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EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

ONE of the most remarkable men of the present age is EBENEZER ELLIOTT, the "CornLaw Rhymer," a poet whose productions are distinguished alike for boldness and originality, a singular strength and purity of diction, and a warm sympathy with the oppressed

masses.

He is called "the bard of the people," for whom he has written, on subjects of popular interest, and in words they all can understand.

Like most men of moderate means and in humble life, EBENEZER ELLIOTT has felt the heavy and unequal pressure of the laws, especially of those commercial restrictions by which full twenty per cent. is added to the price of bread, turning the sweat of the poor into gold for the rich. As is commonly the case with men who devote their chief attention to some particular evil, he has doubtless magnified the importance of the bread-tax, and attributed to it more than a due share of the general suffering. I do not, however, well understand this subject; and it is enough for my present purpose to remark, that the "Poet of the Poor," uniting with his more sacred functions those of the orator, has exercised in England a greater influence against the Corn Laws, whatever may be their true character, than any other person unconnected with the administration of public affairs.

Of the history of ELLIOTT, more than is shown in his writings, I know but little. He was born at Masborough, near Sheffield, in 1781. His father was a Presbyterian, rigid and formal, without affection for the religious establishment or the government. Our poet, in his boyhood, had few companionships. He learned nothing with facility from books. He was thought too dull to profit by instruction, and his education was neglected. But he was quick to observe, and had an ardent love of nature.

When he was about fifteen, a Cameronian clergyman bequeathed to his father a library containing many valuable works. With these, or with so many as were worth reading, he soon became familiar. He boasts that he has deeply studied all the really good literature

of the language, and that he has never read to the end a worthless book. His mind and his style are fashioned by the great masters of thought and expression. He is sometimes harsh and coarse, but he is never careless. Efforts to be refined too often induce effeminacy. He has no such fault. He is an ardent, independent thinker, and he utters his opinions with force and directness, never discarding a word because it is too strong.

Among his longer poems, not included in this volume, are Spirits and Men, an antediluvian epic, They Met Again, Withered Wild Flowers, and several dramas. His dramatic pieces are not his best, though Bothwell, which I have quoted, is a fine fragment. One of his plays is entitled Kerhonah; the scene is in Connecticut, and among the dramatis personæ are the regicides Ward and Goffe, and the learned and pious ELIOT, well named “ Apostle of the Indians," who is introduced as the lover of some dusky princess. The poet should have better learned the missionary, whose character was one of the purest and sublimest in history.

ELLIOTT was for a long time neglected. His subjects, like those of CRABBE, whom in many ways he is like, are of a homely sort, emphatically human, such as, for some reason, the popular taste does not readily approve. He gives simple, earnest, and true echoes of the affections. His poems, aside from their political character, breathe the spirit of a kind of primitive life, unperverted, unhackneyed, and fresh as the dews on his own hawthorn. CARLYLE, BULWER, and other critics, seeing in him incontestable signs of genius, at length handed him up to fame. Those who were most opposed to his politics, recognised him as a poet; society seemed to be ashamed of the indifference with which it had treated him; and his works rose rapidly in the popular estimation. He takes rank now among the first of the living poets of England.

Mr. ELLIOTT is more than sixty years of age. He has been for many years a steel refiner and iron merchant at Sheffield, where he is much respected for his high qualities as

a man,

1

BOTHWELL.-A DRAMATIC POEM.

! SCENE-Inside of a dungeon, in a fortress on the coast of Norway. BOTHWELL sleeping. RHINVALT gazing through a barred window on the rocks, and stormy sea below.

Rhin. Splendour in heaven, and horror on the
main!

