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But love him. He is one whom many wrongs Have sicken'd of the world. There was a time When he would weep to hear of wickedness, And wonder at the tale; when for the opprest He felt a brother's pity, to the oppressor A good man's honest anger. His quick eye Betray'd each rising feeling, every thought Leapt to his tongue. When first annon; mankind Ile mingled, by himself he judged of them, And loved and trusted them, to wisdom deaf, And took then to his bosom. Falsehood met Iler unsuspecting victim, fair of front, And lovely as Apega's sculptured form, Like that false image caught his warm embrace, And gored his open breast. The reptile race Clung round his bosom, and with viper folds Encircling, stung the fool who foster'd them. His mother was Sixsplicity, his sire Bex evolence; in earlier days he bore Uis father's name; the world who injured him Call him Misan runopy. I may not chuse But love him, Household Goos! for we were nurst In the same school. PENA tes! some there are Who say, that not in the inmost leaven ye dwell, Gazing with eye remote on all the ways of man, his Guardian Goos; wiselier they deem A dearer interest to the human race Links you, yourselves the Spirits of the DEAD. No mortal eye may pierce the invisible world, No light of human reason penetrate The depth where Truth lies hid. Yet to this faith My heart with instant sympathy assents, And I would judge all systems and all faiths Iły that best touchstone, from whose test Decerr Shrinks like the Arch-Fiend at Ithuriel's spear, And Sophistry's gay glittering bubble bursts, As at the spousals of the Nereid's son, when that false Florime!, by her prototype Display’d in rivalry, with all her charms Dissolved away. Nor can the halls of Heaven Give to the human soul such kindred joy, As hovering o'er its carthly haunts it feels, When with the breeze it wantons round the brow Of one beloved on earth; or when at night In dreams it comes, and brings with it the Days And Joys that are no more. Or when, perchance with power permitted to alleviate ill And sit the sufferer for the coming woe, Some strange presage the Spirit breathes, and fills The breast with ominous fear, and disciplines For sorrow, pours into the afflicted heart * one of the ways and means of the 'yrant Nabis. If one of his subjects refused to lend him money, he commanded him to cmbrace his Apega; the statue of a beautiful woman so formed as to clasp the victim to her breast, in which a jointed dagger was concealel. * Then did he set her by that snowy one, Like the true saint beside the image set, of both their beautics to make paragone And trial whether should the honour set; Streightway so soone as both together met, The enchaunted damsell vanish'd into nought; Her snowy substance melted as with heat; Ne of that goodly hew remayned ought But the empty girdle which about her wast was wrought. Sr exsen,
The balm of resignation, and inspires
With heavenly hope. Even as a child delights
To visit day by day the favourite plant
His land has sown, to mark its gradual growth,
And watch all-anxious for the promised slower;
Thus to the blessed spirit in innocence
And pure affections like a little child,
Sweet will it be to hover o'er the friends
Beloved; then sweetest, if, as Duty prompts,
With earthly care we in their breasts have sown
The secds of truth and Virtue, holy slowers,
Whose odour reaclictlı Ileaven.
When my sick Heart
(Sick with hope long delay'd," than which no care
Weighs on the spirit heavier.) from itself
Seeks the best comfort, often have I deem'd
That thou didst witness every inmost thought,
Seward' my dear, dead friend! For not in vain,
0 early summon'd on thy leavenly course!
Was thy brief sojourn here : me didst thou leave
With strengthend step to foliow the right path.
Till we shall meet again. Meantime I soothe
The deep regret of nature, with belief,
O Ed Mund! that thine eye's celestial ken
Pervades me now, marking with no mean joy
The movements of the heart that loved thee well!
Such feelings Nature prompts, and hence your rites,
Domestic Gods' arose. When for his son
With ceaseless grief Syrophanes bewail'd,
Mourning his age left childless, and his wealth
leapt for an alien, he with obstinate eye
Still on the imaged marble of the dead
Dwest, pampering sorrow. Thither from his wrath,
A safe asylum, sled the offending slave,
And garlanded the statue, and implored
His young lost lord to save : itemembrance then
Sofien's the father, and he loved to see
The votive wreath renew d, and the rich smoke
Curl from the costly censer slow and sweet.
From Egypt soon the sorrow-soothing rites
Divulging spread; before your idol forms -
By every hearth the blinded Pagan knelt,
Pouring his prayers to these, and offering there
Vain sacrifice or impious, and sometimes
With human blood your sanctuary defiled :
Til; the first Brutus, tyrant-conquering chief,
Arose; he first the impious rites put down,
st, who for FREEdox lived and died,
The friend of humankind. Then did your scasts
Frequent recur and blameless; and when came
The solemn festival,” whose happiest rites
Embiend Equality, the lioliest truth !
