A The Complaints of the Poor. ND wherefore do the poor complain?" The rich man asked of me; "Come walk abroad with me," I said, "And I will answer thee." 106 THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR. 'Twas evening, and the frozen streets And we were wrapp'd and coated well, We met an old bareheaded man, The cold was keen indeed, he said, We met a young barefooted child, She said her father was at home, We saw a woman sitting down She had a baby at her back, THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR. 107 I ask'd her why she loiter'd there, Then told us that her husband served A soldier, far away, And therefore to her parish she I turn'd me to the rich man then, [Though not, perhaps, entitled to a place in the foremost rank of English poets, the name of ROBERT SOUTHEY must ever be dear to the lovers of English literature, as that of a diligent, talented, and honest-minded man. With the exception of certain rather violent outpourings of his youthful muse, which drew upon him the strictures of the critics and the ridicule of many, there is nothing among the voluminous works of Southey which the writer need wish expunged. His prose writings are very valuable, especially his biographical works. His longer poems are less successful than his shorter ballads, many of which have become exceedingly popular. Southey was made poet-laureate in 1813, and in his declining days obtained a well-earned pension of £300. He died in 1843, at the age of sixty-nine, and was succeeded in the laureateship by Wordsworth.] In Epicedium. E left his home with a bounding heart, He turned him to visions of future years, The rainbow's hues were round him ; And a father's bodings-a mother's tearsMight not weigh with the hopes that crowned them. That mother's cheek is far paler now Than when she last caressed him ; He left his home with a swelling sail, Or the pennon above him streaming. 'Neath a sultry sun they've laid him ; And stranger forms bent o'er his grave, When the last sad rites were paid him. He should have died in his own loved land, SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. Not have withered thus on a foreign strand, Then why repine ? Can he feel the rays It hath 'scaped the storm's deep chiding; 109 ALARIC WATTS. She was a Phantom of Delight. HE was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; |