1822 .] Miscellaneous Poetry of Samuel Bamford. 
303 
(lie first specimen of Bamford’s poetry 
which we offer fo the notice of the 
reader, there is a spirit of resolution 
and heroism, not mi worthy of the days 
of Cressy and Poictiers. 
ODE to DEATH. 
Come not to me on a bed 
Of pale-fac’d sickness, and of pining-; 
O clasp me close on the battle field red, 
Midst the warrior’s shouts and the ar¬ 
mour shining-; 
Let me have no priest, no bell, 
Sable pomp, nor voice of wailing-; 
The roar of the cannon shall be my knell; 
And tears with thee are unavailing : 
Then clasp me close in the hottest strife 
Where the cut, and the stab, and the shot 
are rife. 
May I fall on some great day, 
With Freedom’s banner streaming o’er 
me, 
Live to shout for the victory, 
And see the rout roll on before me, 
And tyrants from their greatness torn 
Beneath the scourge of justice smarting, 
And catch a glimpse of Freedom’s morn. 
My soul to cheer before departing; 
O, then my life might melt away, 
In visions bright of liberty. 
As a companion to this animated 
ode, we shall select the 44 Song of the 
Brave,” which is little, if at all, in¬ 
ferior. 
Considering these effusions with only 
a strict regard to their intrinsic merit, 
we do not hesitate to pronounce that 
taey give evidence of a highly poetical 
mmd; but when we recollect that they 
me the untutored compositions of a 
humble mechanic, one of the operative 
clt. js, as it is called, or in plain terms 
a weaver, we are certainly greatly sur¬ 
prised that he is able to operate such 
verses as these, and should be glad if 
he could 44 spin a thousand such a day.” 
In one of his small pieces there is an 
original and primitive simplicity which 
renders it, to our feelings, very striking 
Without the slightest attempt at orna¬ 
ment, it records 44 a scene in the King’s 
Bench prison,” with a brevity and plain¬ 
ness which go directly to the heart:_ 
“ Good night, the brave man said, 
As to the door we passed, 
And then he took my hand 
And held it very fast; 
And he look’d on me with a steadfast eye, 
And there was neither tear nor sigh. 
Good night, Sir, I replied. 
And did his hand detain; 
Good night, but, O, my friend. 
When shall we meet again ? 
Aud then I felt a tear would stray, 
And so I turn’d and came away. 
O, what is the life of the brave ? 
A gift which his Maker hath given, 
Lest nothing but tyrant and slave 
Remain of mankind under heaven. 
O, what is the life of the brave, 
W hen staked in the cause of his right ? 
; Tis but as a drop to the wave, 
A trifle he values as light. 
© 
And what is the death of the brave; 
A loss which the good shall deplore : 
The virtues he strugg-led to save 
Are griev’d to behold him no more : 
’Tis the close of a glorious day, 
’Tis the setting of yonder bright sun ; 
A summons that welcomes away 
To a heaven already begun. 
And what is the fame of the brave ? 
’Tis the halo which follows his day; 
The virtuous examples he gave 
Still shining in splendid array. 
The blood of the coward runs cold, 
The wise and the good do admire ; 
But in the warm heart of the bold, 
O, it kindles a nobler fire. 
Then who would not live with the brave ? 
The wretch without virtue or worth ; 
And who would not die with the brave ? 
The coward that clings to the earth. 
And who shall partake with the brave. 
The fame which his valour hath won ? 
O, he that will fight with the brave 
Till the battle of Freedom is won. 
They took him on the morn 
Unto a prison sure ; 
Where the arch enemy 
Might hold her prey secure : 
But the Patriot s God is with him gone 
And he will not be left alone.” 
The pieces which we have hitherto 
quoted, are certainly tinged with a 
political feeling, and we therefore think 
it incumbent on us to shew, that when 
his master passion, the love of liberty, 
is not in actioii, Bamford possesses do¬ 
minion over the tenderer feelings. By 
the following ballad our readers will 
probably be reminded of Burns’ 4 * Sol- 
diOi s Return ." 1 And when we venture 
to suggest such a comparison, it is plain 
that we have no mean idea of the merit 
of our author’s composition. It pos¬ 
sesses much of the character of the old 
ballad. 
THE WANDERERS. 
The rain beat sore, and the wind did roar, 
And it blew November’s blast so chill; 
And dreary was the morn, when a maiden all for¬ 
lorn 
Came wandering over the Tandle hill. 
Her cheeks were like the rose, and her eyes black 
as sloes, 
And Oh ! they were streaming with tears so free ; 
And as she pass’d by, she heavily did sigh, 
And I knew the lovely maiden, but she knew not 
me. 
“ O bonnie 
