Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 329, March, 1843. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ the free Nature's free-born Child!

      When the Frantic One fleets,

      While no force can withstand,

      Through the populous streets

      Whirling ghastly the brand;

      For the Element hates

      What Man's labour creates,

      And the work of his hand!

      Impartially out from the cloud,

      Or the curse or the blessing may fall!

      Benignantly out from the cloud

      Come the dews, the revivers of all!

      Avengingly our from the cloud

      Come the levin, the bolt, and the ball!

      Hark—a wail from the steeple!—aloud

      The bell shrills its voice to the crowd!

      Look—look—red as blood

      All on high!

      It is not the daylight that fills with its flood

      The sky!

      What a clamour awaking

      Roars up through the street,

      What a hell-vapour breaking

      Rolls on through the street,

      And higher and higher

      Aloft moves the Column of Fire!

      Through the vistas and rows

      Like a whirlwind it goes,

      And the air like the steam from a furnace glows.

      Beams are crackling—posts are shrinking—

      Walls are sinking—windows clinking—

      Children crying—

      Mothers flying—

      And the beast (the black ruin yet smouldering under)

      Yells the howl of its pain and its ghastly wonder!

      Hurry and skurry—away—away,

      And the face of the night is as clear as day!

      As the links in a chain,

      Again and again

      Flies the bucket from hand to hand;

      High in arches up rushing

      The engines are gushing,

      And the flood, as a beast on the prey that it hounds,

      With a road on the breast of the element bounds.

      To the grain and the fruits,

      Through the rafters and beams,

      Through the barns and the garners it crackles and streams!

      As if they would rend up the earth from its roots,

      Rush the flames to the sky

      Giant-high;

      And at length,

      Wearied out and despairing, man bows to their strength!

      With an idle gaze sees their wrath consume,

      And submits to his doom!

      Desolate

      The place, and dread

      For storms the barren bed.

      In the deserted gaps that casements were,

      Looks forth despair;

      And, where the roof hath been,

      Peer the pale clouds within!

      One look

      Upon the grave

      Of all that Fortune gave

      The loiterer took—

      Then grasps his staff. Whate'er the fire bereft,

      One blessing, sweeter than all else, is left—

       The faces that he loves! He counts them o'er—

      And, see—not one dear look is missing from that store!

      Now clasp'd the bell within the clay—

      The mould the mingled metals fill—

      Oh, may it, sparkling into day,

      Reward the labour and the skill!

      Alas! should it fail,

      For the mould may be frail—

      And still with our hope must be mingled the fear—

      And, even now, while we speak, the mishap may be near!

      To the dark womb of sacred earth

      This labour of our hands is given,

      As seeds that wait the second birth,

      And turn to blessings watch'd by heaven!

      Ah seeds, how dearer far than they

      We bury in the dismal tomb,

      Where Hope and Sorrow bend to pray

      That suns beyond the realm of day

      May warm them into bloom!

      From the steeple

      Tolls the bell,

      Deep and heavy,

      The death-knell!

      Measured and solemn, guiding up the road

      A wearied wanderer to the last abode.

      It is that worship'd wife—

      It is that faithful mother!43

      Whom the dark Prince of Shadows leads benighted,

      From that dear arm where oft she hung delighted.

      Far from those blithe companions, born

      Of her, and blooming in their morn;

      On whom, when couch'd, her heart above

      So often look'd the Mother-Love!

      Ah! rent the sweet Home's union-band,

      And never, never more to come—

      She dwells within the shadowy land,

      Who was the Mother of that Home!

      How oft they miss that tender guide,

      The care—the watch—the face—the MOTHER—

      And where she sate the babes beside,

      Sits with unloving looks—ANOTHER!

      While the mass is cooling now,

      Let СКАЧАТЬ