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And adjurations of the God in Heaven),

On which our vice and wretchedness were tagg'd We send our mandates for the certain death Like fancy points and fringes, with the robe Of thousands and ten thousands! Boys and girls, Pullid off at pleasure. Fondly these attach And women, that would groan to see a child A radical causation to a few Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war,

Poor drudges of chastising Providence, The best amusement for our morning-meal! Who borrow all their hues and qualities The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers From our own folly and rank wickedness, From curses, who knows scarcely words enough Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father,

meanwhile, Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute

Dote with a mad idolatry ; and all And technical in victories and defeats,

Who will not fall before their images,
And all our dainty terms for fratricide;

And yield them worship, they are enemies
Terms which we trundle smoothly o’er our tongues Even of their country!
Like mere abstractions, empty sounds, to which
We join no feeling and attach no form!
As if the soldier died without a wound;

Such have I been deem'dAs if the fibres of this godlike frame

But, О dear Britain! O my Mother Isle ! Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch,

Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds,

To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, Paxsid off to Heaven, translated and not kill'd:

A husband, and a father! who revere As though he had no wife to pine for him,

All bonds of natural love, and find them all No God to judge him! Therefore, evil days

Within the limits of thy rocky shores. Are coming on us, O my countrymen!

O native Britain! O my Mother Isle ! And what if all-avenging Providence,

How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and Strong and retributive, should make us know

holy The meaning of our words, force us to feel

To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills, The desolation and the agony

Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, Of our fierce doings !

Have drunk in all my intellectual life,
All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts,

All adoration of the God in nature,
Spare us yet awhile,

All lovely and all honorable things,
Father and God! O! spare us yet awhile!

Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel Oh! let not English women drag their flight

The joy and greatness of its future being ? Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes,

There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday

Unborrow'd from my country. O divine Laugh'd at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, all And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms And most magnificent temple, in the which Which grew up with you round the same fire-side, I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells

Loving the God that made me !
Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure!
Stand forth: be men! repel an impious fue,

May my fears,
Impious and false, a light yet cruel race,

My filial fears, be vain! and may the vaunts
Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth And menace of the vengeful enemy
With deeds of murder; and still promising

Pass like the gust, that roar'd and died away
Freedom, themselves loo sensual to be free,

In the distant tree : which heard, and only heard Poson life's amities, and cheat the heart

In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass.
Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes
And all that lifts the spirit! Stand we forth;
Render them back upon the insulted ocean,

But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad
And let them toss as idly on its waves

The fruil-like perfume of the golden furze :
As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast The light has left the summit of the hill,
Swept from our shores! And oh! may we return Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful,
Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear, Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell,
Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot!
So fierce a foe to frenzy!

On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill,
Homeward I wind my way; and lo! recallid

From bodings that have well-nigh wearied me,
I have told,

I find myself upon the brow, and pause O Britons! O my brethren! I have told

Startled! And after lonely sojourning Most bitter truth, but without bitterness.

In such a quiet and surrounding nook, Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed;

This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main, For never can true courage dwell with them, Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look

Of that huge amphitheatre of rich At their own vices. We have been too long And elmy fields, seems like societyDupes of a deep delusion! Some, belike,

Conversing with the mind, and giving it
Groaning with restless enmity, expect

A livelier impulse and a dance of thought!
All change from change of constituted power; And now, beloved Stowey! I behold
As if a Government had been a robe,

| Thy church-lower, and, methinks, the four huge elms

Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend, Letters four do form his name.
And close behind them, hidden from my view, He let me loose, and cried Halloo !
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe

To him alone the praise is due.
And my babe's mother dwell in peace! With light
And quicken'd footsteps thitherward I tend,

Remembering thee, O green and silent dell!
And grateful, that, by nature's quietness

Thanks, sister, thanks! the men have bled,

Their wives and their children faint for bread. And solitary musings, all my heart Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge

I stood in a swampy field of battle;

With bones and sculls I made a raule, Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human-kind.

To frighten the wolf and carrion crow,
Nether Stowey, April 28th, 1798.

And the homeless dog—but they would not go.
So off I flew; for how could I bear
To see them gorge their dainty fare?

I heard a groan and a peevish squall,

And through the chink of a cottage-wall

Can you guess what I saw there?



Whisper it, sister! in our ear. The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendée. FAMINE

is discovered lying on the ground; to her enter FIRE

A baby beat its dying mother.
I had starved the one, and was starving the other!

