O'er and o'er the hillocks grassy, Now away o'er buildings massy: Ever cries, as from doom's portal, "Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!" Thro' the wards where pain was shrieking, Where disease was vengeance wreaking, Still the sounds were hurrying, crying, As in emulation trying; Many a fev'rish slumber breaking; O'er the lips that knew no slaking. All were crying, help imploring; While the bells from roof to flooring, Still, as from the first beginning, Still the self-same burden dinning, Spite of all my writhing, tearing, Onward still my spirit bearing Far away in booming sallies, Rushing thro' the crowded alleys, Where grim Want his wings was quiv'ring O'er the pinched forms, half clad, shiv'ring; Where disease and death were hov'ring; Where deep sorrow earth was cov'ring. Away, again, where life was failing; Away, again, by orphans wailing; Thro' the prison bars now darting, Where the fettered wretch lay smarting, Wakened from his sleep, and starting, He too shrieked in bitter parting Curses on my aid withholden, In the glorious hours golden, Wasted, thrown away in madness-- Hours that might deep sorrow, sadness. Misery, have chased from numbers,-- Chased the want the earth that cumbers. Away, away, and faster speeding, Away, the tones seemed round me pleading Lessons to my madness reading, From the scenes I'd lived unheeding. Still the unseen fetters bound me; Still the burden floated round me: "Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!" "Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!" But the words came softer, lower, Calmer still, and sweeter, slower, Till they murmured off in silence on the wintry air; Save returning, booming, rolling, Came that one vast warning, tolling "Soul!" as when at first it called me, sitting in my chair. Now again from earth rebounding, Quick and fast, the bells were sounding, And I sprang from out my seat, with wild and startled look. 'Twas the blest Redeemer's morning!-- Sunshine brightly Earth adorning,-- And the Christmas jocund peal my brightened casement shook. Hope has risen clearer, purer, O'er my life-course firmer, surer, Since that eve, when gloomily I pondered on my life; When I heard, as from doom's portal, "Soul of sorrow! murm'ring mortal!" Booming on my aching brain, with murmurs thickly rife. CHAPTER TWENTY. A ROGUE AND A VAGABOND. "You must fetch the doctor," says Dick, as I stood over him looking at his poor worn face, all drawed with pain and hollow-looking, although he'd got his paint on and the band and spangles were round his head, though his black hair was all rough with him a-tossing about.