Why is the crowd so great to-day,
And why do the people shout "Huzza?"
And why is yonder felon given
Alone to feed the birds of heaven?
Had he no friend, now all is done,
To give his corse a grave? Not one!
Night has fallen, what means that cry?
It descends from the gibbet high—
There sits on its top a lonely owl,
With a staring eye, and a dismal scowl;
And he screams aloud, "Revenge is sweet!"
His mortal foe is at his feet.
On a Butterfly.
Thou coloured winglet, floating in the ray
Of June's most gladsome hours, whose gorgeous vest
Was woven in the rainbow; little rest
Thou knowest, in the long bright summer day:
Sipping the fragrant homed dew, away
Thou flyest from flower to flower, and blest
With buoyant thoughts, and spirits full of zest,
Through fields of ether lies thy airy way.
Yet wast thou once a reptile in the mire
Unsightly: having slumbered in thy cell,
Transformed and drunk with thoughts that bliss inspire
Thou earnest forth:—and I shall break the shell
Of dull mortality, and clad in fire,
Burst on immortal wings, in fields of light to dwell.
To the Ocean.
How oft enchanted have I stood,
Gazing on forest, field, and flood;
Or in the busy breathing vale,
With hamlet gemmed and turret pale;
Ne'er dreaming (till another hour)
That more of beauty, more of power,
Than earth, in stream, vale, wood, or tower,
Could boast her own, existed still
In one broad scene of vision, till
That moment when I mutely bent
O'er thee, imperial Element!
