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Shall dash thy mangled limbs with furious shock

Should'st thou escape the fury of that day A fate more cruel still, unhappy, view. And stain its craggy sides with human Opposing winds may stop thy luckless

blood.

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1 I well remember old Jemmy Bowyer, the 'plagosus Orbilius' of Christ's Hospital, but an admirable educer no less than Educator of the Intellect, bade me leave out as many epithets as would turn the whole into eight-syllable lines, and then ask myself if the exercise would not be greatly improved. How often have I thought of the proposal since then, and how many thousand bloated and puffing lines have I read, that, by this process, would have tripped over the tongue excellently. Likewise, I remember that he told me on the same occasion-'Coleridge! the connections of a Declamation are not the transitions of Poetry-bad, however, as they are they are better than "Apostrophes" and "O thou's," for at the worst they are something like common The others are the grimaces of Lunacy.' -S. T. COLeridge.

sense.

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Or who shall heal his wounded mind, If tortur'd by misfortune's smart? Who Hymeneal bliss will never prove,

But soon emerging in her radiant might She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care

That more than friendship, friendship Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight.

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ANTHEM

1788.

FOR THE CHILDREN OF CHRIST'S
HOSPITAL

SERAPHS around th' Eternal's seat
who throng

With tuneful ecstasies of praise : O! teach our feeble tongues like yours the song

Of fervent gratitude to raiseLike you, inspired with holy flame To dwell on that Almighty name Who bade the child of woe no longer sigh, And Joy in tears o'erspread the widow's eye.

Th' all-gracious Parent hears the wretch's prayer;

The meek tear strongly pleads on high;

Wan Resignation struggling with despair

The Lord beholds with pitying eye; Sees cheerless Want unpitied pine, Disease on earth its head recline, And bids Compassion seek the realms of

woe

To heal the wounded, and to raise the low.

She comes! she comes! the meekeyed power I see

With liberal hand that loves to

bless;

The clouds of sorrow at her presence

flee;

Rejoice! rejoice! ye children of distress!

The beams that play around her head Thro' Want's dark vale their radiance spread :

Now hid behind the dragon-winged The young uncultured mind imbibes the

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And Vice reluctant quits th' expected The strange misfortunes, oh! what words prey.

can tell?

Tell! ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard,

Cease, thou lorn mother! cease thy Why snatch'd ye not away your precious

wailings drear;

Ye babes! the unconscious sob

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ward?

Why suffer'd ye the lover's weight to fall On the ill-fated neck of much-loved Ball? The favourite on his mistress casts his eyes,

Gives a short melancholy howl, and— dies.

Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest! Anger and grief divide poor Julia's breast. Her eyes she fixt on guilty Florio first: On him the storm of angry grief must burst.

The storm he fled: he wooes a kinder fair,

Whose fond affections no dear puppies share.

'Twere vain to tell, how Julia pin'd away : Unhappy Fair! that in one luckless

day

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Light of this once all darksome spot Where now their glad course mortals run,

First-born of Sirius begot

Upon the focus of the sun

I'll call thee

name

for such thy earthly

I saw when from the turtle feast
The thick dark smoke in volumes
rose!

I saw the darkness of the mist

Encircle thee, O Nose!

Shorn of thy rays thou shott'st a fearful gleam

(The turtle quiver'd with prophetic fright)

Gloomy and sullen thro' the night of steam :

So Satan's Nose when Dunstan urged to flight,

Glowing from gripe of red-hot pincers dread

Athwart the smokes of Hell disastrous twilight shed!

The Furies to madness my brain de

vote

In robes of ice my body wrap!
On billowy flames of fire I float,

Hear ye my entrails how they snap? Some power unseen forbids my lungs to breathe!

What fire-clad meteors round me whizzing fly!

I vitrify thy torrid zone beneath,

Proboscis fierce! I am calcined! I

die!

Thus, like great Pliny, in Vesuvius' fire, I perish in the blaze while I the blaze admire. 1789.

TO THE MUSE

THO' no bold flights to thee belong;
And tho' thy lays with conscious fear,
Shrink from Judgement's eye severe,
Yet much I thank thee, Spirit of my
song!

What name so high, but what too low For, lovely Muse! thy sweet employ

must be?

Comets, when most they drink the solar

flame

Are but faint types and images of thee! Burn madly, Fire! o'er earth in ravage

run,

Then blush for shame more red by fiercer outdone!

Exalts my soul, refines my breast,
Gives each pure pleasure keener zest,
And softens sorrow into pensive Joy.
From thee I learn'd the wish to bless,
From thee to commune with my heart;
From thee, dear Muse! the gayer part,
To laugh with pity at the crowds that
press

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HEARD'ST thou yon universal cry,

And dost thou linger still on Gallia's shore?

Go, Tyranny! beneath some barbarous sky

Thy terrors lost and ruin'd power deplore!

What tho' through many a groaning

age

Was felt thy keen suspicious rage,

Such scenes no more demand the tear humane;

I see, I see! glad Liberty succeed
With every patriot virtue in her train!
And mark yon peasant's raptured

eyes;

Secure he views his harvests rise; No fetter vile the mind shall know, And Eloquence shall fearless glow. Yes! Liberty the soul of Life shall reign,

Shall throb in every pulse, shall flow thro' every vein !

VI

Shall France alone a Despot spurn? Shall she alone, O Freedom, boast thy care?

Yet Freedom roused by fierce Dis- Lo, round thy standard Belgia's heroes

dain

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burn,

Tho' Power's blood-stain'd streamers
fire the air,

And wider yet thy influence spread,
Nor e'er recline thy weary head,

Till every land from pole to pole Shall boast one independent soul! And still, as erst, let favour'd Britain be First ever of the first and freest of the free! ? 1789.

TO A YOUNG LADY

WITH A POEM ON THE FRENCH
REVOLUTION

[Probably the preceding verses.] MUCH on my early youth I love to dwell,

Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,

Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,

I heard of guilt and wondered at the tale!

Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing,

Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.
Aye as the star of evening flung its beam
In broken radiance on the wavy stream,

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