BENEATH Our feet and o'er our head
Is equal warning given;
Beneath us lie the countless dead,
Above us is the Heaven!
Their names are graven on the stone,
Their bones are in the clay;
And ere another day is gone,
Ourselves may be as they.
Death rides on every passing breeze, He lurks in every flower:
Each season has its own disease,
Its peril every hour!
Our eyes have seen the rosy light
Of youth's soft cheek decay,
And Fate descend in sudden night
On manhood's middle day.
Our eyes have seen the steps of age
Halt feebly towards the tomb,
And yet shall earth our hearts engage,
And dreams of days to come?
Turn, mortal, turn! thy danger know;
Where'er thy foot can tread,
The earth rings hollow from below,
And warns thee of her dead!
Turn, Christian, turn! thy soul apply To truths divinely given;
The bones that underneath thee lie
Shall live for Hell or Heaven!
THE VISIT OF MADOC.-A SCENE AMONG THE WELSH HILLS.
NOW HATH Prince Madoc left the holy Isle,
And homeward to Aberfraw, through the wilds
Of Arvon, bent his course.
A little way
He turn'd aside, by natural impulses
Moved, to behold Cadwallon's lonely hut.
That lonely dwelling stood among the hills,
By a grey mountain-stream; just elevate
Above the winter torrents did it stand,
Upon a craggy bank; an orchard slope
Arose behind, and joyous was the scene
In early summer, when those antic trees
Shone with their blushing blossoms, and the flax
Twinkled beneath the breeze its liveliest green.
But save the flax-field and that orchard slope,
All else was desolate, and now it wore
One sober hue; the narrow vale, which wound
Among the hills, was grey with rocks, that peer'd
Above its shallow soil; the mountain-side
Was loose with stones bestrewn, which oftentimes
Clatter'd adown the steep, beneath the foot
Of straggling goat dislodged; or lower'd with crags,
One day, when winter's work hath loosen'd them,
To thunder down. All things assorted well
With that grey mountain hue; the low stone lines,
Which scarcely seem'd to be the work of man,
The dwelling rudely rear'd with stones unhewn,
The stubble-flax, the crooked apple-trees,
Grey with their fleecy moss and mistletoe,
The white-bark'd birch, now leafless, and the ash
Whose knotted roots were like the drifted rock
Through which they forced their way. Adown the vale,
Broken by stones, and o'er a stony bed,
Roll'd the loud mountain-stream—
A little child was sporting by the brook,
Floating the fallen leaves, that he might see them.
Whirl in the eddy now, and now be driven
Down the descent, now on the smoother stream
Sail onward far away. But when he heard
The horse's tramp, he raised his head and watch'd
The Prince, who now dismounted and drew nigh.
The little boy still fix'd his eyes on him,
His bright blue eyes; the wind just moved the curls.
That cluster'd round his brow; and so he stood,
His rosy cheeks still lifted up to gaze
In innocent wonder. Madoc took his hand,
And now had ask'd his name, and if he dwelt
There in the hut; when from that cottage-door
A woman came, who, seeing Madoc, stopt
With such a fear-for she had cause to fear-
As when a bird, returning to her nest,
Turns to a tree beside, if she behold
Some prying boy too near the dear retreat.
Howbeit, advancing, soon she now approach'd
The approaching Prince, and timidly inquired
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