Seven miles above-below-around- LINES, WRITTEN DURING THE CASTLEREAGH ADMINISTRATION. CORPSES are cold in the tomb, Stones on the pavement are dumb, And their mothers look pale-like the white shore Her sons are as stones in the way- The abortion, with which she travaileth, Then trample and dance, thou Oppressor, Thou art sole lord and possessor Of her corpses, and clods, and abortions-they pave Thy path to the grave. Hearest thou the festival din, Of death, and destruction, and sin, And wealth, crying Havoc! within "Tis the Bacchanal triumph, which makes truth dumb, Thine Epithalamium. Ay, marry thy ghastly wife! Let fear, and disquiet, and strife SONG TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND. MEN of England, wherefore plough Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save, Wherefore, Bees of England, forge Have ye leisure, comfort, calm, The seed ye sow another reaps; Sow seed, but let no tyrant reap; Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells; With plough and spade, and hoe and loom, Trace your grave, and build your tomb, And weave your winding-sheet, till fair England be your sepulchre. ENGLAND IN 1819. AN old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,— Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield, SIMILES. FOR TWO POLITICAL CHARACTERS OF 1819 As from an ancestral oak Two empty ravens sound their clarion, As two gibbering night-birds flit, And the stars are none or few : As a shark and dog-fish wait For the negro-ship whose freight Is the theme of their debate, Wrinkling their red gills the while Are ye, two vultures sick for battle, Two scorpions under one wet stone, Two bloodless wolves whose dry throats rattle, AN ODE. TO THE ASSERTORS OF LIBERTY. ARISE, arise, arise ! There is blood on the earth that denies ye bread; To weep for the dead, the dead, the dead. What other grief were it just to pay? Your sons, your wives, your brethren, were they; Awaken, awaken, awaken! The slave and the tyrant are twin-born foes; To the dust, where your kindred repose, repose: Wave, wave high the banner! When Freedom is riding to conquest by: But in her defence whose children ye are. Glory, glory, glory, To those who have greatly suffered and done! Never name in story Was greater than that which ye shall have won. Conquerors have conquered their foes alone, Whose revenge, pride, and power, they have overthrown' Ride ye, more victorious, over your own. Bind, bind every brow With crownals of violet, ivy and pine: Hide the blood-stains now With hues which sweet nature has made divine, Green strength, azure hope, and eternity. But let not the pansy among them be; Ye were injured, and that means memory. ODE TO HEAVEN. CHORUS OF SPIRITS. FIRST SPIRIT. PALACE-ROOF of cloudless nights! Of acts and ages yet to come! Glorious shapes have life in thee, Living globes which ever throng Even thy name is as a god, Of that power which is the glass Worship thee with bended knees. Thou remainest such alway. SECOND SPIRIT. Thou art but the mind's first chamber, Round which its young fancies clamber, Like weak insects in a cave, Lighted up by stalactites; But the portal of the grave, Where a world of new delights Will make thy best glories seem But a dim and noonday gleam From the shadow of a dream! |