Sunshine and storm at once-a troubled day.
Clouds roll in brightness, and descend in rain.
How the waves rush into the rocky bay,
Shaking the eternal barriers of the land!
And ocean's face is like a battle plain,
Where giant demons combat hand to hand;
While, as their voices sink and swell again,

Peace, listening on the rainbow, bends in pain. Where is the voice, whose stillness man's heart hears,

Like dream'd-of music, wordless, soft, and low?
The voice, which dries on sorrow's cheek her tears,
Or, lest she perish, bids the current flow?
That voice the whirlwind in his rage reveres ;
It bids the blast a tranquil sabbath keep:
Lonely as death, harmonious as the spheres,
It whispers to the wildness of the deep,
Till, calm as cradled babe, the billows sleep.
Oh, careless of the tempest in his ire,
Blush, ruby glow of western heaven! Oh, cast
The hue of roses, steep'd in liquid fire,
On ocean in his conflict with the blast,
And quiver into darkness, and retire,
And let wild day to calmest night subside;
Let the tired sailor from his toil respire,
The drench'd flag hang, unmoving, o'er the tide,
And pillow'd on still clouds, the whirlwind ride!
Then, Queen of Silence, robe thee, and arise,
And, through the barr'd loop of this dungeon old,
Visit, once more, its inmate's blasted eyes!
Let him again, though late, thy light behold!
Soulless, not sightless, have his eyeballs roll'd,
Alike, in light and darkness, desolate.

The storm beat on his heart-he felt no cold;
Summer look'd on him, from heaven's fiery gate-
Shivering, he scowl'd, and knew not that he scowl'd.
Unweeping, yet perturb'd: his bed a stone;
Bonds on his body-on his mind a spell:
Ten years in solitude, (yet not alone,)
And conscious only to the inward hell;
Here hath it been his hideous lot to dwell.
But heav'n can bid the spirit's gloom depart,
Can chase from his torn soul the demon fell,
And whispering, find a listener in his heart.
Oh, let him weep again! then, tearless dwell,
In his dark, narrow home, unrung by passing bell!
[A long pause. Loud thunder; and after
an interval, thunder heard remote.]
The storm has ceased. The sun is set; the trees
Are fain to slumber; and, on ocean's breast,
How softly, yet how solemnly, the breeze,
With unperceived gradation, sinks to rest!
No voice, no sound is on the ear impress'd;
Twilight is weeping o'er the pensive rose;
The stoat slumbers, coil'd up in his nest!
The grosbeak on the owl's perch seeks repose;

And o'er the heights, behold! a pale light glows.
Waked by the bat, up-springs the startled snake;
The cloud's edge brightens-lo, the moon! and
grove,

And tree, and shrub, bath'd in her beams, awake,
With tresses cluster'd like the locks of love.
Behold! the ocean's tremor! slowly move
The cloud-like sails; and, as their way they urge,
Fancy might almost deem she saw, above, [surge,
The streamer's chasten'd hues; bright sleeps the
And dark the rocks, o.1 ocean's glittering verge.
Now lovers meet, and labour's task is done.
Now stillness hears the breathing heifer. Now
Heavens azure deepens; and, where rock-rills run,
Rest on the shadowy mountain's airy brow
Clouds that have taken their farewell of the sun;
While calmness, reigning o'er that wintry clime,
Pauses and listens ;-hark! the evening gun!
Oh, hark!—the sound expires! and silence is
sublime.

Moonlight o'er ocean's stillness! on the crest
Of the poor maniac, moonlight!-He is calm;
Calmer he soon will be in endless rest:-
Oh, be thy coolness to his brow as balm, [breast!
And breathe, thou fresh breeze, on his burning
For memory is returning to his brain;

The dreadful past, with worse than wo impress'd;
And torturing time's eternity of pain;
The curse of mind returns! Oh take it back again!
[A long pause, during which he bends
anxiously over Bothwell.]

Alas! how flutteringly he draws his breath!
Both. My blessed Mary!

Rhin.

Calmer he appears

Sad, fatal symptom! swift approaches death.

Both. Mary! a hand of fire my bosom sears.— Oh do not leave me !-Heavenly Mary!-years, Ages of torture pass'd, and thou camest not; I waited still, and watch'd, but not in tears; I could not weep; mine eyes are dry and hot, And long, long since, to shed a tear forgot. [gone! A word! though it condemn me!-stay! she's Gone! and to come no more! [He faints.] Rhin. Ah, is it so? His pilgrimage is o'er, his task is done; How grimly still he lies! yet his eyes glow, As with strange meaning. Troubled spirit, go! How threateningly his teeth are clench'd! how fast He clutches his grasp'd hair!-hush!-breathless? No!