Crown'd with gay garlands were your statues seen,
To you the fragrant censer smoked, to you
The rich libation flow'd : vain sacrifice
For not the poppy wreath nor fruits nor wine
Ye ask, PENATEs! nor the altar cleansed
with many a mystic form; we ask the heart
Made pure, and by domestic Peace and Love
Hallow'd to you.
Hearken your hymn of praise,
PEN Arrs' to your shrines I come for rest,
There only to be found. Often at eve,
Amid my wanderings I have seen far off
The lonely light that spake of comfort there;
It told my heart of many a joy of home,
And my poor heart was sad. When I have gazed
From some high eminence on goodly vales
And cots and villages embower'd below,
The thought would rise that all to me was strange
Amid the scene so fair, nor one small spot
Where my tired mind might rest, and call it home.
There is a magic in that little word:
It is a mystic circle that surrounds
Comforts and virtues never known beyond
The hallowed limit. Often has my heart
Ached for that quiet haven!—havend now,
I think of those in this world's wilderness
Who wander on and find no home of rest
Till to the grave they go! them Poverty,
Ilollow-eyed siend, the child of WEAlto and Power,
Bad offspring of worse parents, aye aftlicts,
Cankering with her soul mildews the chill'd heart:-
Them WANT with scorpion scourge drives to the den
Of Guilt;-them SLAughter for the price of death
Throws to her raven brood. Oh, not on them,
God of FTERNAL Justice! not on them
Let fall thy thunder!
Then only shall be Happiness on earth
| When man shall feel your sacred power, and love
Your tranquil joys; then shall the city stand
A huge void sepulchre, and rising fair
Amid the ruins of the palace pile
The olive grow, there shall the Tree of Peace
Strike its roots deep and flourish. This the state
Shall bless the race redeem'd of Man, when WEAlth
And Powen and all their hideous progeny
Shall sink annihilate, and all mankind
Live in the equal brotherhood of love.
Heart-calming hope, and sure! for hitherward
Tend all the tumults of the troubled world,
Its woes, its wisdom, and its wickedness
Alike : so He hath will'd, whose will is just.
Meantime, all hoping and expecting all
In patient faith, to you, Domestic Gods!
I come, studious of other lore than song,
Of my past years the solace and support:
Yet shall my Heart remember the past years
With honest pride, trusting that not in vain
Lives the pure song of Library and Thurm.
METRICAL LETTE IR. WRitten from Londo N.
MARGARET' my Cousin, -nay, you must not smile;
I love the homely and familiar phrase:
And I will call thee Cousin Margaret,
However quaint amid the measured line
The good old term appears. Oli' it looks ill When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kiu, Sir-int; and Madam-ing as civiliy As if the road between the heart and lips were such a weary and Laplandish way, That the poor travellers came to the red gates Half frozen. Trust me, Cousin Margaret, For many a day my Memory hath play'd The creditor with me on your account, And made me shame to think that I should owe So long the debt of kindness. Iout in truth, Like Claristian on his pilgrimage, I bear So heavy a pack of business, that albeit I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours' race Time leaves me distanced. Loth indeed were I That for a moment you should lay to me Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some Who know how warm it beats. I am not one Who can play off my smiles and courtesies To every Lady of her lap-dot; tired Who wants a play-thing; I am no sworn friend of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love; Mline are no mushroom feelings, which spring up At once without a seed and take no root. Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere, The little circle of domestic life, I would be known and loved : the world beyond Is not for me. But, Margaret, sure I think That you should know me well, for you and I Grew up together, and when we look back Upon old times, our recollections paint The same familiar faces. Did I wicki The wand of Merlin's magic, I would make Irave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, Aye, a new Ark, as in that other flood which cleanscd the sons of Anak from the earth ; The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle Like that where whiloin old Appollidou Built up his blameless spell; and I would bid The Sea-Nymphs pile around their coral bowers, That we might stand upon the beach, and mark The far-off breakers shower their silver spray, And hear the eternal roar, whose pleasant sound Told us that never mariner should reach Our quiet coast. In such a bless, d isle We might renew the days of infancy, And Life like a long childhood pass away, Without one care. it may be, Margaret, That I shall yet be gather'd to my friends; For I am got of those who live estranged Of choice, till at the last they join their race In the family-vault. If so, if I should lose, Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine Right pleasantly will end our pilgrimage. If not, if I should never get beyond This Vanity town, there is another world Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, I gaze at night into the boundless sky, And think that I shall there be born again, The exalted native of some better star; And, like the rude American, I hope To find in Heaven the things I loved on carth. 1798.
