I speak but with the people's voice, Yet, brothers! God has given to few, And seek the good the time requires. These are the prophets, these the kings. The engines of their might have sought; Whose utterance comes, we know not whence, Being no more their own than ours, With instantaneous evidence Of titles just and sacred powers. But bold usurpers may arise Of this as of another's throne; An echo of your evil self No better than the voice can be, And appetites of fame or pelf Grow not in good as in degree. Then try the speaker, try the cause, By which our feelings ebb and flow: Be hid beneath a specious name, Thomas Hood. THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.1 WAS in the prime of summer time, "TWA An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school; There were some that ran and some that leaped, Away they sped with gamesome minds, And souls untouched by sin; To a level mead they came, and there Over the town of Lynn. The late Admiral Burney went to school at an establishment where the unhappy Eugene Aram was usher, subsequent to his crime. The admiral stated, that Aram was generally liked by the boys; and that he used to discourse to them about murder, in somewhat of the spirit which is attributed to him in this poem. Like sportive deer they coursed about, Turning to mirth all things of earth, But the usher sat remote from all, His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, So he leaned his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees! Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside; For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide: Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed. At last he shut the ponderous tome; Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took— Now up the mead, then down the mead, That pored upon a book! "My gentle lad, what is't Romance or fairy tale ? Or is it some historic page, you read Of kings and crowns unstable?" The young boy gave an upward glance "It is The Death of Abel."" The usher took six hasty strides, And down he sat beside the lad, He told how murderers walked the earth, With crimson clouds before their eyes, Its everlasting stain! "And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth, Their pangs must be extreme Woe, woe, unutterable woe Who spill life's sacred stream! For why? Methought, last night, I wrought A murder in a dream! "One that had never done me wrong— A feeble man, and old; I led him to a lonely field, The moon shone clear and cold: 'Now here,' said I, 'this man shall die, And I will have his gold!' "Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, And one with a heavy stone, One hurried gash with a hasty knife- "Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, And I feared him all the more, yet For lying there so still: There was a manhood in his look, "And, lo! the universal air I took the dead man by the hand, O God, it made me quake to see But when I touched the lifeless clay, The blood gushed out amain! For every clot, a burning spot Was scorching in my brain! "And now from forth the frowning sky, From the heaven's topmost height, I heard a voice-the awful voice Of the blood-avenging sprite :— "Thou guilty man! take up thy dead And hide it from my sight!' |