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And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute
With slow perdition murders the whole man,

And technical in victories and deceit,
His body and his soul! Meanwhile, at home, And all our dainty terms for fratricide ;
All individual dignity and power

Terms which we trundle smoothly o’er our tongues Engulph'd in courts, comınittees, institutions, Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which Associations and societies,

We join no feeling and attach no form! A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting guild, As if the soldier died without a wound; One benefit-club for mutual flattery,

As if the fibres of this godlike frame We have drunk up, denure as at a grace,

Were gor’d without a pang ; as if the wretch, Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth ; Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, Contemptuous of all honorable rule,

Pass'd off to Heaven, translated and not kill'd;Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life As though he had no wife to pine for him, For gold, as at a market! The sweet words

No God to judge him! therefore, evil'days Of christian promise, words that even yet

Are coming on us, O my countrymen! Might stem destruction, were they wisely preach'd, And what if all-avenging Providence, Are mutter'd o'er by men, whose tones proclaim Strong and retributive, should make us know How flat and wearisome they feel their trade: The meaning of our words, force us to feel Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent

The desolation and the agony To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth.

Of our fierce doings? Oh ! blasphemous! the book of life is made

Spare us yet awhile, A superstitious instrument, on which We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break;

Father and God! Oh! spare us yet awhile! For all must swear-all and in every place,

Oh! let not English women drag their flight

Fainting beneath the burden of their babes, College and wharf, council and justice-court;

Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed,

Laugh'd at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, all Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest,

Who ever gaz'd with fondness on the forms The rich, the poor, the old man and the young;

Which grew up with you round the same fire-side, All, all make up one scheme of perjury,

And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells That faith doth reel; the very name of God

Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure ! Sounds like a juggler's charm; and, bold with joy, Stand forth! be men ! repel an impious foe, Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place,

Impious and false, a light yet cruel race, (Portentous sight!) the owlet, Atheism,

Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon,

With deeds of murder; and still promising Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close,

Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free, And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven,

Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart Cries out, “ Where is it?"

Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes

And all that lifts the spirit! Stand we forth;
Thankless too for peace;

Render them back upon the insulted ocean, (Peace long preserv'd by fleets and perilous seas)

And let them toss as idly on it's waves Secure from actual warfare, we have lov'd

As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war!

Swept from our shores! and oh! may we return Alas! for ages ignorant of all

Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear, It's ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague,

Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,)

So fierce a foe to frenzy!
We, this whole people, have been clamorous
For war and bloodshed; animating sports, .

I have told,
The which we pay for as a thing to talk of,

O Britons! O my brethren! I have told Spectators and not combatants! No guess

Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. Anticipative of a wrong unfelt,

Nor deem my zeal or factious or mis-tim'd; No speculation on contingency,

For never can true courage dwell with them, However dim and vague, too vague and dim

Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look To yield a justifying cause; and forth,

At their own vices. We have been too long (Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names,

Dupes of a deep delusion! Some, belike, And adjurations of the God in Heaven,)

Groaning with restless enmity, expect We send our mandates for the certain death All change from change of constituted power; Of thousands and ten thousands ! Boys and girls, As if a government had been a robe, And women, that would groan to see a child On which our vice and wretchedness were tagg'd Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war,

Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe
The best amusement for our morning-meal !

Pullid off at pleasure. Fondly these attach
The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers A radical causation to a few
From curses, who knows scarcely words enough Poor drudges of chastising Providence,
To ask a blessing froin his Heavenly Father, Who borrow all their hues and qualities

I stood ic
With bor
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And the


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He let To bice

Sisters Hedge

From our own folly and rank wickedness,

And grateful, that by Nature's quietness
Which gave them birth and nurse them. Others, And solitary musings, all my heart
Dote with a mad idolatry; and all [meanwhile, Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge
Who will not fall before their images,

Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kiad.
And yield them worship, they are enemies,
Even of their country!

Such have I been deem'd
But, o dear Britain ! O my Mother Isle!
Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy

The Scene, a desolated Tract in La Vendee. FAMINE
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend,

is discovered lying on the ground; lo her enter A husband, and a father! who revere

All bonds of natural love, and find them all

Within the limits of thy rocky shores.
O native Britain! O my Mother Isle ! (holy

Sisters! sisters! who sent you here?
How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and

SLAUGHTER (to Fire.)
To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills,
Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas,

I will whisper it in her ear.
Have drunk in all my intellectual life,

All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts,
All adoration of the God in Nature,

No! no! no!
All lovely and all honourable things,

Spirits hear what spirits tell: Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel

'Twill make an holiday in Hell. The joy and greatness of its future being?

No! no! no! There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul

Myself, I nam'd him once below,
Unborrow'd from my country. O divine

And all the souls, that damned be,
And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole Leapt up at once in anarchy,
And most magnificent temple, in the which Clapp'd their hands and danced for glee.
I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs,

They no longer beeded me;
Loving the God that made me !

But laugh'd to hear Hell's burning rafters

Unwillingly re-echo laughters!
May my fears,

No! no! no!
My filial fears, be vain! and may the vaunts

Spirits hear what spirits tell: And menace of the vengeful enemy

”Twill make an holiday in Hell! Pass like the gust, that roar'd and died away In the distant tree; which heard, and only heard

FAMINE. In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass.

Whisper it, sister! so and so!
But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad

In a dark hint, soft and slow.
The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze:
The light has left the summit of the hill,

Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful

Letters four do form his name-
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell,

And who sent you?
Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot!
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy bill,

Homeward I wind my way; and, lo! recall’d

The same! the same!
From bodings that have well nigh wearied me,
I find myself upon the brow, and pause

Startled! And after lonely sojourning
In such a quiet and surrounded nook,

He came by stealth, and unlock'd my den,
This burst of prospect, here the shadowy Main,

And I have drunk the blood since then Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty

Of thrice three hundred thousand men.
Of that huge amphitheatre of rich

And elmy fields, seems like society-
Conversing with the mind, and giving it

Who bade you do't?
A livelier impulse and a dance of thought!