A delicate pinch! oh how it tingles up
The titllated nose! and fills the eyes
And breast, till in one comfortable snceze
The full collected pleasure bursts at last !
Most rare Columbus! thou shalt he for this
The only Christopher in my Kalendar.
Why but for thee the uses of the Nose
Were half unknown, and its capacity
Of joy. The summer gale that from the heath,
At midnoon glitterius; with the golden gorse,
Bears its balsamic odour, but provokes
Not satisfies the sense; and all the flowers,
That with their unsubstantial fragrance tempt
And disappoint, bloon for so short a space,
That half the year the Nostrils would keep Lent,
But that the kind Tobacconist admits
No winter in his work; when Nature sleeps
His wheels roll on, and still administer
A plenitude of joy, a tangible smell.
What is Peru and those Golcondan mines
To thee, Virginia? miscrable realms,
They furnish gold for knaves and gems for fools;
Iłut thine are common comforts!—so omit
Pipe-panegyric and tobacco-praise,
Think what the general joy the snuff-box gives,
Europe, and far above Pizarro's name
write Raleigh in thy records of renown
Him let the school-boy bless if he behold
His master's box produced, for when he sees
The thumb and finger of Authority
Stuft up the nostrils, when imar, head, and wig
Shake all; when on the waistcoat black the dust
Or drop falls brown; soon shall the brow severe
Relax; and from vituperative lips
Words that of birch remind not, sounds of praise,
And jokes that must be laugh'd at shall proceed.
COOL REFLECTIONS DURING A MIDSUMMER walk.
O span E me—spare me, Phoebus! if indeed
Thou hast not let another Phaeton
Drive earthward thy fierce steeds and fiery car;
Mercy! I melt! I melt! No tree, no bush,
No shelter! not a breath of stirring air
East, West, or North, or South! Dear God of day,
Put on thy nightcap! crop thy locks of light,
And be in the fashiou ! turn thy back upon us,
And let thy beams flow upward! make it night
Instead of noon' one little miracle,
In pity, gentle Phoebus!
what a joy,
Oh what a joy, to be a seal and flounder
On an ice island' or to have a den
With the white bear, cavern'd in polar snow!
It were a comfort to shake hands with death,<
Ile has a rare cold hand! to wrap one's seif
In the gift-shirt Deianeira sent,
Dipt in the blood of Nessus, just to keep
The sun off, or toast cheese for Beelzebub.-
That were a cool employment to this journey
Along a road whose white intensity
Would now make platina uncongealable
Were it midnight, I should walk
Self-lanthorn'd, saturate with sunbeams. Jove!
O gentle Jove! have mercy, and once more
Rick that obdurate Phoebus out of heaven :
Give Porcas the wind-cholic, till lie roar
For cardamum, and drink down peppermint,
Making what's left as precious as Tokay.
Send Mercury, to salivate the sky
Till it dissolve in rain. O gentle Jove!
łut some such little kindness to a wretch
Who feels his marrow spoiling his best coat,
Who swells with caloric as if a Prester
Ilad leaven'd every limb with poison-yeast:-
Lend me thine eagle just to flap his wings,
And fan me, and I will build temples to thee,
And turn true Pagan.
Not a cloud nor breeze,_
O you most heathen Deities: if ever
My Loues reach home (for, for the flesh upon them,
It hath resolved itself into a dew,)
I shall have learnt owl-wisdom.
Set me a Persian sun-idolater
Upon this turnpike road, and I'll convert him
With no inquisitorial argumen
But thy own sires. Now woe be to me wretch,
That I was in a heretic country born
Else might some mass for the poor souls that bleach,
And burn away the calx of their offences
in that great Purgatory crucible,
Help me. O Jupiter! my poor complexion :
I am made a copper-Indian of already;
And if no kindly cloud will parasol me,
My very cellular membrane will be changed,—
I shall be negrolied. -
A brook a brook
Oh what a sweet cool sound!
Perhaps, hark Jacob! dost thou hear that horn?
Woe to the young posterity of pork!
Their enemy is at hand.
Again. Thou say'st
The Pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him!
Those eyes have taught the Lover flattery.
