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(As pauses the tired Cossack's barbarous yell
SWEET Mercy! how my very heart has bled The dirge of murder'd Hope! while Freedom pale To see thee, poor Old Man and thy gray hairs Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier, Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares As if from eldest time some Spirit meek
To clothe thy shrivell’d limbs and palsied head. Had gather'd in a mystic urn each tear
My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest That ever on a Patriot's furrow'il check
That mocks thy shivering! take my garment-use Fit channel found; and she had drain’d the bowl A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul! That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.
My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child:
He did not so, the Galilæan mild,
Who met the Lazars turn'd from rich men's doors,
And call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisome As when far off the warbled strains are heard
Trou bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress His Fellows' freedom soothes the Captive's cares :
Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile, Thou,FAYETTE! who didst wake with startling voice And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while Life's better sun from that long wintry night,
Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness. Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice,
Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland ? And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might: Or, listening, why forget the bealing tale, For lo! the morning struggles into day,
When Jealousy with feverish fancies pale And Slavery's specires shriek and vanish from the Jarrod thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand? ray!
Faint was that Hope, and rayless !—Yet 't was fair
Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir
That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!
TO THE AUTHOR OF THE “ROBBERS.”.
From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent O pleasant days of Hope—for ever gone!
That fearful voice, a famish'd Father's cry Could I recall you But that thought is vain. Lest in some after moment aught more mean Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone
Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood :
Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy!
COMPOSED WUILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF Mimic of Virtue, scowls on thy distress :
BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795. Thy loves and they, that envied thee, deride : With many a pause and oft-reverted eye And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness!
I climb the Coomb's ascent : sweet songsters near 0! I am sad to think, that there should be Warble in shade their wild-wood melody: Cold-bosom'd lewd ones, who endure to place Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear. Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery,
Up scour the startling stragglers of the Flock And force from Famine the caress of Love; That on green plots o'er precipices browse : May He shed healing on the sore disgrace,
From the forced fissures of the naked rock He, the great Comforter that rules above!
The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark-green boughs
(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
IMITATED FROM OSSIAN.
In Lumin's flowery vale:
Slow-waving to the gale.
“ Cease, restless gale!” it seems to say,
“ Nor wake me with thy sighing ! The honors of my vernal day
On rapid wing are flying.
“ To-morrow shall the Traveller come
Who late beheld me blooming :
The dreary vale of Lumin."
My wonted haunts along,
The Youth of simplest song,
The voice of feeble power;
In Slumber's nightly hour.
IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER.
THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA. How long will ye round me be swelling,
Oye blue-tumbling waves of the Sea ? Not always in Caves was my dwelling,
Nor beneath the cold blast of the Tree. Through the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma
In the steps of my beauty I stray'd ; The Warriors beheld Ninathoma,
And they blessed the white-bosom’d Maid ! A Ghost! by my cavern it darted!
In moon-beams the Spirit was drestFor lovely appear the departed
When they visit the dreams of my rest! But, disturb'd by the Tempest's commotion,
· Fleet the shadowy forms of DelightAh cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean!
To howl through my Cavern by Night.
Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
IMITATED FROM THE WELSH.
You deem my words untrue,
O place your hand upon my heart
Feel how it throbs for you! (No fairer deck'd the Bowers of old Romance) That Sleep enamour'd grew, nor moved from his Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim, sweet trance!
In pity to your lover!
That thrilling touch would aid the flame My Sara came, with gentlest look divine ;
It wishes to discover.
TO AN INFANT.
Au cease thy tears and Sobs, my little Life! That I the living Image of my Dream
I did but snatch away the unclasp'd Knife : Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh’d Some safer Toy will soon arrest thine eye, "O! how shall I behold my Love at eventide !" And to quick Laughter change this peevish cry!
You roused each gentler sense As, sighing o'er the Blossom's bloom, Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume
With viewless influence.
Poor Stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe,
And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans
In bold ambitious sweep,
With mimic thunders deep.
Dark reddening from the channellid Isle* (Where stands one solitary pile
Unslated by the blast)
Rude cradled on the mast.