And now, beloved Stowey! I behold
Thychurch-tower, and,
methinks, the four huge elms

The same! the same!
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.
my babe's mother dwell in peace! With light

And quicken’d footsteps thitherward I tend,
Remembering thee, O green and silent dell!

Thanks, sister, thanks! the men have bled,
Their wives and their children faint for bread.

Itriuc And a

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I stood in a swampy field of battle;
With bones and skulls I made a rattle,

They shall tear him limb from limb!
To frighten the wolf and carrion-crow
And the homeless dog—but they would not go.

So off I flew: for how could I bear

O thankless beldames and untrue!
To see them gorge their dainty fare?

And is this all that you can do
I heard a groan and a peevish squall,

For him, who did so much for you?
And through the chink of a cottage-wall-

Ninety months he, by my troth!
Can you guess what I saw there?

Hath richly cater'd for you both;

And in an hour would you repay

An eight years' work ?--Away! away!
Whisper it, sister! in our ear.

I alone am faithful! I

Cling to him everlastingly.
A baby beat its dying mother:
I had starv'd the one and was starving the other!


All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
Who bade you do't?

Are all but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.
The same! the same!

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Letters four do form his name.

Live o'er again that happy hour,
He let me loose, and cried, Halloo !

When midway on the mount I lay,
To him alone the praise is due.

Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Sisters! I from Ireland came !

Had blended with the lights of eve;
Hedge and corn-fields all on flame,

And she was there, my hope, my joy,
I triumph'd o'er the setting Sun!

My own dear Genevieve!
And all the while the work was done,
On as I strode with my huge strides,

She leant against the armed man,

The statue of the armed knight;
I dung back my head and I held my sides,

She stood and listen’d to my lay,
It was so rare a piece of fun

Amid the lingering light.
To see the swelter'd cattle run
With uncouth gallop through the night,

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
Scared by the red and noisy light!

My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
By the light of his own blazing cot

She loves me best, whene'er I sing
Was many a naked rebel shot:


that make her grieve.
The house-stream met the flame and hiss'd,
While crash! fell in the roof, I wist,

I play'd a soft and doleful air,
On some of those old bed-rid nurses,

I sang an old and moving story-
That deal in discontent and curses.

An old rude song, that suited well

That ruin wild and hoary.

She listen’d with a fitting blush,
Who bade you do't?

With downcast eyes and modest grace,

For well she knew, I could not chuse

The same! the same!

gaze upon her face.
Letters four do form his name.

I told her of the Knight that wore
He let me loose, and cried, Halloo!

Upon his shield a burning brand;
To him alone the praise is due.

And that for ten long years he woo'd

The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pin’d; and ah!
He let us loose, and cried, Halloo!

The deep, the low, the pleading tone
How shall we yield him honour due ?

With which I sang another's love,

Interpreted my own.
Wisdom comes with lack of food.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,
I'll gnaw, I'll gnaw the multitude,

With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
Till the cup of rage o'erbrim:

And she forgave me, that I gazed
They shall seize him and his brood-

Too fondly on her face!

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But when I told the cruel scorn

All impulses of soul and sense That craz'd that bold and lovely Knight,

Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,

The music, and the doleful tale, Nor rested day nor night;

The rich and balmy eve; That sometimes from the savage den,

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, And sometimes fro the darksome shade,

An undistinguishable throng, And sometimes starting up at once

And gentle wishes long subdued, In green and sunny glade,

Subdued and cherish'd long! There came and look'd him in the face

She wept with pity and delight, An angel beautiful and bright;

She blush'd with love, and virgin-shame; And that he knew it was a fiend,

And like the murmur of a dream, This miserable Knight!

I heard her breathe my name. And that unknowing what he did,

Her bosom heav'd-she stept aside, He leap'd amid a murderous band,

As conscious of my look she steptAnd sav'd from outrage worse than death

Then suddenly, with timorous eye The Lady of the Land !

She fled to me and wept. And how she wept, and claspt his knees;

She half enclosed me with her arms, And how she tended him in vain

She press'd me with a meek embrace; And ever strove to expiate

And bending back her head, look'd up, The scorn that crazed his brain.

And gazed upon my face. And that she nursed him in a cave;

'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear, And how his madness went away,

And partly 'twas a bashful art, When on the yellow forest-leaves

That I might rather feel, than see, A dying man he lay.

The swelling of her heart. His dying words—but when I reach'd

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, That tenderest strain of all the ditty,

And told her love with virgin-pride. My faultering voice and pausing harp

And so I won my Genevieve, Disturb'd her soul with pity!

My bright and beauteous bride.

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The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

So in the church-yard she was laid; And all the summer dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." “ How many are you then," said I, “ If they two are in Heaven?” The little maiden did reply, “ O master! we are seven.' “ But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in Heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away: for still The little maid would have her will, And said, “ Nay, we are Seven !”

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A simple child That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were fair, and very fair; - Her beauty made me glad. “ Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" “How many? Seven in all,” she said, And wondering looked at me. “ And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, “ Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother." “ You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven !-I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be?" Then did the little maid reply, “ Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree." “ You run about, my little maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five." “ Their graves are green, they may be seen,” The little maid replied, “ Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sitI sit and sing to them. And often after sun-set, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper

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'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!

(pair. I watched them with delight; they were a lovely Now with her empty can the maiden turned away; But, ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she



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