His face,—nay, Jacob, Jacob! were it fair
To judge a Lady in her dishabille?
Fancy it drest, and with saltpetre rouged.
Behold his tail, my friend, with curls like that
The wanton hop marries her stately spouse:
So crisp in heauty Amoretta's hair
Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love.
And what is beauty, but the aptitude
Of parts harmonious? give thy fancy scope,
And thou wilt find that no imagined change
Can beautify this beast. Place at his end
The starry glories of the Peacock's pride;
Give him the Swan's white breast; for his horn-hoofs
Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves
Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss,
When Venus from the chamour'd sea arose;—
Jacob, thou caust but make a monster of him
All alteration man could illink would nar
The last charge,_he lives
A dirty life. Here I could shelter him
With noble and right-reverend precedents,
And show by sanction of authority
That "t is a very honourable thing
To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest
On better ground the unanswerable defence:
The Pig is a philosopher, who knows
No prejudice. Dirt! Jacob, what is dirt?
If matter, why the delicate dish that tempts
An o'ergorged Epicure to the last morsel
That stuffs him to the throat-gates is no more.
If matter be not, but as Sages say,
Spirit is all, and all things visible
Are one, the infinitely modified,
Think, Jacob, what that Pig is, and the mire
Wherein he stands knce-deep.
And there! that breeze
Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.
RECOMMENDED TO THE ADVOCATES Fort The SLAVEtna de.
Rare music! I would rather hear cat-courtship
Under my bed-room window in the night,
Than this scraped catgut's screak. Rare dancing too!
Alas, poor Bruin! How he foots the pole,
And waddles round it with unwieldy steps, .
Swaying from side to side'—The dancing-master
Hath had as profitless a pupil in him
As when he would have tortured my poor toes
To minuet grace, and made them move like clockwork
In musical obedience. Bruin Bruin!
Thou art but a clumsy biped!—and the mob
With noisy merriment mock his heavy pace,
And laugh to see him led by the nose!—themselves
Led by the nose, embruted, and in the eye
Of Reason from their Nature's purposes
As miserably perverted. -
Now could I sonnetize thy piteous plight,
And prove how much my sympathetic heart
Even for the miscries of a beast can feel,
In fourteen lines of sensibility.
Isut we are told all things were made for man;
And I'll be sworn there 's not a fellow here
Who would not swear 't were hanging blasphemy
To doubt that truth. Therefore as thou wert born,
Bruin! for man, and man makes nothing of thee
In any other way,+most logically
It follows, that thou must be born to dance;
That that great snout of thine was form'd on purpose t
To hold a ring; and that thy fat was given thee
Only to make pomatum !
Were heresy. And politicians say
(Wise men who in the scale of reason give
No foolish feelings weight), that thou art here
Far happier than thy brother bears who roam
O'er trackless snow for food; that being boru
Inferior to thy leader, unto him
Rightly belongs dominion; that the compact
Was made between ye, when thy clumsy feet
- and he gave up
tlis right to kill, conditioning thy life
Should thenceforth be his properly:-besides,
'T is wholesome for thy morals to be brought
From savage climes into a civilized state,
Into the decencies of Christendom.—
Bear! Bear ! it passes in the Parliament
For excellent logic this what if we say
How barbarously man abuses power?
Talk of thy baiting, it will be replied,
Tily welfare is thy owner's interest,
But were thou baited it would injure thee,
Therefore thou art not baited. For seven years
Hear it, O Heaven, and give car, O Earth!
For seven long years this precious Syllogism
liath basiled justice and humanity .
NAy, gather not that Filbert, Nicholas,
There is a maggottliere, it is his house,_
His castle, oh commit not burglary!
Strip him not naked.—t is his clothes, his shell,
His bones, the case and armour of his life,
And thou shalt do no murder, Nicholas'
It were an easy thing to crack that nut
Or with thy crackers or thy double teeth,
So easily may all things be destroy'd! -
But ‘t is not in the power of mortal man
To mend the fracture of a filbert shell.
There were two great men once amused them.***
Watching two maggots run their wriggling race,
And wagering on their speed; but Nick, to us
It were no sport to see the pamper'd worm
Roll out and then draw in his folds of fat,
Like to some Barber's leathern powder-bag
\\ here with lie feathers, frosts, or cauliflowers
Spruce Beau, or Lady fair, or Doctor grave.