Life still is here, though withering hope be past; Come, bridegroom of despair! and be this sigh his last.

Both. Where am I? What art thou?
Rhin.
Call me a friend,
And this a prison.

Both.

Voice of torture, cease!

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Rhin. A tear and shed by thee?
Both.
I breathed in flame;
The sleepless worm of wrath was busy here;
When-ah, it was a dream!-my lady came,
Lovely and wan in wo, with the big tear
To cool my fever'd soul. In love and fear,
O'er me she bent, as at the hermitage,
When (maim'd in conflict with the mountaineer)
She kiss'd my wounds, while Darnley swell'd with
rage;

Tears only! not a word! she fled!—and I am here.
She fled; and then, within a sable room,
Methought I saw the headsman and the axe;
And men stood round the block, with brows of
gloom,

Gazing, yet mute, as images of wax;

And, while the victim moved to meet her doom,
All wept for Mary Stuart. Pale, she bent,
As when we parted last; yet towards the tomb
Calmly she look'd, and smiling, prayers up sent
To pitying Heaven. A deep and fearful boom
Of mutter'd accents rose, when to the ground
The sever'd head fell bleeding! and, aghast,
Horror on horror stared. And then a sound
Swell'd, hoarsely yelling, on the sudden blast,
As of a female voice that mimick'd wo;
But, as above that hall of death it pass'd,
'Twas changed into a laugh, wild, sullen, low, [cast,
Like a fiend's growl, who, from heaven's splendour
Quaff's fire and wrath, where pain's red embers glow.
Do I not know thee? I'm forgetful grown :
Where did I see thee first?

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Rhin.

Ah, thirty years and more. My wife!-Oh never may I look on her! My children!

Both. Didst thou spill man's blood; or why? Rhin. I spilt man's blood in battle. Oh, no more, Liberty, shall I breathe thy air on high Where the cloud travels, or along the shore When the waves frown, like patriots sworn to die! I met the oppressors of my native land, [afar,) (Wide waved their plumes o'er Norway's wilds I met them, breast to breast, and hand to hand, O'ercome, not vanquish'd, in the unequal war: And this is Freedom's grave.

Both. Freedom Thou fool, Deserving chains! Freedom?-a word to scare The sceptred babe. Of thy own dream thou tool And champion, white in folly! From me far Be rant like thine of sound senseless jar. Rhin. Say, who art thou that ravest of murder'd kings,

And darest, before her champion vow'd, profane The name of Freedom? Long forgotten things To my soul beckon; and my hand would fain (Stung by thy venon) grasp a sword again, In battle with these tyrants! Gone?—alas! "Tis the death-rattle in the throat-his pain Draws to a close. Again? Dark spirit, pass!

Both. Lift, lift me up! that on my burning brain
The pallid light may shine! and let me see
Once more the ocean. Thanks! Hail, placid deep!
Oh, the cold light is comfort! and to me
The freshness of the breeze comes like sweet sleep
To him whose tears his painful pillow steep!
When last I saw those billows they were red.
Mate of my dungeon! know'st thou why I weep?
My chariot, and my war-horse, and my bed,
Ocean, before me swells, in all its glory spread
Lovely! still lovely Nature! and a line
Of quivering beams, athwart the wavy space,
Runs like a beauteous road to realms divine,
Ending where sea and stooping heaven embrace.
Crisp'd with glad smiles is ocean's aged face;
Gemm'd are the fingers of his wrinkled hand.
Like glittering fishes, in the wanton race,
The little waves leap laughing to the land,
Light following light-an everlasting chase.
Lovely, still lovely! chaste moon, is thy beam
Now laid on Jedburgh's mossy walls asleep,
Where Mary pined for me; or dost thou gleam
O'er Stirling, where I first, in transport deep,
Kiss'd her bless'd hand, when Darnley bade her
weep;

Or o'er Linlithgow and the billows blue,
Where (captured on the forest-waving steep)
She almost fear'd my love, so dear and true;
Or on that sad field, where she could but look adieu?
Rhin. Weep on! if thou, indeed, art he whose

fame

Hath pierced the oblivion even of this tomb, Where life is buried, and whose fearful name Amazement loves to speak, while o'er thy doom, Trembling, he weeps. Did she, whose charms

make tame

All other beauty, Scotland's matchless Queen, Creation's wonder, on that wither'd frame, Enamour'd smile? Sweet tears there are, I ween; Speak then of her, where tears are shed more oft than seen.