O thou that rearest with celestial aim
Even there-beneath that light-house tower-
Ere Peace with Sara came,
And watch the storm-ver'd flame.
WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER,
SEPTEMBER, 1795, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER FROM BRISTOL.
And there in black soul-jaundiced fit
And listen to the roar :
Plunged foaming on the shore.
Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better
Then by the Lightning's blaze to mark Some toiling tempest-shatter'd bark;
Her vain distréss-guns hear; And when a second sheet of light Flash'd o'er the blackness of the night
To see no Vessel there!
But Fancy now more gaily sings :
As sky-larks 'mid' the corn,
Nods, till returning morn.
Nor travels my meandering eye
Nor now with curious sight
An emerald of light.
And soothes your boding fears :
Ah me! You are in tears !
Or Mirth's untimely din?
When aches the void within.
O mark those smiling tears, that swell
And with the sun-beam blend.
Fostering the heart, they bend !
When stormy Midnight howling round Beats on our roof with clattering sound,
To me your arms you 'll stretch : Great God! you 'll say—To us so kind, O shelter from this loud bleak wind
The houseless, friendless wretch!
But why with sable wand unbless'd
Dim-visaged shapes of Dread?
And hovers round my head !
The tears that tremble down your cheek, Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek
* The Holmes, in the Bristol Channel
In Pity's dew divine ;
Despised Galilæan! For the Great
With a peculiar and surpassing light
Shines from the visage of the oppress'd good Man,
When heedless of himself the scourged Saint How oft, my Love! with shapings sweet
Mourns for the Oppressor. Fair the vernal Mead, I paint the moment we shall meet!
Fair the high Grove, the Sea, the Sun, the Stars ; With eager speed I dart
True impress each of their creating Sire! I seize you in the vacant air,
Yet nor high Grove, nor many-color'd Mead,
Nor the green Ocean with his thousand Isles,
Nor the starr'd Azure, nor the sovran Sun,
Imaged the supreme beauty uncreate,
As thou, meek Savior! at the fearful hour
When thy insulted Anguish wing’d the prayer When all the heart's big ecstasy
Harp'd by Archangels, when they sing of Mercy! Shoots rapid through the frame!
Which when the Almighty heard from forth his
Closed brief moment.
Lovely was the death AWAY, those cloudy looks, that laboring sigh,
Of Him whose life was love! Holy with power The peevish offspring of a sickly hour !
He on the thought-benighted sceptie beam'd Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's power,
Manifest Godhead, melting into day When the blind Gamester throws a luckless die. What floating mists of dark Idolatry
Broke and misshaped the Omnipresent Sire : Yon setting Sun flashes a mournful gleam And first by Fear unoharm'd the drowsed Soul.* Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train :
Till of its nobler nature it 'gan feel To-morrow shall the many-color'd main
Dim recollections : and thence soar'd to Hope, In brightness roll beneath his orient beam! Strong to believe whate'er of mystic good
The Eternal dooms for his immortal Sons.
All self-annihilated it shall make
And bless'd are they,
Who in this fleshly World, the elect of Heaven, Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile
Their strong eye darting through the deeds of Men, Survey the sanguinary Despot's might,
Adore with sted fast unpresuming gaze And haply hurl the Pageant from his height,
Him Nature's Essence, Mind, and Energy! Crwept to wander in some savage isle.
And gazing, trembling, patiently ascend There, shiv'ring sad beneath the tempest's frown,
Treading beneath their feet all visible things Round his uir'd limbs to wrap the purple vest;
As steps, that upward to their Father's Throne And mix'd with nails and beads, an equal jest!
Lead gradual-else nor glorified nor loved. Barier, for food, the jewels of his crown.
They nor Contempt embosom nor Revenge:
For they dare know of what may seem deform The Supreme Fair sole Operant: in whose sight
All things are pure, his strong controlling Love RELIGIOUS MUSINGS;
Alike from all educing perfect good.
Theirs too celestial courage, inly arm’d-
Dwarfing Earth's giant brood, what time they muse
On their great Father, great beyond compare! WRITTEN ON THE CHRISTMAS EVE OF 1794.
