"My boat is small," the boatman cried, Strange feeling fill'd them at his voice, Even in that hour of woe, That, save their lord, there was not one But William leapt into the boat,- "Thou shalt have half my gold," he cried, The boatman plied the oar, the boat The boatman paused, "Methought I heard ""Twas but the howling wind of night," Lord William made reply. "Haste!-haste !-ply swift and strong the oar; Haste!-haste across the stream!" Again Lord William heard a cry Like Edmund's drowning scream! "I heard a child's distressful voice," The boatman cried again. "Nay, hasten on !-the night is darkAnd we should search in vain!" "O God! Lord William, dost thou know How dreadful 'tis to die? And canst thou without pity hear "How horrible it is to sink Beneath the closing stream, To stretch the powerless arms in vain, The shriek again was heard: it came And near them they beheld a child; A little crag, and all around Was spread the rising flood. The boatman plied the oar, the boat And show'd how pale his face. "Now reach thine hand!" the boatman cried, "Lord William, reach and save!" The child stretch'd forth his little hands Then William shriek'd; the hands he felt A heavier weight than lead! The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk He rose, he shriek'd, no human ear Heard William's drowning scream! IV. STANZAS WRITTEN IN HIS LIBRARY. 1818. MY days among the Dead are past ; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, My never failing friends are they, With them I take delight in weal, My cheeks have often been bedew'd My thoughts are with the Dead, with them Their virtues love, their faults condemn, And from their lessons seek and find My hopes are with the Dead, anon Through all Futurity; Yet leaving here a name, I trust, THALABA, THE DESTROYER. 1800-1. ROBERT SOUTHEY. THE YOUTH OF THALABA. From Book III. (XVI.) It was the wisdom and the will of Heaven, There might his soul develop best Keep his heart pure and uncontaminate, Till at the written hour he should be found Fit servant of the Lord, without a spot. (XVII.) Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled Is the morn fair, and doth the freshening breeze His dog beside him, in mute blandishment, Now lifts an anxious and expectant eye, (XVIII.) Or comes the Father of the Rains The traveller's tread in the sands; When the door-curtain hangs in heavier folds : Domestic Peace and Comfort are within : Entwines the strong palm-fibres; by the hearth (XxxII.) 'Tis the cool evening hour; The Tamarind from the dew Intones the holy Book. |