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, all 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
And technical in victories and defeats,
And all our dainty terms for fratricide;
Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues
Like mere abstractions, empty sounds, to which
We join no feeling and attach no form!
As if the soldier died without a wound;
As if the fibres of this godlike frame
Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch,
Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds,
Pass'd off to Heaven, translated and not kill'd:
As though he had no wife to pine for him,
No God to judge him! Therefore, evil days
Are coming on us, O my countrymen!
And what if all-avenging Providence,
Strong and retributive, should make us know
The meaning of our words, force us to feel
The desolation and the agony

Of our fierce doings!

Spare us yet awhile,

Father and God! O! spare us yet awhile!
Oh! let not English women drag their flight
Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes,
Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday
Laugh'd at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, all
Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms
Which grew up with you round the same fire-side,
And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells
Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure!
Stand forth: be men! repel an impious foe,
Impious and false, a light yet cruel race,
Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth
With deeds of murder; and still promising
Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free,
Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart
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,
And let them toss as idly on its waves
As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast
Swept from our shores! And oh! may we return
Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear,
Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung
So fierce a foe to frenzy!

On which our vice and wretchedness were tagg'd
Like fancy points and fringes, with the robe
Pull'd off at pleasure. Fondly these attach
A radical causation to a few

Poor drudges of chastising Providence,
Who borrow all their hues and qualities
From our own folly and rank wickedness,
Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others,

meanwhile,

Dote with a mad idolatry; and all
Who will not fall before their images,
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
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend,
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!
How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and

holy

To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills,
Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas,
Have drunk in all my intellectual life,

All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts,
All adoration of the God in nature,
All lovely and all honorable things,
Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel
The joy and greatness of its future being?
There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul
Unborrow'd from my country. O divine
And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole
And most magnificent temple, in the which
I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs,
Loving the God that made me!

May my fears,

My filial fears, be vain! and may the vaunts
And menace of the vengeful enemy
Pass like the gust, that roar'd and died away
In the distant tree: which heard, and only heard
In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass.

But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze: The light has left the summit of the hill, Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful, Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell, Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot! On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill, Homeward I wind my way; and lo! recall'd 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 surrounding nook, This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main, Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty

I have told,

O Britons! O my brethren! I have told Most bitter truth, but without bitterness.

Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed;

For never can true courage dwell with them,

At their own vices. We have been too long

And elmy fields, seems like society

Dupes 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-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms

Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend,
And close behind them, hidden from my view,
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe
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
And solitary musings, all my heart
Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge
Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human-kind.
Nether Stowey, April 28th, 1798.

FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. A WAR ECLOGUE.

WITH AN APOLOGETIC PREFACE.*

The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendée. FAMINE is discovered lying on the ground; to her enter FIRE and SLAUGHTER.

Letters four do form his name.
He let me loose, and cried Halloo!
To him alone the praise is due.

FAMINE.

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!

BOTH.

Who bade you do't?

FAMINE.

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.

BOTH.

Who bade you do't?

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 honor due?

FAMINE.

Wisdom comes with 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-

SLAUGHTER.

They shall tear him limb from limb!

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, neighbors! stop! why these alarms? The Ox is only glad." But still they pour from cots and farmsHalloo! the parish is up in arms (A hoaring 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, 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?"

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 funOd bl- you for an impious* son Of a Presbyterian w-re!

• One of the many fine words which the most uneducated had about this time a constant opportunity of acquiring from the sermons in the pulpit, and the proclamations on the

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.

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.

"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 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 headYou 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.

And so my Muse perforce drew bit,

And in he rush'd and panted :"Well, have you heard?"-" No! not a whit." "What! han't you heard?"-Come, out with it!" "That Tierney votes for Mister Pitt,

And Sheridan's recanted."

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 Woe, 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.

Oh! 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 ling'ring light.

I play'd a sad and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story-
An 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!

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; And how she tended him in vain

And 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 thrill'd 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 gentle bosom rise.

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.

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.

"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 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.

LEWTI, OR THE CIRCASSIAN
LOVE-CHAUNT.

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

The moon was high, the moonlight gleam
And the shadow of a star
Heaved upon Tamaha'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

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 flush of beauty! Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind, If Lewti never will be kind.