Scorn not the darken'd brow,
Ye of that happier race,
Who wear the rose-tint on your cheek,
With beauty's fairest grace!

Nor let our humble claim,
Who bear so hard a lot,
Be disregarded in your pray'rs,
Or in your alms forgot.

For when before their judge
The gather'd nations stand;
And bondmen, long on earth oppress'd,
Shall raise th' unfetter'd hand;

And with a grateful heart,
Heav'n's perfect justice share;
The mercy, that to us you show,
Shall be remember'd there.

Pennarby shaft is dark and steep,
Eight foot wide, eight hundred deep.
Stout the bucket and tough the cord,
Strong as the arm of Winchman Ford.
" Never look down!
Stick to the line! "
That was the saying at Pennarby mine.

A stranger came to Pennarby shaft.
Lord, to see how the miners laughed!
White in the collar and stiff in the hat,
With his patent boots and his silk cravat,
Picking his way,
Dainty and fine,

Full many a pleasure through the hours of life
Hath met me, — some in byeways, some in broad
Wide-open pathways of the common road:
Full many a flower hath fallen beneath my knife,
Some gathered redly from tempestuous strife,
Some plucked in valleys that calm thought hath showed; —
With many gracious gleams my days have glowed;
With many stars my clear skies have been rife.

Yet never have I known a pleasure higher
Than when, an ardent trembling youth, I came
To lay before my lady my desire

God gave to one to pluck the fragrant flower
And wear it: on another God bestowed,
Instead of that fair living bud that glowed
And glittered, the imperishable power
Of voice, — that, not for any paltry hour,
But through the eternity of voiceful days,
The beauty of that blossom he might praise
And round it all the fruits of yearning shower.

Which is the greatest gift and which the glory?
To hold thee in a perishable embrace, —
Or to hand down in deathless spotless story
The beauty of the roseflower of thy face,

A week ago I sought the self-same place
Where once I wandered through the fields of spring,
Seeking my vanished love with weary wing, —
Searching for the lost likeness of her face.
Still, still, the meadows shine with opening grace
Of sweet fresh flowerets; still the glad birds sing:
The spirit of Nature is an unchanged thing: —
Still, still, the winds pursue their jocund race.

All is the same: 'tis I am changed alone.
The spirit of spring is festive in the trees;
The golden buttercups are blithely blown

Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,
" Though the breach is steep and narrow,
If we only gain the summit
Then it's odds we hold the fort.
I have ten and you have twenty,
And the thirty should be plenty,
With Henderson and Henty
And McDermott in support. "

Said Barrow to Leroy,
" It's a solid job, my boy,
For they've flanked it, and they've banked it,
And they've bored it with a mine.
But it's only fifty paces
Ere we look them in the faces;
And the men are in their places,
With their toes upon the line. "

Fate, when you forc'd me from the weeping maid,
Patient I boare it, nor did once repine;
" Altho' depriv'd of love's solace, (I said),
The sacred joys of friendship shall be mine.

Above each trifling wish, each low concern,
In peaceful solitude's untrodden path,
With virtuous D AMON wisdom's ways I'll learn,
And coolly wait the timely stroke of death. "


" Grant, while I live, the converse of my friend,
And, O, be few the days I'm doom'd to live. " —
Such was my pray'r, in lowliness of mind,

On Maiden's solitary shore
No gaudy blossoms blow;
And silent is it's leaf-lin'd bow'r,
Or but repeats my woe.

The fairy forms that revell'd here,
In fancy's fair array,
No longer soothe the list'ning ear
With love's alluring lay.

Sullen they leave their fav'rite scene,
To sorrow's cruel crew;
But fate prepares another plain,
Ye friendly fays! for you.

Behold, by yonder tuneful stream
My M IRA builds your bow'r!
There shall you seed the secret flame,
While sighing swains adore.

Love, grant me life until my lady's fame
Be clearly blazoned on the common air:
Grant me the songful passion to declare
The greatness and the bounty of her name!
Then will I face the hollow clay-pit's shame,
Descending into earth with bosom bare, —
Happy, in that I leave behind a fair
Memorial for my living love to claim.

Yet am I not content with this slow fate:
I brook not utter cold annihilation.
Fain would I, as a live soul, take my station
By some fair future city's golden gate,
And, listening to my own songs, add a note,

By Maiden's solitary banks,
In vain I pensive stray;
And recollect each happy spot
Where lovely M IRA lay.

Sad is the comfort, small the joy,
Remembrance can bestow;
A momentary gleam at most;
Short interval of woe!

Each waving willow brings to mind
Some fleeting pleasure past;
And ev'ry blooming flow'r recals
Some joy for ever lost.

Ev'n Maiden , as in sullen haste
Her gloomy wa'ers roll,
Points back to former days, and feeds
The sorrows of my soul.

Awak'd by mem'ry, sleeping cares