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No! no! no!
Spirits hear what spirits tell :
’T will make a holiday in Hell.

No! no! no!
Myself, I named him once below,
And all the souls, that damned be,
Leap'd up at once in anarchy,
Clapp'd their hands and danced for glee.
They no longer heeded me;
But laugh'd to hear Hell's burning rafters
Unwillingly re-echo laughters !

No! no! no!
Spirits hear what spirits tell!
"T will make a holiday in Hell!

Sisters! I from Ireland came!
Hedge and corn-fields all on flame,
I triumph'd o'er the setting sun!
And all the while the work was done,
On as I strode with my huge strides,

I flung back my head and I held my sides,
It was so rare a piece of fun
To see the swelter'd cattle run
With uncouth gallop through the night,
Scared by the red and noisy light!
By the light of his own blazing cot

many a naked rebel shot:
The house-stream met the flame and hissid,

While crash! fell in the roof, I wist,
On some of those old bedrid nurses,
That deal in discontent and curses.


Whisper it, sister! so and so!
In a dark hint, soft and slow.

SLAUGHTER. Letters four do form his nameAnd who sent you ?


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The frighted beast ran on—but here,

The Gospel scarce more true is—
My muse stops short in mid-career-
Nay! gentle reader! do not sneer,
I cannot choose but drop a tear,

A tear for good old Lewis.

The frighted beast ran through the town,

All follow'd, boy and dad,
Bull-dog, Parson, Shopman, Clown,
The Publicans rush'd from the Crown,
“ Halloo! hamstring him! cut him down!”

They drove the poor Or mad.

An Os, long fed with musty hay,

And workd with yoke and chain,
Was turn'd out on an April day,
When fields are in their best array,
And growing grasses sparkle gay,

Ai once with sun and rain.
The grass was fine, the sun was bright,

With truth I may aver it;
The Or was glad, as well he might,
Thonght a green meadow no bad sight,
And frisk'd to show his huge delight,

Much like a beast of spirit
“Stop, neighbors! stop! why these alarms ?

The Ox is only glad."
But still they pour from cots and farms
Halloo! the parish is up in arms
(A hoaring hunt has always charms),

Halloo! the Ox is mad.

Should you a rat to madness tease,

Why even a rat might plague you :
There's no philosopher but sees
That rage and fear are one disease
Though that may burn and this may freeze,

They're both alike the ague.

And so this Ox, in frantic mood,

Faced round like any Bull-
The mob turn'd tail, and he pursued,
Till they with fright and fear were stew'd,
And not a chick of all this brood

But had his belly-full.

Old Nick's astride the beast, 't'is clear

Old Nicholas to a tittle!
But all agree he'd disappear,
Would but the parson venture near,
And through his teeth, right o'er the steer

Squirt out some fasting-spittle.t

The frighted beast scamper'd about,

Plunge ! through the hedge he drove-
The mob pursue with hideous rout,
A bull-dog fastens on his snout,
He gores the dog, his tongue hangs out-

He's mad, he's mad, by Jove!
“Stop, neighbors, stop!” aloud did call

A sage of sober hue,
But all at once on him they fall,
And women squeak and children squall,
“What! would you have him toss us all ?

And, damme! who are you?”

Achilles was a warrior fleet,

The Trojans he could worry,
Our parson too was swift of feet,
But show'd it chiefly in retreat!
The victor Ox scour'd down the street,

The mob fled hurry-skurry.

Ah, hapless sage! his ears they stun,

And curse him o'er and o'er-
- You bloody-minded dog!” (cries one,)
- To slit your windpipe were good fun-
'Od bl — you for an impious* son

Of a Presbyterian w-re!

Through gardens, lanes, and fields new-plow'd,

Through his hedge and through her hedge,
He plunged and toss'd, and bellow'd loud,

Till in his madness he grew proud
To see this helter-skelter crowd,

That had more wrath than courage.

One of the many fine words which the most uneducated + According to the superstition of the West Countries, if you hed about this time a constant opportunity of acquiring from meet the Devil, you may either cut him in half with a straw, or the sermons in the pulpit, and the proclamations on the you may cause him instantly to disappear by spitting over his corner



Alas! to mend the breaches wide

He made for these poor ninnies, They all must work, whate'er betide, Both days and months, and pay beside (Sad news for Avarice and for Pride)

A sight of golden guineas.

presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love:

and five years ago, I own I should have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But, alas ! explosion has succeeded explosion so rapidly,that novelty itself ceases to appear new; and it is possible that now even a simple story,wholly uninspired with politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hubbub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinct ly audible.

