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The boatman plied the oar, the boat

Went light along the stream ;
Sudden Lord William heard a cry

Like Edmund's drowning scream.
The boatman paused, “Methought I heard

A child's distressful cry!”.
'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 scream,"

The boatman cried again.
Nay, hasten on-the night is dark,

And we should search in vain.”
“O God! Lord William, dost thou know

How dreadful 'tis to die?
And canst thou, without pity, hear

A child's expiring cry?
How horrible it is to sink

Beneath the chilly stream ;
To stretch the powerless arms in vain !

In vain for help to scream!”
The shriek again was heard ; it came

More deep, more piercing loud-
That instant, o'er the flood, the moon

Shone through a broken cloud ; And near them they beheld a child;

Upon a crag he stood, -
A little crag, and all around

Was spread the rising flood.
The boatman plied the oar, the boat

Approached his resting-place ;

i Plied, employed with diligence and force.

The moonbeam shone upon the child,

And showed how pale his face.
“ Now reach thine hand !” the boatman cried,

“ Lord William, reach and save !”
The child stretched forth his little hands

To grasp the hand he gave.
Then William shrieked; the hand he touched

Was cold and damp and dead !
He felt young Edmund in his arms

A heavier weight than lead.
The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk

Beneath the avenging stream ;
He rose, he screamed, no human ear

Heard William's drowning scream.

BISHOP HATTO.'
The summer and autumn had been so wet
That in winter the corn was growing yet ;
'Twas a piteous sight to see all around
The corn lie rotting on the ground.
Every day the starving poor
They crowded around bishop Hatto's door,
For he had a plentiful last-year's store,
And all the neighbourhood could tell
His granaries were furnished well.
At last bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay,

1 Hatto. According to tradition, Hatto, Archbishop of Mayence on the Rhine, during a great famine which happened in the oth century, assembled the poor in a barn, and burnt them to death, saying, They are like mice, only good to devour corn.' Soon after, an army of mice came against the archbishop; and to escape the plague, he removed to a tower on the Rhine, -since called the Mouse Tower,—whither thousands of mice followed and devoured him. From the ballad here given, however, it will be seen that Southey makes rats, and not mice, the instruments of God's judg

nt.

He bade them to his great barn repair,
And they should have food for the winter there.
Rejoiced the tidings good to hear,
The
poor

folks flocked from far and near,
The great barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.

Then, when he saw it could hold no more,
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door,
And whilst for mercy on Christ they call,
He set fire to the barn and burnt them all.

“ I' faith 'tis an excellent bonfire !” quoth he, “ And the country is greatly obliged to me, For ridding it, in these times forlorn, Of rats that only consume the corn.”

So then to his palace returned he,
And he sat down to supper merrily,
And he slept that night like an innocent man,
But bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning as he entered the hall,
Where his picture hung against the wall,
A sweat like death all over him came,
For the rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he looked, there came a man from his farm, He had a countenance white with alarm, My lord, I opened your granaries this morn, And the rats had eaten all your corn. Another came running presently, And he was as pale as pale could be, “Fly! my lord bishop, fly!” quoth he, “Ten thousand rats are coming this wayThe Lord forgive you for yesterday !” “I'll go to my tower in the Rhine,” replied he, “ 'Tis the safest place in Germany, The walls are high, and the shores are steep, And the tide is strong and the water deep."

Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away,
And he crost the Rhine without delay,
And reached his tower in the island, and barred
All the gates secure and hard.
He laid him down and closed his eyes-
But soon a scream made him arise,
He started, and saw two eyes of flame
On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.
He listened and looked,-it was only the cat ;
But the bishop he grew more fearful for that,
For she sat screaming, mad with fear
At the army of rats that were drawing near.
For they have swum over the river so deep,
And they have climbed the shores so steep,
And now by thousands up they crawl
To the holes and the windows in the wall.
Down on his knees the bishop fell,
And faster and faster his beads did he tell,
As louder and louder drawing near,
The saw of their teeth without he could hear.
And in at the windows, and in at the door,
And through the walls, by thousands they pour,
And down from the ceiling, and up through the floor,
From the right and the left, from behind and before,
From within and without, from above and below,
And all at once to the bishop they go.
They have whetted their teeth against the stones,
And now they pick the bishop's bones,
They gnawed the flesh from every limb,
For they were sent to do judgment on him !

THOMAS CAMPBELL. (1777–1844.) BORN at Glasgow, and educated at the university of his native city. After leaving the university he resided for some time in Edinburgh, where he published his first work (The Pleasures of Hope). The profits which he derived from the sale of this poem enabled him to visit the Continent in the year 1800. He reached Bavaria (then the seat of war), and from a safe distance had a view of the battle of Hohenlinden. Soon after his return from the Continent he settled in London and commenced the pursuit of literature as a profession. In 1806 a pension of £200 a year was bestowed upon him by the Fox ministry. Campbell died at Boulogne in 1844, and his body was brought to England and interred in Westminster Abbey.

His chief works are, The Pleasures of Hope ; Gertrude of Wyoming; The Battle of the Baltic; Hohenlinden ; Lord Ullin's Daughter, etc.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. Our bugles sang trucel-for the night-cloud had lowered,

And the sentinel stars? set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallets of straw,

By the wolf-scaring faggot* that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,

Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track ; 'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged 5 we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore

From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fullness of heart.

1 Sang truce, sounded for a short peace, or rest from battle. 2 Sentinel stars, watchful stars. 3 Pallet, a small bed.

4 Wolf - scaring faggot, a lighted faggot to frighten away the wolves. 5 Pledged the wine-cup, drank to the health of one another.

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