Both. Perhaps the artist might, with cunning hand,

Mimic the morn on Mary's lip of love;
And fancy might before the canvass stand,
And deem he saw the unreal bosom move. [glows
But who could paint her heavenly soul, which
With more than kindness-the soft thoughts that

rove

Over the moonlight of her heart's repose-
The wish to hood the falcon, spare the dove,
Destroy the thorn, and multiply the rose?
Oh, hadst thou words of fire, thou couldst not
paint

My Mary in her majesty of mind,
Expressing half the queen and half the saint!
Her fancy, wild as pinions of the wind,
Or sky-ascending eagle, that looks down,

Calm, on the homeless cloud he leaves behind;
Yet beautiful as freshest flower full blown,
That bends beneath the midnight dews reclined;
Or yon resplendent path, o'er ocean's slumber
thrown.

'Twas such a night—Oh, never, bless'd thought, depart !

When Mary utter'd first, in words of flame,
The love, the guilt, the madness of her heart,
While on my bosom burn'd her cheek of shame.
Thy blood is ice, and therefore, thou wilt blame
The queen, the woman, the adulterous wife,
The hapless, and the fair!-Oh, but her name
Needs not thy mangling! Her disastrous life
Needs not thy curse! Spare, slanderer, spare her
fame!

Then wore the heavens, as now, the clouded veil;
Yet mark'd I well her tears, and that wan smile
So tender, so confiding, whose sweet tale,
By memory told, can even now beguile
My spirit of its gloom! for then the pale
Sultana of the night her form display'd,
Pavilion'd in the pearly clouds afar,
Like brightness sleeping, or a naked maid,
In virgin charms unrivall'd; while each star,
Astonish'd at her beauty, seem'd to fade-
Each planet, envy-stung, to turn aside-
Veiling their blushes with their golden hair.
Oh! moment rich in transport, love, and pride!
Big, too, with wo, with terror, with despair!
While, wrestling thus, I strive to choak my groan,
And, what I cannot shun, may learn to bear,
That moment is immortal, and my own!
Fate from that grasp that moment tear!
That moment for an age of might atone!
Poor Rizio of the flute, whom few bewail; [hate.
Worth Mary's tears, was well worth Darnley's
Jealous again! Why, who could e'er prevail,
Monarch or slave, in conflict with his fate?
Behold the King of Hear it not, chaste night!
King! keep no monkey that has got a tail!
In nought but things emasculate delight!
Let no fly touch her, lest it be a male!
And, like the devil, infest a paradise in spite!

Pride, without honour! body, without soul!
The heartless breast a brainless head implies.
If men are mad, when passion scorns control,
And self-respect with shame and virtue flies, [rude!
Darnley hath long been mad.-Thou coxcomb
Thou reptile, shone on by an angel's eyes!
Intemperate brute, with meanest thoughts imbued!
Dunghill! wouldst thou the sun monopolize?
Wouldst thou have Mary's love? for what? In-
gratitude.

The quivering flesh, though torture-torn, may live;
But souls, once deeply wounded, heal no more:
And deem'st thou that scorn'd woman can forgive?
Darnley, thou dream'st, but not as heretofore!
Mary's feign'd smile, assassin-like, would gore;
There is a snake beneath her sorrowing eye;
The crocodile can weep: with bosom frore
O'er thy sick-bed she heaves a traitorous sigh:
Ah, do not hope to live! she knows that thou
shalt die.