And marching onwards view high o'er their heads This is the time, when most divine to hear,
His waving Banners of Omnipotence.
Who the Creator love, created might
Dread not: within their tents no terrors walk. The vision of the heavenly multitude, Who hymnnd the song of Peace o'er Bethlehem's fields !
* Το Νοητον διηρηκασιν εις πολλων
θεων ιδιοτητας. . Yet thou more bright than all the Angel blaze,
Damas. de Myst. Ægypt. That harbinger'd thy birth, Thou, Man of Woes!
For they are holy things before the Lord,
Parts and proportions of one wondrous whole!
Our charities and bearings. But 't is God
Diffused through all, that doth make all one whole;
Peopled with Death ; or where more hideous Trade
I will raise up a mourning, O ye Fiends!
Hiding the present God; whose presence lost,
The moral world's cohesion, we become
An anarchy of Spirits ! Toy-bewitch'd,
No common centre Man, no common sire
Through courts and cities the smooth Savage roams, Thus from the Elect, regenerate through faith,
Feeling himself, his own low Self the whole; Pass the dark Passions and what thirsty Cares
When he by sacred sympathy might make
The whole one Self! Self that no alien knows! Drink up the spirit and the dim regards Self-centre. Lo they vanish! or acquire
Self, far diffused as Fancy's wing can travel! New names, new features-by supernal grace
Self, spreading still! Oblivious of its own, Enrobed with light, and naturalized in Heaven.
Yet all of all. possessing! This is Faith!
This the Messiah's destin'd victory !
But first offences needs must come! Even now* Darkling he fixes on the immediate road
(Black Hell laughs horrible— to hear the scoff!) His downward eye: all else of fairest kind Thee to defend, meek Galilæan! Thee Hid or deform'd. But lo! the bursting Sun! And thy mild laws of love unutterable, Touch'd by the enchantment of that sudden beam, Mistrust and Enmity have burst the bands Straight the black vapor melteth, and in globes Of social Peace; and listening Treachery lurks Of dewy glitter gems each plant and tree; With pious Fraud to share a brother's life; On every leaf, on every blade it hangs!
And childless widows o'er the groaning land Dance glad the new-born intermingling rays, Wail numberless; and orphans weep for bread; And wide around the landscape streams with glory! Thee to defend, dear Savior of Mankind !
Thee, Lamb of God! Thee, blameless Prince of
From all sides rush the thirsty brood of War!
Austria, and that foul Woman of the North, . Truth of subliming import! with the which Who feeds and saturates his constant soul,
The lustful Murderess of her wedded Lord !
And he, connatural Mind! whom (in their songs He from his small particular orbji flies
So bards of elder time had haply feign'd)
Some Fury fondled in her hate to mian,
Bidding her serpent hair in mazy surge
Lick his young face, and at his mouth inbreathe
Horrible sympathy! And leagued with these Cherubs and rapture-trembling Seraphim
Each petty German princeling, nursed in gore!
Soul-harden'd barterers of human blood !
* January 21st, 1794, in the debate on the Address to his And that in his vast family no Cain
Majesty, on the speech from the Throne, the Earl of GuildInjures uninjured (in her best-aim'd blow
ford moved an Amendment to the following effect :-"That Victorious Murder a blind Suicide),
the House hoped his Majesty would seize the earliest oppor
tunity to conclude a peace with Franco," etc. This motion Haply for this some younger Angel now
was opposed by the Duke of Portland, who "considered the Looks down on Human Nature: and, behold! war to be merely grounded on one principle--the preservation A sea of blood bestrew'd with wrecks, where mad of the Christian Religion." May 30th, 1794, the Duke of
Bedford moved a number of Resolutions, with a view to the Embauling Interests on each other rush
Establishment of a Peace with France. Be was opposed With unhelm'd rage !
(among others) by Lord Abingdon in these remarkable words: "The best road to Peace, my Lords, is War! and War car
ried on in the same manner in which we are taught to worship "T is the sublime of man, our Creator, namely, with all our souls, and with all our Our noontide Majesty, to know ourselves
minds, and with all our hearts, and with all our strength."