The reeking fields of Flanders.-When within,
Upon her vitals prey'd the rankling tooth
Of treason; and oppression, giant form,
Trampling on freedom, left the alternative
Of slavery, or of death. Even from that day,
When, on the guilty Capet, I pronounced
The doom of injured France, has faction rear'd
Her hated head amongst us. Roland preach'd
Of mercy-the uxorious, dotard Roland,
The woman-govern❜d Roland durst aspire
To govern France; and Petion talk'd of virtue,
And Vergniaud's eloquence, like the honey'd tongue
Of some soft Syren wooed us to destruction.
We triumph'd over these. On the same scaffold
Where the last Louis pour'd his guilty blood,
Fell Brissot's head, the womb of darksome treasons,
And Orleans, villain kinsman of the Capet,
And Hebert's atheist crew, whose maddening hand
Hurl'd down the altars of the living God,
With all the infidel's intolerance.

The last worst traitor triumph'd-triumph'd long,
Secured by matchless villany. By turns
Defending and deserting each accomplice
As interest prompted. In the goodly soil
Of Freedom, the foul tree of treason struck
Its deep-fix'd roots, and dropt the dews of death
On all who slumber'd in its specious shade.
He wove the web of treachery. He caught
The listening crowd by his wild eloquence,
His cool ferocity that persuaded murder,
Even whilst it spake of mercy!-never, never
Shall this regenerated country wear

The despot yoke. Though myriads round assail,
And with worse fury urge this new crusade

Than savages have known; though the leagued despots Depopulate all Europe, so to pour

The accumulated mass upon our coasts,
Sublime amid the storm shall France arise,
And like the rock amid surrounding waves
Repel the rushing ocean.-She shall wield
The thunder-bolt of vengeance-she shall blast
The despot's pride, and liberate the world!

JULIA was blest with beauty, wit, and grace:
Small poets loved to sing her blooming face.
Before her altars, lo! a numerous train
Preferr❜d their vows; yet all preferr❜d in vain:
Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came,
And touch'd the fair one with an equal flame.
The flame she felt, and ill could she conceal
What every look and action would reveal.
With boldness then, which seldom fails to move,
He pleads the cause of marriage and of love;
The course of hymeneal joys he rounds,

The fair one's eyes dance pleasure at the sounds.
Nought now remain'd but "Noes"-how little meant-
And the sweet coyness that endears consent.
The youth upon his knees enraptur'd fell:—
The strange misfortune, oh! what words can tell?
Tell! ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard,
Why snatch'd ye not away your precious 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 cast 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 fix'd on guilty Florio first,
On him the storm of angry grief must burst.
That storm he fled :-he wooes a kinder fair,
Whose fond affections no dear puppies share.
"Twere vain to tell how Julia pined away;—
Unhappy fair, that in one luckless day
(From future almanacks the day be crost!)
At once her lover and her lap-dog lost!

1789.*

I YET remain

To mourn the hours of youth (yet mourn in vain)
That fled neglected: wisely thou hast trod
The better path—and that high meed which God
Assign'd to virtue, tow'ring from the dust,
Shall wait thy rising, Spirit pure and just!

O God! how sweet it were to think, that all
Who silent mourn around this gloomy ball
Might hear the voice of joy ;-but 'tis the will
Of man's great Author, that through good and ill
Calm he should hold his course, and so sustain
His varied lot of pleasure, toil, and pain!

1793.†

*This copy of verses was written at Christ's Hospital, and transcribed, honoris causa, into the book kept by the head-master, Mr. Bowyer, for that purpose. They are printed by Mr. Trollope in p. 192 of his History of the Hospital, published in 1834.

Ed.

These lines were found in Mr. Coleridge's hand-writing in one of the Prayer Books in the chapel of Jesus College, Cambridge. Ed.

TO THE REV. W. J. HORT.*

HUSH! ye clamorous cares, be mute!
Again, dear harmonist! again
Through the hollow of thy flute

Breathe that passion-warbled strain;
Till memory back each form shall bring
The loveliest of her shadowy throng,
And hope, that soars on sky-lark wing,
Shall carol forth her gladdest song!

O skill'd with magic spell to roll

The thrilling tones that concentrate the soul!
Breathe through thy flute those tender notes again,
While near thee sits the chaste-eyed maiden mild;
And bid her raise the poet's kindred strain
In soft impassion'd voice, correctly wild.

In freedom's undivided dell,

Where toil and health with mellow'd love shall dwell

Far from folly, far from men,

In the rude romantic glen,

Up the cliff, and through the glade,
Wand'ring with the dear-loved maid,
I shall listen to the lay,

And ponder on thee far away;—

Still as she bids those thrilling notes aspire
(Making my fond attuned heart her lyre),
Thy honour'd form, my friend! shall reappear,
And I will thank thee with a raptured tear!

1794.

Mr. Hort was a Unitarian clergyman, and in 1794 second master in Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Estlin's school on St. Michael's Hill, Bristol. Ed.