Alike from priestcraft's harpy minions, And factious blasphemy's obscener slaves, Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,

Our brethren!
Steam'd up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence,
E'en so, my countrymen! have we gone forth,

Like a cloud that travels on,

waves !

And there I felt thee!-on that sea-cliff's verge,
Whose pines, scarce travell'd by the breeze above,
Had made one murmur with the distant surge!
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare,
And shot my being through earth, sea, and air,
Possessing all things with intensest love,
O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.
February, 1797.

FEARS IN SOLITUDE.

And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint
With slow perdition murders the whole man,
His body and his soul! Meanwhile, at home,
All individual dignity and power

Ingulf'd in courts, committees, institutions,
Associations and societies,

A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting guild,
One benefit club for mutual flattery,

We have drunk up, demure as at a grace,
Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth;
Contemptuous of all honourable rule,

Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life
For gold, as at a market! The sweet words

AN INVASION.

A GREEN and silent spot amid the hills,
A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place
No sinking skylark ever poised himself.
The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope,
Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on,
All golden with the never-bloomless furze,
Which now blooms most profusely; but the dell,
Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate
As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax,
When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve,
The level sunshine glimmers with green light.
O! 'tis a quiet, spirit-healing nook!
Which all, methinks, would love; but chiefly he,
The humble man, who, in his youthful years,
Knew just so much of folly as had made
His early manhood more securely wise!
Here he might lie on fern or wither'd heath,
While from the singing lark, (that sings unseen
The minstrelsy that solitude loves best,)
And from the sun, and from the breezy air,
Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame;
And he, with many feelings, many thoughts,
Made up a meditative joy, and found
Religious meanings in the forms of nature!
And so, his senses gradually wrapt

In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds,
And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark!
That singest like an angel in the clouds!

My God! it is a melancholy thing

For such a man, who would full fain preserve
His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel
For all his human brethren-O my God!
It weighs upon the heart, that he must think
What uproar and what strife may now be stirring
This way or that way o'er these silent hills-
Invasion, and the thunder and the shout,
And all the crash of onset; fear and rage,
And undetermined conflict-even now,
E'en now, perchance, and in his native isle ;
Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun!
We have offended, O! my countrymen !
We have offended very grievously,
And been most tyrannous. From east to west
A groan of accusation pierces heaven!
The wretched plead against us; multitudes
Countless and vehement, the sons of God,

Might stem destruction were they wisely preach'd,
Are mutter'd o'er by men whose tones proclaim
How flat and wearisome they feel their trade:
Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent
To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth.
O! blasphemous! the book of life is made
A superstitious instrument, on which
We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break;
For all must swear-all and in every place,
College and wharf, council and justice court;
All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed,
Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest,
The rich, the poor, the old man and the young;
All, all make up one scheme of perjury,
That faith doth reel; the very name of God
Sounds like a juggler's charm; and, bold with joy,
Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place,
(Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism,

Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon,
Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close,
And hooting at the glorious sun in heaven,
Cries out, "Where is it ?"

Thankless too for peace,

(Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas,)
Secure from actual warfare, we have loved
To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war!
Alas! for ages ignorant of all

Its ghastlier workings (famine or blue plague,
Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,)
We, this whole people, have been clamorous
For war and bloodshed; animating sports,
The which we pay for as a thing to talk of,
Spectators and not combatants! No guess
Anticipative of a wrong unfelt,
No speculation or contingency,
However dim and vague, too vague and dim
To yield a justifying cause; and forth
(Stuff'd out with big preamble, holy names,
And adjurations of the God in heaven)

We send our mandates for the certain death
Of thousands and ten thousands! Boys and girls,
And women, that would groan to see a child
Pull off an insect's leg, ali read of war,
The best amusement for our morning meal?
The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers
From curses, who knows scarcely words enough
To ask a blessing from his heavenly Father,
Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute

Thanks, sister, thanks! the men have bled,
Their wives and their children faint for bread.
I stood in a swampy field of battle;
With bones and sculls I made a rattle,
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
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?

BOTH.

Whisper it, sister! in our ear.

FAMINE.