Yet Mary wept for Darnley, while she kiss'd
His murderer's cheek at midnight. Sad was she;
And he, who then had seen her, would have miss'd
The rose that was not where it wont to be,
Or marvell'd at its paleness. None might see
The heart, but on the features there was wo.
Then put she on a mask, and gloomily—
For dance and ball prepared-arose to go:
"Spare, spare my Darnley's life!" she said-but
mean'd she so?

Now bends the murderer-Mark his forehead fell!
What says the dark deliberation there?-
Now bends the murderer-Hark!—it is a knell!—
Hark! sound or motion? "T was his cringing hair.
Now bends the murderer-wherefore doth he start?
"Tis silence-silence that is terrible!
When he hath business, silence should depart,
And maniac darkness, borrowing sounds from hell,
Suffer him not to hear his throbbing heart?—
Now bends the murderer o'er the dozing king,
Who, like an o'er-gorged serpent, motionless,
Lies drunk with wine, a seeming-senseless thing;
Yet his eyes roll with dreadful consciousness,
Thickens his throat in impotent distress,

And his voice strives for utterance, while that wretch
Doth on his royal victim's bosom press
His knee, preparing round his neck to stretch
The horrible cord. Lo! dark as the alpine vetch,
Stares his wide-open, blood-shot, bursting eye,
And on the murderer flashes vengeful fire;
While the black visage, in dire agony,
Swells, like a bloated toad that dies in ire,
And quivers into fixedness!-On high
Raising the corpse, forth into the moonlight air
The staggering murderer bears it silently,
Lays it on earth, sees the fix'd eye-ball glare,
And turns, affrighted, from the lifeless stare.
Ho! fire the mine! and let the house be rent
To atoms!-that dark guile may say to fear,
"Ah, dire mischance! mysterious accident!
Ah, would it were explain'd!" ah, would it were!
Up, up, the rushing, red volcano went,

And wide o'er earth, and heav'n, and ocean flash'd
A torrent of earth-lightning skyward sent;
O'er heaven, earth, sea, the dread explosion crash'd;
Then, clattering far, the downward fragments dash'd.
Roar'd the rude sailor o'er the illumined sea.
"Hell is in Scotland!" Shudder'd Roslin's hall,
Low'd the scared heifer on the distant lea,
Trembled the city, shriek'd the festival,
Paused the pale dance from his delighted task,
Quaked every masker of the splendid ball;
Raised hands, unanswer'd questions seem'd to ask ;
And there was one who lean'd against the wall,
Close pressing to her face, with hands convulsed,

her mask.

And night was after that, but blessed night
Was never more! for thrilling voices cried
To the dreaming sleep, on the watcher's pale
affright,

"Who murder'd Darnley? Who the match applied?

Did Hepburn murder Darnley ?"—"Fool!” replied
Accents responsive, fang'd with scorpion sting,
In whispers faint, while all was mute beside,

""Twas the Queen's husband that did kill the King!"

And Murray's mean contempt was mutter'd low. Pale, speechless Mary wept, almost ashamed

And o'er the murderer's soul swept horror's freezing Of him she mourn'd. Flash'd o'er my cheek the

wing.

Rhin. Terrific, but untrue!-Have such things been?

Thy looks say ay! and dire are they to me.
Unhappy King! and more unhappy Queen!
But who the murderer?

Both. What is that to thee?
[chain,
Thinkest thou I kill'd him? Come but near my
Thou base suspector of scathed misery!
And I will dash the links into thy brain,
And lay thee (champion of the can't-be-free!)
There, for thy insolence-never to rise again.
[He faints.]

Rhin. Alas! how farest thou now? Darkness hath chased

The dreadful paleness from thy face; thine eye, Upturn'd, displays its white; thy cheek is laced With quivering tortuous folds; thy lip, awry, Snarls, as thou tearest the straw; the speechless

storm

Frowns on thy brow, where drops of agony Stand thick and beadlike; and, while all thy form Is crumpled with convulsion, threateningly [worm. Thou breathest, smiting the air, and writhing like a

