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Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away :
Without thee what is all the morning's wealth ?
Come, blessèd barrier betwixt day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health !

'BELOVED VALE !' I said, when I shall con
Those many records of my childish years,
Remembrance of myself and of my peers
Will press me down ; to think of what is gone
Will be an awful thought, if life have one.
But, when into the Vale I came, no fears
Distress'd me; I look'd round, I shed no tears ;
Deep thought, or awful vision, I had none.
By thousand petty fancies I was cross'd,
To see the trees, which I had thought só tall,
Mere dwarfs ; the brooks so narrow, fields so small,
A juggler's balls old Time about him toss'd;
I look'd, I stared, I smiled, I laugh'd ; and all
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.

TO LIBERTY.

Composed in the valley, near Dover, on the day of

Landing Dear fellow-traveller, here we are once more ! The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound Of bells, – those boys who in yon meadow-ground In white-sleeved shirts are playing, and the roar

Of all that is most beauteous - imaged there
In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams,
An ampler æther, a diviner air,
And fields invested with purpureal gleams ;
Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day
Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.
Yet there the soul shall enter which hath earn'd
That privilege by virtue. —'I,' said he,
'The end of man's existence I discern'd,
Who from ignoble games and revelry*
Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight,
While tears were thy best pastime,- day and night :

* And while my youthful peers, before my eyes (Each hero following his peculiar bent), Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise By martial sports,- or, seated in the tent, Chieftains and kings in council were detain'd; What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchain'd.

'The wish'd-for wind was given :- I then revolved
Our future course, upon the silent sea;
And if no worthier led the way, resolved
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be
The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, -
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.

• Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the pang When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife ; On thee too fondly did my memory hang, And on the joys we shared in mortal life, The paths which we had trod - these fountains-flowers ; My new-plann'd cities, and unfinished towers. * But should suspense permit the foe to cry, “ Behold they tremble ! - haughty their array, Yet of their number no one dares to die?"

* For this feature in the character of Protesilaus, see the 'Iphigenia in Aulis' of Euripides.

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft :
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left ;
For, high-soul'd maid, what sorrow would it be
That mountain floods should thunder as before,
And ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful voice be heard by thee !

Written in London, September, 1802. O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, oppress'd To think that now our life is only dress’d For show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook, Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest : The wealthiest man among us is the best : No grandeur now, in Nature or in book, Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry ; and these we adore : Plain living and high thinking are no more : The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.

London, 1802. MILTON ! thou shouldst be living at this hour : England hath need of thee : she is a fen Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, . Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men : Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart : Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea ; Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free ; So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on itself did lay.

To Toussaint L'Ouverture. TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men ! Whether the all-cheering sun be free to shed His beams around thee, or thou rest thy head Pillow'd in some dark dungeon's noisome denO miserable chieftain ! where and when Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee : air, earth, and skies; There's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; that hast great allies ; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.

On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic. ONCE did she hold the gorgeous East in fee ; And was the safeguard of the West : the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth Venice, the eldest child of Liberty ! She was a maiden city, bright and free; No guile seduced, no force could violate ; And when she took unto herself a mate, She must espouse the everlasting sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay ; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reach'd its final day : Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is pass'd away.

On the Abolition of the Slave Trade. CLARKSON ! it was an obstinate hill to climb : How toilsome, nay, how dire it was, by thee

Is known — by none, perhaps, so feelingly ;
But thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime,
Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime,
Hast heard the constant voice its charge repeat,
Which, out of the young heart's oracular seat,
First roused thee, O true yoke-fellow of time.
With unabating effort, see, the palm
Is won, and by all nations shall be worn !
The bloody writing is for ever torn,
And thou henceforth shalt have a good man's calm,
A great man's happiness; thy zeal shall find
Repose at length, firm friend of human kind !

SAY, what is Honour ? 'Tis the finest sense
Of justice which the human mind can frame,
Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim,
And guard the way of life from all offence
Suffer'd or done. When lawless violence
A kingdom doth assault, and in the scale
Of perilous war her weightiest armies fail,
Honour is hopeful elevation — whence
Glory — and Triumph. Yet with politic skill
Endanger'd states may yield to terms unjust,
Stoop their proud heads — but not unto the dust,
A foe's most favourite purpose to fulfil !
Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust
Are forfeited ; but infamy doth kill.

GREAT MEN have been among us; hands that penn'd
And tongues that utter'd wisdom, better none :
The later Sydney, Marvel, Harrington,
Young Vane and others who callid Milton friend.
These moralists could act and comprehend :
They knew how genuine glory was put on;
Taught us how rightfully a nation shone
In splendour : what strength was, that would not bend
But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange
Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then.

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