Enough of dangers and of enemies
Hath Nature's wisdom for the worm ordain'd :
Increase not thou the number! Him the Mouse
Gnawing with nibbling tooth the shell's defence
May from his native tenement eject;
Him may the Nut-hatch piercing with strong bill
Unwittingly destroy; or to his hoard
The Squirrel bear, at leisure to be crack'd.
Man also hath his dangers and his foes
As this poor Maggot hath; and when I muse
Upon the aches, anxieties, and fears,
The Maggot knows not, Nicholas, methinks
It were a happy metamorphosis
To be enkerneil'd thus: never to hear
Of wars, and of invasions, and of plots,
Kings, Jacobines, and Tax-commissioners;
To feel no motion but the wind that shook
The Filbert Trce, and rock'd us to our rest;
And in the middle of such exquisite food
To live luxurious! the perfection this
Of smugness! it were to unite at once
Hermit retirement, Aldermanic bliss,
And Stoic independence of mankind,
whitTEN DURING THE NEGocłAtions witH BUoNAPARTE IN JANUARY, 1814.
Who counsels peace at this momentous hour, When God hath given deliverance to the oppress'd, And to the injured power? Who counsels peace, when Vengeance like a flood Rolls on, no longer now to be repress'd ; When innocent blood From the four corners of the world crics out For justice upou one accursed head; When Freedom hath her holy banners spread Over all nations, now in one just cause United; when with one sublime accord Europe throws off the yoke ablorr’d, And Loyalty and Faith, and Ancient Laws Follow the avenging sword!
Woe, woe to England! woe and cndless shame If this heroic land, False to her feelings and unspotted fame, Hold out the olive to the Tyrant's hand! Woe to the world if Buonaparte's throne Be suffer'd still to stand For by what names shall Right and Wrong be known, What new and courtly phrases must we feign For Falsehood, Murder, and all monstrous crimes, If that perfidious Corsican maintain Still his detested reign, And France, who yearns even now to break her chain, Ileneath his iron rule be left to groan! No! by the innumerable dead, Whose blood hath for his lust of power been shed, Death only can for his foul deeds atone' That peace which Death and judgment can bestow, That peace be Buouaparte's, that alone
For sooner shall the Ethiop change his skin, Or from the Leopard shall licrspots depart,
Than this man change his old flagitious heart. Ilave ye not seen him in the balance weigh'd, And there found wanting On the stage of blood Foremost the resolute adventurer stood; And when by many a battle won, He placed upon his brow the crown, Curbing delirious France beneath his sway, Then, like Octavius in old time, Fair name might he have handed down, Effacing many a stain of former crime. Fool! should he cast away that bright renown! Fool! the redemption proffer'd should he lose! When Heaven such grace vouchsafed him that the way To Good and Evil lay Before him, which to chuse.
But Evil was his Good, For all too long in blood had he been nurst, And ne'er was earth with fouler tyrant curst Bold man and bad, Remorscless, godless, full of fraud and lies, And black with murders and with perjuries, Himself in Ilell's whole panoply he clad; No law but his own headstrong will he knew, No counsellor but lais own wicked lieart! From evil thus portentous strength he drew, And trampled under foot all human ties, All holy laws, all natural charities.
O France' beneath this fierce Barbarian's sway
Disgraced thou art to all succeeding times!
Rapine and blood and fire have mark'd thy way,
All loathsome, all unutterable crimes'
A curse is on thee, France! from far and wide
It hath gone up to Heaven All lands have cried
For vengeance upon thy detested head'
All nations curse thee, France for wheresoe'er
In peace or war thy banner hath been spread,
All forms of human woo have follow'd there.
The Living and the Dead
Cry out alike against thee! They who bear
Crouching beneath its weight thine iron yoke,
Join in the bitterness of secret prayer
The voice of that innumerable throng,
Whose slaughter'd spirits day and night invoke
The everlasting Judge of right and wrong,
How long, O Lord! Holy and just, how long!
A merciless oppressor hast thou been, Thyself remorselessly oppress'd meantime; Greedy of war, when all that thou couldst gain Was but to dye thy soul with deeper crime, And rivet faster round thyself the chain. O blind to honour, and to interest blind, When thus in abject servitude resign'd To this barbarian upstart, thou couldst brave God's justice, and the heart of humankind Madly thou thoughtest to enslave the world, Thyself the while a miserable slave! Behold the flag of vengeance is unfurl’d 2 The dreadful armies of the North advance! While England, Portugal, and Spain combined, Give their triumphant banners to the wind, And stand victorious in the fields of France!
One man hath becn for ten long wretched years The cause of all this blood and all these tears