S. T. C.
Dec. 21, 1799.

But here once more to view did pop

The man that kept his senses. And now he cried—“Stop, neighbors! stop! The Ox is mad! I would not swop, No, not a school-boy's farthing top

For all the parish fences.

O LEAVE the lily on its stem;

O leave the rose upon the spray; O leave the elder bloom, fair maids!

And listen to my lay.

“ The Ox is mad! Ho! Dick, Bob, Mat!

What means this coward fuss ? Ho! stretch this rope across the plat"T will trip him up—or if not that, Why, damme! we must lay him flat

See, here's my blunderbuss !"

A cypress and a myrtle-bough

This morn around my harp you twined, Because it fashion'd mournfully

Its murmurs in the wind.

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She listen'd with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes and modest grace ; For well she knew, I could not choose

But gaze upon her face.

The following Poem is intended as the introduction to a somewhat longer one. The use of the old Ballad word Ladie for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity (as Camden says) will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a forco and propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties ezplode around us in all directions, he should

I told her of the Knight that wore

Upon his shield a burning brand ; And how for ten long years he woo'd The Ladie of the Land :

Her wet cheek glow'd: she stept aside,

As conscious of my look she stepp'd ; Then suddenly, with tim’rous eye,

She flew to me and wept.

I told her how he pined : and ah!

The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sung another's love,

Interpreted my own.
She listen'd with a flitting blush ;

With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; And she forgave me, that I gazed

Too fondly on her face !
But when I told the cruel scorn

That crazed this bold and lonely Knight, And how he roam'd the mountain-woods,

Nor rested day or night;

She half inclosed me with her arms,

She press'd me with a meek embrace ; And bending back her head, look'd up,

And gazed upon my face.

And how he cross'd the woodman's paths,

Through briers and swampy mosses beat ; How boughs rebounding scourged his limbs,

And low stubs gored his feet;

That sometimes from the savage den,

And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once

In green and sunny glade;
There came and look'd him in the face

An Angel beautiful and bright;
And how he knew it was a Fiend,

This miserable Knight!
And how, unknowing what he did,

He leapt amid a lawless band,
And saved from outrage worse than death

The Ladie of the Land !

'T was partly love, and partly fear,

And partly 't was a bashful art,
That I might rather feel than see

The swelling of her heart.
I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,

And told her love with virgin pride ;
And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous bride. And now

ow once more a tale of woe, A woeful tale of love I sing: For thee, my Genevieve! it sighs,

And trembles on the string. When last I sang the cruel scorn

That crazed this bold and lonely Knight, And how he roam'd the mountain-woods,

Nor rested day or night;
I promised thee a sister tale

Of man's perfidious cruelty :
Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong

Befell the Dark Ladie.


At midnight by the stream I roved,
To forget the form I loved.
Image of Lewti! from my mind
Depart; for Lewti is not kind.

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees ;

And how she tended him in vainAnd meekly strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain : And how she nursed him in a cave;

And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves

A dying man he lay ;
His dying words—but when I reach'd

That tend'rest strain of all the ditty,
My falt'ring voice and pausing harp

Disturb'd her soul with pity! All impulses of soul and sense

Had thrilld my guiltless Genevieve ;
The music and the doleful tale,

The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes and fears that kindle hope,

An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,

Subdued and cherish'd long ! She wept with pity and delight,

She blush'd with love and maiden-shame; And, like the murmurs of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.
I saw her bosom heave and swell,

Heave and swell with inward sighs—
I could not choose but love to see

Her gentlę bosom rise.


The moon was high, the moonlight gleam

And the shadow of a star
Heaved upon Taraha's stream ;

But the rock shone brighter far,
The rock half-shelter'd from my view
By pendent boughs of tressy yew-
So shines my Lewti's forehead fair,
Gleaming through her sable hair.
Image of Lewti! from my mind
Depart; for Lewti is not kind.
I saw a cloud of palest hue,

Onward to the moon it pass'd ;
Still brighter and more bright it grew,
With floating colors not a few,

Till it reach'd the moon at last :
Then the cloud was wholly bright
With a rich and amber light!
And so with many a hope I seek

And with such joy I find my Lewti : And even so my pale wan cheek

Drinks in as deep a Aush of beauty ! Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind, If Lewti never will be kind.

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