Shame—shame to man That he should trust so easily the tongue That stabs another’s fame! the ill report Was heard, repeated, and believed,—and soon, For Hamuel by most damned artifice Produced such semblances of guilt, the Maid Was judged to shameful death. Without the walls There was a barren field; a place abhorr’d, For it was there where wretched criminals Were done to die; and there they built the stake, And piled the fuel round, that should consume The accused Maid, abandon’d, as it seem’d, By God and man. The assembled Bethlemites Beheld the scene, and when they saw the Maid Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness She lifted up her patient looks to Heaven, They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughts Stood Hamuel near the pile, him savage joy Led thitherward, but now within his heart Unwonted feelings stirr’d, and the first pangs Of wakening guilt, anticipating Hell. The eye of Zillah as it glanced around Fell on the murderer once, but not in wrath; And therefore like a dagger it had fallen, Had struck into his soul a cureless wound. Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour Of triumph, dost thou spare the guilty wretch, Not in the hour of infamy and death Forsake the virtuous! they draw near the stake— And lo! the torch! hold hold your erring hands! Yet quench the rising flames!—they rise! they spread! They reach the suffering Maid! oh God protect The innocent one! They rose, they spread, they raged— The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames In one long lightning flash collecting fierce, Darted and blasted Hamuel—him alone. Hark—what a fearful scream the multitude Pour forth!—and yet more miracles! the stake Buds out, and spreads its light green leaves and bowers The innocent Maid, and roses bloom around, Now first beheld since Paradise was lost, And fill with Eden odours all the air. The Complaints of the Poor And wherefore do the Poor complain? The rich man asked of me,— Come walk abroad with me, I said And I will answer thee. Twas evening and the frozen streets Were cheerless to behold, And we were wrapt and coated well, And yet we were a-cold. We met an old bare-headed man, His locks were few and white, I ask’d him what he did abroad In that cold winter’s night: ’Twas bitter keen indeed, he said, But at home no fire had he, And therefore, he had come abroad To ask for charity. We met a young bare-footed child, And she begg’d loud and bold, I ask’d her what she did abroad When the wind it blew so cold; She said her father was at home And he lay sick a-bed, And therefore was it she was sent Abroad to beg for bread. We saw a woman sitting down Upon a stone to rest, She had a baby at her back And another at her breast; I ask’d her why she loiter’d there When the wind it was so chill; She turn’d her head and bade the child That scream’d behind be still.