THE TWO THIEVES.

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      OR

      THE LAST STAGE OF AVARICE.

      Oh now that the genius of Bewick were mine

       And the skill which He learn’d on the Banks of the Tyne;

       When the Muses might deal with me just as they chose

       For I’d take my last leave both of verse and of prose.

      What feats would I work with my magical hand!

       Book-learning and books should be banish’d the land

       And for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls

       Every alehouse should then have a feast on its walls.

      The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair

       Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care.

       For the Prodigal Son, Joseph’s Dream and his Sheaves,

       Oh what would they be to my tale of two Thieves!

      Little Dan is unbreech’d, he is three birthdays old,

       His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told,

       There’s ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather

       Between them, and both go a stealing together.

      With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor?

       It a cartload of peats at an old Woman’s door?

       Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide,

       And his Grandson’s as busy at work by his side.

      Old Daniel begins, he stops short and his eye

       Through the lost look of dotage is cunning and sly.

       ’Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own,

       But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.

      Dan once had a heart which was mov’d by the wires

       Of manifold pleasures and many desires:

       And what if he cherish’d his purse? ‘Twas no more

       Than treading a path trod by thousands before.

      ’Twas a path trod by thousands, but Daniel is one

       Who went something farther than others have gone;

       And now with old Daniel you see how it fares

       You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs.

      The pair sally forth hand in hand; ere the sun

       Has peer’d o’er the beeches their work is begun:

       And yet into whatever sin they may fall,

       This Child but half knows it and that not at all.

      They hunt through the street with deliberate tread,

       And each in his turn is both leader and led;

       And wherever they carry their plots and their wiles,

       Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.

      Neither check’d by the rich nor the needy they roam,

       For grey-headed Dan has a daughter at home;

       Who will gladly repair all the damage that’s done,

       And three, were it ask’d, would be render’d for one.

      Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have ey’d,

       I love thee and love the sweet boy at thy side:

       Long yet may’st thou live, for a teacher we see

       That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.

      A whirl-blast from behind the hill

       Rush’d o’er the wood with startling sound:

       Then all at once the air was still,

       And showers of hailstones patter’d round.

      Where leafless Oaks tower’d high above,

       I sate within an undergrove

       Of tallest hollies, tall and green,

       A fairer bower was never seen.

      From year to year the spacious floor

       With wither’d leaves is cover’d o’er,

       You could not lay a hair between:

       And all the year the bower is green.

      But see! where’er the hailstones drop

       The wither’d leaves all skip and hop,

       There’s not a breeze — no breath of air —

       Yet here, and there, and every where

      Along the floor, beneath the shade

       By those embowering hollies made,

       The leaves in myriads jump and spring,

       As if with pipes and music rare

       Some Robin Good-fellow were there,

       And all those leaves, that jump and spring,

       Were each a joyous, living thing.

      Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease

       That I may never cease to find,

       Even in appearances like these

       Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!

SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW.

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      Though the torrents from their fountains

       Roar down many a craggy steep,

       Yet they find among the mountains

       Resting-places calm and deep.

      Though almost with eagle pinion

       O’er the rocks the Chamois roam.

       Yet he has some small dominion

       Which no doubt he calls his home.

      If on windy days the Raven

       Gambol like a dancing skiff,

       Not the less he loves his haven

       On the bosom of the cliff.

      Though the Sea-horse in the ocean

       Own no dear domestic cave;

       Yet he slumbers without motion

       On the calm and silent wave.

      Day and night my toils redouble!

       Never nearer to the goal,