The hoary priest, the Chaldee sage,

The slave, the gemmed and glittering page,-
Helm, turban, and tiara shone

A dazzling ring round Pharaoh's throne.
There came a mau:-the human tide
Shrank backward from his stately stride:
His cheek with storm and time was tanned;
A shepherd's staff was in his hand;
A shudder of instinctive fear

Told the dark king what step was near:
On through the host the stranger came,
It parted round his form like flame.

He stooped not at the footstool-stone,
He clasped not sandal, kissed not throne;
Erect he stood amid the ring,

His only words, "Be just, O king!"

On Pharaoh's cheek the blood flushed high,
A fire was in his sullen eye;

Yet on the chief of Israel

No arrow of his thousands fell;

All mute and moveless as the grave,
Stood, chilled, the satrap and the slave.
"Thou'rt come!" at length the monarch spoke
(Haughty and high the words outbroke);
"Is Israel weary of its lair,

The forehead peeled, the shoulder bare?
Take back the answer to your band:
Go, reap the wind! go, plough the sand!
Go, vilest of the living vile,
To build the never-ending pile,
Till, darkest of the nameless dead,
The vulture on their flesh is fed!
What better, asks the howling slave,
Than the base life our bounty gave?"
Shouted in pride the turbaned peers,
Upclashed to heaven the golden spears.-
"King! thou and thine are doomed!—Behold!”
The prophet spoke,-the thunder rolled!
Along the pathway of the sun

Sailed vapory mountains, wild and dun.
"Yet there is time," the prophet said:
He raised his staff,-the storm was stayed:
"King! be the word of freedom given!
What art thou, man, to war with Heaven?"
There came no word.-The thunder broke!-
Like a huge city's final smoke;
Thick, lurid, stifling, mixed with flame,
Through court and hall the vapors came.
Loose as the stubble in the field,
Wide flew the men of spear and shield;
Scattered like foam along the wave,
Flew the proud pageant, prince and slave;

Or, in the chains of terror bound,

Lay, corpse-like, on the smouldering ground.
"Speak, king!-the wrath is but begun!-
Still dumb?-then, Heaven, thy will be done!"
Echoed from earth a hollow roar,

Like ocean on the midnight shore!
A sheet of lightning o'er them wheeled,
The solid ground beneath them reeled;
In dust sank roof and battlement;
Like webs the giant walls were rent;
Red, broad, before his startled gaze
The monarch saw his Egypt blaze.

Still swelled the plague,-the flame grew pale,—
Burst from the clouds the charge of hail;

With arrowy keenness, iron weight,
Down poured the ministers of fate;
Till man and cattle, crushed, congealed,
Covered with death the boundless field.
Still swelled the plague,-uprose the blast,
The avenger, fit to be the last:
On ocean, river, forest, vale,
Thundered at once the mighty gale.
Before the whirlwind flew the tree,
Beneath the whirlwind roared the sea;
A thousand ships were on the wave-
Where are they?-ask that foaming grave!
Down go the hope, the pride of years,
Down go the myriad mariners;
The riches of earth's richest zone
Gone! like a flash of lightning, gone!

And lo! that first fierce triumph o'er,
Swells ocean on the shrinking shore;
Still onward, onward, dark and wide,
Ingulfs the land the furious tide.-
Then bowed thy spirit, stubborn king,
Thou serpent, reft of fang and sting!
Humbled before the prophet's knee,
He groaned, "Be injured Israel free!"

To heaven the sage upraised his hand:
Back rolled the deluge from the laud;
Back to its caverns sank the gale;
Fled from the noon the vapors pale;
Broad burnt again the joyous sun:
The hour of wrath and death was done.

Or make the infant's sinew strong as steel.

359

Will breed proscriptions. Look to your hearths,

This nobleman (1781-1829) is sometimes confounded with Lord Thurlow, the celebrated Lord High Chancellor of England; but he was quite a different person. His poems were ridiculed by Moore and Byron, but, with many faults, show some rare beauties. His "Select Poems" were published in 1821.

TO A BIRD THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS OF LAKEN IN THE WINTER.

