Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the ways

Of Satan, Sire of lies ;
Hell's huge black Spider for mankind he lays

His toils as thou for fies.
When Betty's busy eye runs round the room
Woe to that nice geometry, if seen !
But where is he whose broom

The earth shall clean ?

Spider ! of old thy flimsy webs were thought,

And 'twas a likeness true,
To emblem laws in which the weak are caught

But which the strong break through.
And if a victim in thy toils is ta’en,
Like some poor client is that wretched fily-
I'll warrant thee thou'lt drain

His life-blood dry.

And is not thy weak work like human schemes

And care on earth employ'd ? Such are young hopes and Love's delightful dreams

So easily destroyed ! So does the Statesman, whilst the Avengers sleep, Self-deem'd secure, his wiles in secret lay, Soon shall Destruction sweep

His work away.

Thou busy labourer ! one resemblance more

Shall yet the verse prolong,
For Spider, thou art like the Poet poor,

Whom thou hast help'd in song.
Both busily our needful food to win,
We work, as Nature taught, with ceaseless pains,
Thy bowels thou dost spin,
I spin my brains.


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Not to the grave, not to the grave my Soul

Descend to contemplate.

The form that once was dear !
Feed not on thoughts so loathly horrible !

The Spirit is not there
That kindled that dead eye,
That throbb’d in that cold heart,
That in that motionless hand
Has met thy friendly grasp.

The Spirit is not there !
It is but lifeless, perishable flesh

That moulders in the grave,
Earth, air and waters ministering particles

Now to the elements

Resolv'd, their uses done.
Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul,

Follow thy friend beloved,
The Spirit is not there !

Often together have we talk'd of death,

How sweet it were to see
All doubtful things made clear,
How sweet it were with powers
Such as the Cherubim,
To view the depth of Heaven !

O * * ! thou hast first
Begun the travel of Eternity !

I gaze amid the stars,

And think that thou art there, Unfettered as the thought that follows thee.

And we have often said how sweet it were
With unseen ministry of angel power

To watch the friends we loved.

* *! we did not err! Sure I have felt thy presence! thou hast given

A birth to holy thought,
Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and

pure. * *! we did not err !

Our best affections here
They are not like the toys of infancy ;

The Soul outgrows them not,
We do not cast them off,

Oh if it could be so
It were indeed a dreadful thing to die !

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soal,

Follow thy friend beloved !
But in the lonely hour

But in the evening walk,
Think that he companies thy solitude,

Think that he holds with thee

Mysterious intercourse,
And tho' Remembrance wake a tear

There will be joy in grief.

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