn hinges turn'd the gate, And friendly converse cheer'd the echoing hall.

Then had the village youth at vernal hour

Hung round with flowery wreaths thy friendly gate,

And blest in gratitude that sovereign power

That made the man of mercy good as great.

The traveller then to view thy towers had stood,

Whilst babes had lisp'd their benefactor's

name,

And call'd on Heaven to give thee every good, And told abroad thy hospitable fame.

In every joy of life the hours had fled,

Whilst time on downy pinions hurried by, 'Till age with silver hairs had graced thy head, Wean'd from the world, and taught thee how to die.

And, as thy liberal hand had shower'd around
The ample wealth by lavish fortune given,
Thy parted spirit had that justice found,
And angels hymn'd the rich man's soul to
heaven.

Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

1219.-AFTER BLENHEIM.

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found He came to ask what he had found; That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh ""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said ho, "Who fell in the great victory.”

With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then
And newborn baby died:

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun :

But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won
And our good Prince Eugene."
Why 'twas a very wicked thing!"
Said little Wilhelmine.
Nay.. nay.. my little girl," quoth he,
"It was a famous victory.

And everybody praised the Duke

Who this great fight did win." "But what good came of it at last ?" Quoth little Peterkin.

"Why that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."

Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

With them I take delight in weal
And seek relief in woe;

And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,

My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
I live in long-past years,

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all Futurity;

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

1221.-YOUTH AND AGE.

With cheerful step the traveller
Pursues his early way,
When first the dimly-dawning east
Reveals the rising day.

He bounds along his craggy road,
He hastens up the height,
And all he sees and all he hears
Administer delight.

And if the mist, retiring slow,

Roll round its wavy white,
He thinks the morning vapours hide,
Some beauty from his sight.

But when behind the western clouds
Departs the fading day,
How wearily the traveller

Pursues his evening way!

Sorely along the craggy road

His painful footsteps creep,
And slow, with many a feeble pause,
He labours up the steep.

And if the mists of night close round,
They fill his soul with fear;
He dreads some unseen precipice,
Some hidden danger near.

So cheerfully does youth begin
Life's pleasant morning stage;
Alas! the evening traveller feels
The fears of wary age!

Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

1220. THE SCHOLAR.

My days among the Dead are past; Around me I behold,

Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old:

My never failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day.

From 1780 to 1866.]

Come walk abroad with me, I said,
And I will answer thee.

'Twas evening, and the frozen streets Were cheerless to behold,

And we were wrapt and coated well,
And yet we were a-cold.

We met an old bare-headed man,
His locks were thin and white:
I ask'd him what he did abroad
In that cold winter's night:

The cold was keen, indeed, he said,
But at home no fire had he,
And therefore he had come abroad
To ask for charity.

We met a young bare-footed child,
And she begg'd loud and bold:
I ask'd her what she did abroad
When the wind it blew so cold:

She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick a-bed,

And therefore was it she was sent
Abroad to beg for bread.

We saw a woman sitting down
Upon a stone to rest,

She had a baby at her back

And another at her breast:

I ask'd her why she loiter'd there

When the night-wind was so chill: She turn'd her head and bade the child That scream'd behind, be still;

Then told us that her husband served,
A soldier, far away,
And therefore to her parish she
Was begging back her way.
We met a girl, her dress was loose,
And sunken was her eye,
Who with a wanton's hollow voice
Address'd the passers-by;

I ask'd her what there was in guilt
That could her heart allure

To shame, disease, and late remorse:
She answer'd she was poor.

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,

"I remember'd that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigour at first,

That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,

"And pleasures with youth pass away; And yet you lament not the days that are

gone;

Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,

"I remember'd that youth could not last; I thought of the future; whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,

"And life must be hast'ning away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death;

Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied,

"Let the cause thy attention engage; In the days of my youth I remember'd my God,

And He hath not forgotten my age."

Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

1224. THE INCHCAPE RCCK.
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was as still as she could be,
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock
The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The good old Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the surges' swell,
The Mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round,
And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck,
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.

"Can'st hear," said one, "the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore; Now where we are I cannot tell,

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell."

They hear no sound, the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,

Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock:
Cried they, "It is the Inchcape Rock!"

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He curst himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide,

But even in his dying fear

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,
The fiends below were ringing his knell.
Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

1225.-BISHOP HATTO.

The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet; 'Twas a piteous sight to see all around The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor

Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door,
For he had a plentiful last year's store;
And all the neighbourhood could tell
His granaries were furnish'd well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay;
He bade them to his great barn repair,
And they should have food for the winter
there.

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,
The poor folk flock'd from far and near;
The great barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.

Then when he saw it could hold no more
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;
And while for mercy on Christ they call,
He set fire to the barn and burnt them all.

"I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he,
"And the country is greatly obliged to me,
For ridding it in these times forlorn
Of rats, that only consume the corn."

So then to his palace returned he,
And he sat down to supper merrily,
And he slept that night like an innocent

man,

But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning as he enter'd the hall,
Where his picture hung against the wall,
A sweat like death all over him came,
For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he look'd there came a man from the farm,

He had a countenance white with alarm;
"My lord, I open'd your granaries this morn,
And the rats had eaten all your corn."

Another came running presently,
And he was pale as pale could be,

Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly," quoth he, "Ten thousand rats are coming this wayThe Lord forgive you for yesterday!"

"I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he,

"Tis the safest place in Germany;

The walls are high, and the shores are steep, And the stream is strong, and the water deep."

Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away,
And he cross'd the Rhine without delay,
And reach'd his tower and barr'd with care
All the windows, doors, and loopholes there.

He laid him down and closed his eyes,
But soon a scream made him arise;
He started, and saw two eyes of flame
On his pillow from whence the screaming

came.

1226.-MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly fix'd eyes

Seem a heart overcharged to express ? She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;

She never complains, but her silence implies The composure of settled distress.

No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek;

Nor for raiment nor food doth she care: Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak

On that wither'd breast, and her weatherworn cheek

Hath the hue of a mortal despair.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary the Maniac hath been;
The traveller remembers who journey'd this

way

No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight

As she welcom'd them in with a smile; Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night

When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,

And she hoped to be happy for life;

But Richard was idle and worthless, and they

Who knew him would pity poor Mary and

say

That she was too good for his wife.

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,

And fast were the windows and door; Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,

And, smoking in silence with tranquil delight, They listen'd to hear the wind roar.

""Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fireside

To hear the wind whistle without." "What a night for the Abbey!" his comrade replied,

"Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried,

Who should wander the ruins about.