O melancholy bird! a winter's day,
Thou standest by the margin of the pool,

And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school
To patience, which all evil can allay:
God has appointed thee the fish thy prey,
And given thyself a lesson to the fool
Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule,
And his unthinking course by thee to weigh.
There need not schools nor the professor's chair,
Though these be good, true wisdom to impart :
He who has not enough for these to spare
Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart,
And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair:
Nature is always wise in every part.

SONG TO MAY.

May, queen of blossoms

And fulfilling flowers, With what pretty music

Shall we charm the hours? Wilt thou have pipe and reed, Blown in the open mead? Or to the lute give heed In the green bowers?

Thou hast no need of us,
Or pipe or wire,
Thou hast the golden bee

Ripened with fire;

And many thousand more Songsters that thee adore, Filling earth's grassy floor

With new desire.

Thou hast thy mighty herds, Tame, and free livers; Doubt not, thy music too,

In the deep rivers;

And the whole plumy flight,
Warbling the day and night;
Up at the gates of light,
See, the lark quivers!

When with the jacinth

Coy fountains are tressed; And for the mournful bird

Green woods are dressed, That did for Tereus pine;

Then shall our songs be thine, To whom our hearts incline: MAY, be thou blessed!

Ebenezer Elliott.

Elliott (1781-1849) was born at Masborough, in Yorkshire. His father was an iron-founder, and he himself wrought at the business for many years. His vigorous "Corn-Law Rhymes," published between 1830 and 1836, did much to compel Government to abolish all restrictions on the importation of corn. The champion of the poor and oppressed, an intense hater of all injustice, he was no Communist, as the following epigram shows:

"What is a Communist? One who has yearnings
For equal division of unequal earnings."

Elliott had a genuine taste, and the eye of an artist for natural scenery. He was by nature a poet. There is a tenderness and grace that has rarely been excelled in some of his descriptive touches. In the religious sentiment and a devout faith in the compensations of Divine Providence he was also strong. His career was manly and honorable; and in the latter part of his life his circumstances, through his own exertions, were easy, if not affluent.

FAREWELL TO RIVILIN.

Beautiful River! goldenly shining

Where with thee cistus and woodbines are twining, (Birklands around thee, mountains above thee): Rivilin wildest! do I not love thee?

Why do I love thee, heart-breaking River? Love thee and leave thee? leave thee forever? Never to see thee, where the storms greet thee! Never to hear thee, rushing to meet me!

Never to hail thee, joyfully chiming Beauty is music, Sister of Wiming! Playfully mingling laughter and sadness, Ribbledin's Sister, sad in thy gladness!

Why must I leave thee, mournfully sighing Man is a shadow? River undying!

Dream-like he passeth, cloud-like he wasteth,

E'en as a shadow over thee hasteth.

Oh, when thy poet, weary, reposes,
Coffined in slander, far from thy roses,
Tell all thy pilgrims, heart-breaking River,
Tell them I loved thee-love thee forever!

Yes, for the spirit blooms ever vernal:
River of beauty! love is eternal:

While the rock reeleth, storm-struck and riven,
Safe is the fountain flowing from heaven.

There wilt thou hail me, joyfully chiming
Beauty is music, Sister of Wiming!

Homed with the angels, hasten to greet me,
Glad as the heath-flower, glowing to meet thee.

FROM "LYRICS FOR MY DAUGHTERS."

For Spring, and flowers of Spring, Blossoms, and what they bring, Be our thanks given; Thanks for the maiden's bloom, For the sad prison's gloom, And for the sadder tomb,

Even as for heaven!

Great God, thy will is done
When the soul's rivers run

Down the worn cheeks! Done when the righteous bleed, When the wronged vainly plead,— Done in the unended deed,

When the heart breaks!

Lo, how the dutiful
Snows clothe in beautiful

Life the dead earth!

Lo, how the clouds distil
Riches o'er vale and hill,
While the storm's evil will
Dies in its birth!

Blessed is the unpeopled down,

Blessed is the crowded town,
Where the tired groan:

Pain but appears to be;

What are man's fears to thee,

God, if all tears shall be

Gems on thy throne?