One man in this most awful point of time Draws on thy danger, as he caused thy crime. Wait not too long the event, For now whole Europe comes against thee bent! His wiles and their own strength the nations know; Wise from past wrongs, on future peace intent, The people and the princes with one mind From all parts move against the general foe: One act of justice, one atoning blow, One execrable head laid low, Even yet, O France! averts thy punishment. Open thine eyes! too long hast thou been blind! Take vengeance for thyself, and for maukind! Oh if thou lovest thine ancient fame, Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame! By the bones which bleach ou Jaffa's beach; By the blood which on Domingo's shore Hath clogg'd the carrion-birds with gore; By the flesh which gorged the wolves of Spain, Or stiffen'd on the snowy plain Of frozen Moscovy; By the bodies which lie all open to the sky, By the prayers which rise for curses on his head; By those horrors which the night By murder'd Wright,--an English name; By murder'd Hofer's martyrdom; ODE WRITTEN IN DECEMBER, 1814. WHEN shall the Island Queen of Occan lay The thunderbolt aside, And, twining olives with her laurel crown, Rest in the Bower of Peace? Not long may this unnatural strife cudure Not long may men, with vain ambition drunk Nobly hast thou stood up Against the foulest Tyranny that ere In elder or in later times, Hath outraged humankind! O glorious England, thou hast borne thyself Religiously and bravely in that strife! And happier victory hath blest thine arms Than in the days of yore, Thine own Plantagenets achieved, Now gird thyself for other war! Put on the panoply of faith! Less opulent was Spain When Mexico her sumless riches sent To that proud monarchy; And Hayti's ransack'd caverns gave their gold; And from Potosi's recent veins The unabating stream of treasure flow'd. And blest art thou, above all nations blest, For thou art Freedom's own beloved Isle! The light of Science shines Yet, O dear England! powerful as thou art, For still doth Ignorance Bleak moorland, noxious fen, and lonely heath, Oh grief, that spirits of celestial seed, Whom ever-teeming Nature hath brought forth, With all the human faculties divine Of sense and soul endued,— Must this reproach endure? This foul reproach ere long shall be effaced, And future nations bless Now may that blessed edifice Of public good be rear'd The spotless Tudor, he whom Death They who from papal darkness, and the thrall Saved us in happy hour. Fitly for them was this great work reserved; Receive its due accomplishment, Through all succeeding times would rank his name, Might learn the Book, which all From public fountains the perennial stream Queen of the Seas enlarge thyself, Send thou thy swarms abroad! For in the years to come, Though centuries or milleniums intervene, Where'er thy progeny, Thy language and thy spirit shall be found,— If on Ontario's shores, Or late explored Missouri's pastures wide, By whatsoever name the land be call'd, Beneath their own unwieldy weight; Of wholesome doctrine. Send thy swarms abroad! Send forth thy humanizing arts, Thy stirring enterprise, Thy liberal polity, thy Gospel light! Reclaim the savage! O thou Ocean Queen, Be these thy toils when thou hast laid He who hath blest thine arms Suppressed Poems. [The following comprise the MINOR POEMS which were expunged by the author in the last edition, with some which have subsequently appeared in the Annuals, and other miscellaneous collections; and also a few which have never before been published.] TO THE EXILED PATRIOTS MUIR AND PALMER. MARTYRS of Freedom! ye who firmly good, Stept forth the champions in her glorious cause; Ye, who against Corruption nobly stood For Justice, Liberty, and equal laws; Ye, who have urged the cause of man so well, Firm when Corruption's torrent swept along; Ye, who so firmly stood, so nobly fell, Accept one honest Briton's grateful song. Take from one honest heart the meed of praise; Let Justice strike her high-toned harp for Take from the minstrel's hand the garland bays Who feels your energy and sorrows too. But be it yours to triumph in disgrace, you; Above the storms of Fate be yours to tower No, by the tyrant's heart let fear be known, Fear is a stranger to the good and just. And is there aught amid the tyrant's state, As Freedom struggling with Oppression's chain? And shall Oppression vainly think by Fear As though no free-born soul was left behind? Thinks the proud tyrant, by the pliant law, And scare the friends of Freedom from their trust? As easy might the Despot's empty pride As easy might his jealous caution hide From mortal eyes the Orb of general day. For like that general Orb's eternal flame Glows the mild force of Virtue's constant light; Go then-secure in steady Virtue-go, Nor heed the peril of the stormy seas; So shall your great examples fire each soul, And curse the ignoble spirit of the time, The sixth day of the first