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When France her front deep-scarred and gory 51
When, insupportably advancing,
55 Domestic Treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp, Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore ;
Then I reproached my fears that would not flee; * And soon,' I said, “shall Wisdom teach her lore In the low huts of them that toil and groan !
60 And, conquering by her happiness alone,
Shall France compel the nations to be free, Tiil Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own.'
Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams !
65 From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sentI hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams !
Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished, And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows
With bleeding wounds ; forgive me, that I cherished 70 One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes !
To scatter rage and traitorous guilt,
A patriot-race to disinherit
And patriot only in pernicious toils, Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind ? 80
To mix with kings in the low lust of sway,
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey ; To' insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils
From freemen torn ? to tempt and to betray?
The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain,
85 Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name
Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain !
90 But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.
Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions,
95 And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves,
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,
Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above,
105 Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
ODE TO THE WEST WIND.
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
35 So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves : O hear! If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness,
In some melodious plot
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South,
15 Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth ;
And with thee fade away into the forest dim :
What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
And leaden-eyed despairs ;
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 30 Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : Already with thee! tender is the night,
35 And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 40