We follow'd her, and to the room
Besought her to return;
She groan'd and said, that in the fire,
She saw her Baby burn.
And in her dreadful madness then
To light her murder came,
How secretly from every eye
Nine months she hid her shame ;
And how she slew the wretched babe
Just as he sprung to light,
And in the midnight fire consum'd
His little body quite.
Would I could feel the winter wind,
Would I could feel the snow!
I have fire in my head, poor Martha cried,
I have fire in my heart also.
So there from morn till night she sits-
Now God forgive her sin!
For heavy is her crime, and strange.
Her punishment hath been.
Written in the Album at Elbingerode, in the
Hartz Forest.
I stood on *Brocken's sovran height, and saw
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,
A surging scene, and only limited
By the blue distance. Heavily my way
Homeward I dragg'd thro' fir-groves evermore,
Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms,
Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard,
The sweet bird's song became an hollow sound;
And the breeze murmuring indivisibly,
Preserv'd its solemn murmur most distinct
From many a note of many a waterfall,
And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet stones
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell
Leapt frolicsome, or old romantic goat
The highest Mountain in the Hartz, and indeed in North Germany.
Sat, his white beard slow waving. I mov'd on
In low and languid mood,* for I had found
That grandest scenes have but imperfect charms,
Where the sight vainly wanders, nor beholds
One spot with which the heart associates
Holy remembrances of Friend or Child,
Or gentle Maid, our first and early love,
Or Father, or the venerable name
Of our adored Country!-O thou Queen,
Thou delegated Deity of Earth,
O dear, dear, England! How my longing eye
Turn'd westward, shaping in the steady clouds
Thy sands and high white cliffs! O native Land,
Fill'd with the thought of Thee, this heart was proud
Yea, mine eye swam with tears, that all the view
From sovran Brocken, woods, and woody hills,
From some high eminence on goodly vales,
And cots and villages embower'd below,
The thought would rise that all to me was strange
Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot
Where my tired mind might rest, and call it home.
SOUTHEY'S Hymn to the Penates.
Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim!-Stranger, these impulses
Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane
With hasty judgement or injurious doubt
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel
That God is every where! the God who fram'd
Mankind to be one mighty Family,
Himself our Father, and the World our home.
Addressed to a Lady known from infancy.
In times so long past (though I still am but young)
That I scarcely their transports can trace,
Enraptur'd I caught the soft lisp of thy tongue,
And totter'd-for then I but totter'd-along,
To clasp thee in childish embrace.
As we grew up together, each day I beheld,
With feelings unkindled before,
Thy yesterday's beauties by new ones excell'd;
Nor, boy as I was, from those beauties withheld
My heart:-Could I offer thee more?
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