decade of the fourth month of the THE KNELL. In days of yore, when Superstition's sway Bound blinded Europe in her sacred spell, The wizard priest enjoined the parting knell, To fright the hovering Devil from his prey. If some poor rustic died who could not pay, Still slept the priest and silent hung the bell. Then if a yeoman died, his children paid One bell, to save his parting soul from hell; And if a Bishop Death's dread call obeyed, Through all the diocese was heard the toll, For much his pious brethren were afraid Lest Satan should receive the good man's soul. But when Death's levelling hand laid low the King, Since Kings in both worlds very well are known, Through all his kingdoms every bell must ring, For Satan comes with legions for his own. MUSINGS ON THE WIG OF A SCARE-CROW. ALAS for this world's changes and the lot Of sublunary things! Yon Wig that there Moves with each motion of the inconstant air, Invites my pensive mind to serious thought. Was it for this its curious cawl was wrought, Close as the tender tendrils of the vine, With clustered curls? Perhaps the artist's care Its borrowed beauties for some lady fair Arranged with nicest art and fingers fine; Or for the forehead framed of some Divine Its graceful gravity of grizzled grey; Or whether on some stern schoolmaster's brow Sate its white terrors, who shall answer now? On yonder rag-robed pole for many a day Have those dishonour'd locks endur'd the rains, And winds, and summer sun, and winter snow, Scaring with vain alarms the robber crow, Till of its former form no trace remains, THE IVY. I stood beneath the castle wall, That, fragrant in its autumn bloom, Wreathed round the mouldering tower. The plant insinuates its roots To rend the ruined wall, And yet I mus'd upon its ancient strength, And thought upon the ivy friends TO THE RAINBOW. Like Cheerfulness, thou art wont to gaze TO MR UNDERWOOD, ON HIS SETTING OUT FOR A GEOLOGICAL EXCURSION IN CORNWALL, JULY 1795. SEARCHER of Wisdom! in the earth's dark womb Thou those drear caves shalt visit, where the day With converse, tedious else; but me the load SONNET. THAT gooseberry-bush attracts my wandering eyes, I sit and gaze, and cheerful thoughts arise Of that delightful season drawing near, When those grey woods shall don their summer dress, And ring with warbled love and happiness. I sit and think that soon the advancing year With golden flowers shall star the verdant vale: Then may the enthusiast youth at eve's lone hour, Go listen to the soothing nightingale, SONNET. WHAT though no sculptured monument proclaim Thy fate-yet, Albert, in my breast I bear Inshrined the sad remembrance: yet thy name Will fill my throbbing bosom. When DESPAIR, The child of murdered HOPE, fed on thy heart, Loved honoured friend, I saw thee sink forlorn, Pierced to the soul by cold Neglect's keen dart, And Penury's hard ills, and pitying Scorn, And the dark spectre of departed Joy, Inhuman MEMORY. Often on thy grave Love I the solitary hour to employ, Thinking on other days; and heave the sigh Responsive, when I mark the high grass wave, Sad sounding as the cold breeze rustles by. SONNET. HARD by the road, where on that little mound Sleep on, poor Outcast! lovely was thy cheek, She drank the draught that chill'd her soul to sleep. I pause and wipe the big drop from mine eye, Whilst the proud Levite scowls and passes by. Who never, by the future song possest, Struck the bold strings, and waked the daring lyre. Let him invoke the Muses from their grove, Who never felt the inspiring touch of love. If I would sing how beauty's beamy blaze Thrills through the bosom at the lightning view, | Or harp the high-ton'd hymn to virtue's praise, Where only from the minstrel praise is due, I would not court the Muse to prompt my lays, SONNET. LET ancient stories sound the painter's art, Who stole from many a maid his Venus charms, Till warm devotion fir'd each gazer's heart, And every bosom bounded with alarms. He cull'd the beauties of his native isle, From some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes, With myrtle wreaths the artist's brow they crown'd, SONNET. I PRAISE thee not, ARISTE, that thine eye I praise thee not because thine auburn hair Bespeaks the inward excellence of mind : As the soft radiance of the setting sun, SONNET. DUNNINGTON CASTLE. THOU ruin'd relique of the ancient pile, Rear'd by that hoary bard, whose tuneful lyre First breath'd the voice of music on our isle; Where, warn'd in life's calm evening to retire, Old CHAUCER Slowly sunk at last to night; Still shall his forceful line, his varied strain, A firmer, nobler monument remain, When the high grass waves o'er thy lonely site. And yet the cankering tooth of envious age Has sapp'd the fabric of his lofty rhyme; Though genius still shall ponder o'er the page, And piercing through the shadowy mist of time, The festive Bard of EDWARD's court recall, As fancy paints the pomp that once adorn'd thy wall |