A baby beat its dying mother.

I had starved the one, and was starving the other!

The same! the same!

Letters four do form his name.

He let me loose, and cried Halloo! To him alone the praise is due.

FIRE.

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
Was many a naked rebel shot:

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

On some of those old bedrid nurses,
That deal in discontent and curses.

Who bade you do't?

BOTH.

FIRE.

The same! the same!

Letters four do form his name.

He let me loose, and cried Halloo ! To him alone the praise is due.

ALL.

He let us loose, and cried Halloo! How shall we yield him honour due?

FAMINE.

Wisdom comes of lack of food,
I'll gnaw, I'll gnaw the multitude,
Till the cup of rage o'erbrim:

They shall seize him and his brood

FIRE.

O thankless beldames and untrue!
And is this all that you can do
For him who did so much for you?
Ninety months he, by my troth!
Hath richly cater'd for you both;
And in an hour would you repay
An eight years' work?-Away! away!
I alone am faithful! I
Cling to him everlastingly.
1796.

RECANTATION

ILLUSTRATED IN THE STORY OF THE MAD OX

AN Ox, long fed with musty hay,
And work'd with yoke and chain,
Was turn'd out on an April day,
When fields are in their best array,
And growing grasses sparkle gay,
At once with sun and rain.

The grass was fine, the sun was bright,
With truth I may aver it;

The ox was glad, as well he might,
Thought a green meadow no bad sight,
And frisk'd to show his huge delight,

Much like a beast of spirit.

"Stop, neighbours! 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 hoaxing hunt has always charms,)
Halloo the ox is mad.

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, neighbours, 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?"

Ab, 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!

"You'd have him gore the parish-priest,

And run against the altar

You fiend!"-The sage his warnings ceased,
And north, and south, and west, and east,
Halloo they follow the poor beast,
Mat, Dick, Tom, Bob, and Walter.

Old Lewis, 'twas his evil day,

Stood trembling in his shoes;
The ox was his-what could he say?
His legs were stiffen'd with dismay,
The ox ran o'er him 'mid the fray,

And gave him his death's bruise.

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 ox mad.

Should you a rat to madness tease,
Why e'en a rat might plague you:
There's no philosopher but sees

One of the many fine words which the most uneducated ad about this time a constant opportunity of acquiring rom the sermons in the pulpit, and the proclamations on he corners.

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, 'tis 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.*

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.

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.
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.

But here once more to view did pop
The man that kept his senses.
And now he cried-"Stop, neighbours! stop.
The ox is mad! I would not swop,

No, not a schoolboy's farthing top

For all the parish fences.

"The ox is mad! Ho! Dick, Bob, Mat!

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

See, here's my blunderbuss!"

"A lying dog! just now he said, The ox was only glad,

Let's break his Presbyterian head!" "Hush!" quoth the sage, "you've been misled, No quarrels now-let's all make head

You drove the poor ox mad!"

As thus I sat in careless chat,

With the morning's wet newspaper, In eager haste, without his hat, As blind and blundering as a bat, In came that fierce aristocrat,

Our pursy woollen-draper.

* According to the superstition of the west countries, if you meet the devil, you may either cut him in half with a straw, or you may cause him instantly to disappear by spitting over his horns.

INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE.

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 force and propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties explode around us in all directions, he should 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 distinctly audible.-S. T. C.

Dec. 21, 1799.

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.

A cypress and a myrtle-bough

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

Its murmurs in the wind.

And now a tale of love and wo,
A woful tale of love I sing;
Hark, gentle maidens, hark! it sighs
And trembles on the string.
But most, my own dear Genevieve,

It sighs and trembles most for thee!
O come and hear what cruel wrongs
Befell the Dark Ladie.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve !
She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stir this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of love,

And feed his sacred flame.

O! ever in my waking dreams,
I dwell upon that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I sate,
Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the armed man,

The statue of the armed knight; She stood and listen'd to my harp, Amid the lingering light.

I play'd a sad and doleful air,

sang an old and moving storyAn old rude song that fitted well That ruin wild and hoary.

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.

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:

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;

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'