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All consequences; work he hath begun
Of fortitude, and piety, and love,
Which all his glorious ancestors approve:
The heroes bless him, him their rightful son.

Call not the royal Swede unfortunate,
Who never did to fortune bend the knee;
Who slighted fear, rejected steadfastly
Temptation; and whose kingly name and state
Have "perished by his choice, and not his fate!"
Hence lives he, to his inner self endeared;
And hence, wherever virtue is revered.
He sits a more exalted potentate,
Throned in the hearts of men. Should Heaven ordain
That this great servant of a righteous cause
Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to endure,
Yet may a sympathising spirit pause,
Admonished by these truths, and quench all pain
In thankful joy and gratulation pure.

TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men! Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den; O 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; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.

EXPULSION OF NEGROES FROM FRANCE, 1802.

Deiven from the soil of France, a female came

From Calais with us, brilliant in array,

A negro woman like a lady gay,

Yet downcast as a woman fearing blame;

Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or aim

She sate, from notice turning not away,

But on all proffered intercourse did lay

A weight of languid speech,—or at the same

Was silent, motionless in eyes and face.

Meanwhile those eyes retained their tropic fire,

Which, burning independent of the mind,

Joined with the lustre of her rich attire

To mock the outcast—O ye heavens be kind I

And feel, thou earth, for this afflicted race!

DOVER, ON THE DAY OF LANDING.

Heee, on our native soil we breathe 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 the waves breaking on the chalky shore,

All, all are English. Oft have I looked round

With joy in Kent's green vales; but never found

Myself so satisfied in heart before.

Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass,

Thought for another moment. Thou art free,

My country! and 'tis joy enough and pride

For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass

Of England once again, and hear and see,

With such a dear companion at my side.

Inland, withm a hollow vale, I stood; Aud saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, The coast of France, the coast of France how near! Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood. I shrunk, for verily the barrier flood Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, A span of waters; yet what power is there! What mightiness for evil and for good I Even so doth God protect us if we be Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll, Strength to the brave, and power, and deity, Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul Only the nations shall be great and free!

THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND.

Two voices are there; one is of the sea,

One of the mountains; each a mighty voice.

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,

They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee

Thou fought'st agamst him; but hast vainly striven.

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;

Then cleave, oh, cleave to that which still is left!

For, high-souled 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!

LONDON, 1802.
O Friend! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, oppressed,

To think that now our life is only dressed
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.

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 herself did lay.

Great men have been among us; hands that penned And tongues that uttered wisdom, better none; The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, Young Vane, and others who called 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

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