Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the ways Of Satan, Sire of lies ; Hell's huge black Spider for mankind he lays When Betty's busy eye runs round the room But where is he whose broom The earth shall clean ? Spider! of old thy flimsy webs were thought, To emblem laws in which the weak are caught And if a victim in thy toils is ta'en, Like some poor client is that wretched fly— His life-blood dry. And is not thy weak work like human schemes Such are young hopes and Love's delightful dreams So does the Statesman, whilst the Avengers sleep, His work away. Thou busy labourer! one resemblance more For Spider, thou art like the Poet poor, Both busily our needful food to win, We work, as Nature taught, with ceaseless pains, Thy bowels thou dost spin, I spin my brains. The DEAD FRIEND. Not to the grave, not to the grave my Soul The form that once was dear! 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! 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, All doubtful things made clear, To view the depth of Heaven! Begun the travel of Eternity! And think that thou art there, Unfettered as the thought that follows thee. And we have often said how sweet it were 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! |