Both. Treason in arms!-Sirs, ye are envious all. To Mary's marriage did ye not consent? Do you deny your signatures-this scrawl Of your vile names? True, I do not repent That I divorced my wife to wed the queen; True, I hate Mar; true, I scorn Huntley's bawl; True, I am higher now than I have beenAnd will remain so, though your heads should fall. Craig, of the nasal twang, who prayest so well! Glencairn, of the icy eye, and tawny hide! If I am prouder than the prince of hell, Are ye all meanness that ye have no pride? My merit is my crime. I love my sword, And that high sin for which the angels fell; But still agrees my action with my word; That your's does not so, let rebellion tell. Submit! or perish here! or elsewhere-by the cord. My comrades, whose brave deeds my heart attests, Be jocund!-But, ah, see their trembling knees! Their eyes are vanquish'd-not by the tossing crests, But by yon rag, the pestilence of the breeze, Painted with villanous horror! In their breasts Ardour and manliness make now with fear A shameful treaty, casting all behests That honour loves, into the inglorious rear. By heaven, their cowardice hath sold us here! Ha! dastards, terror-quell'd as by a charm, [thee, What! steal ye from the field?-My sword for Mary! add courage for his cause! this arm Shall now decide the contest!-Can it be? Did Lindsay claim the fight?—and still lives he? He lives, and I to say it. Hell's black night Lower'd o'er my soul, and Darnley scowl'd on me, And Mary would not let her coward fight, But hade him barter all for infamy! Dishonour'd, yet unburied! Morton's face Wrinkled with insult; while, with cover'd brow, Bravest Kirkaldy mourn'd a foe's disgrace;

glow

Of rage against myself; and undefamed,
Worse than my reputation, and not slow,

I left my soul behind, and fled in wordless wo.

Then ocean was my home, and I became
Outcast of human kind, making my prey
The pallid merchant; and my wither'd name
Was leagued with spoil, and havoc, and dismay;
Fear'd, as the lightning fiend, on steed of flame-
The Arab of the sky. And from that day
Mary I saw no more. Sleepless desire
Wept; but she came not, even in dreams, to say,
(Until this hour,) "All hopeless wretch, expire!"
Rhin. A troubled dream thy changeful life hath

been

Of storm and splendour. Girt with awe and power,
A Thane illustrious; married to a queen;
Obey'd, loved, flatter'd; blasted in an hour;
A homicide; a homeless fugitive

O'er earth, to take a waste without a flower;
A pirate on the ocean, doom'd to live
Like the dark osprey! Could fate sink thee lower?
Defeated, captured, dungeon'd, in this tower
A raving maniac!

Both. Ah, what next? the gloom
Of rayless fire eternal, o'er the foam
Of torment-uttering curses, and the boom
That moans through horror's everlasting home!
Wo, without hope-immortal wakefulness—
The brow of tossing agony-the gloam
Of flitting fiends, who, with taunts pitiless,
Talk of lost honour, rancorous, as they roam
Through night, whose vales no dawn shall ever
bless!-

Accursed who outlives his fame !-Thou scene
Of my last conflict, where the captive's chain
Made me acquainted with despair! serene
Ocean, thou mock'st my bitterness of pain,
For thou, too, sawest me vanquish'd, yet not slain!
Oh, that my heart's-blood had but stain'd the wave,
That I had plung'd never to rise again,
And sought in thy profoundest depths a grave!
White billow! knowest thou Scotland? did thy wet
Foot ever spurn the shell on her loved strand?
There hast thou stoop'd, the sea-weed gray to fret-
Or glaze the pebble with thy crystal hand?
I am of Scotland. Dear to me the sand
That sparkles where my infant days were nursed!
Dear is the vilest weed of that wild land
Where I have been so happy, so accursed!
Oh, tell me, hast thou seen my lady stand
Upon the moonlight shore, with troubled eye, [her?
Looking towards Norway? didst thou gaze on
And did she speak of one far thence, and sigh?
Oh, that I were with thee a passenger
To Scotland, the bless'd Thule, with a sky
Changeful, like woman! would, oh, would I were!
But vainly hence my frantic wishes fly,
Who reigns at Holyrood? Is Mary there?
And does she sometimes shed, for him once loved,
a tear?

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