Pagina-afbeeldingen
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Elate of Heart and confident of Such was the sad and gloomy hour Fame, From vales where Avon sports, the Prepared the l'oison's death-cold power.

Minstrel came,

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When anguish'd care of sullen brow

Already to thy lips was rais'd the bowl,
When filial Pity stood thee by,

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Thy fixed eyes she bade thee roll
On scenes that well might melt thy
soul-

Thy native cot she held to view,
Thy native cot, where Peace ere long
Had listen'd to thy evening song;
Thy sister's shrieks she bade thee hear,

With generous joy he views th' ideal | And mark thy mother's thrilling tear,

gold:

He listens to many a Widow's prayers,

She made thee feel her deep - drawn. sigh,

And many an Orphan's thanks he And all her silent agony of Woe.

hears;

He soothes to peace the care-worn
breast,

And from thy Fate shall such distress ensue?

He bids the Debtor's eyes know Ah! dash the poison'd chalice from thy
rest,

And Liberty and Bliss behold:
And now he punishes the heart of steel,
And her own iron rod he makes Op-
pression feel.

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hand!

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And thou had'st dash'd it at her soft
command;

But that Despair and Indignation rose,
And told again the story of thy Woes,
Told the keen insult of th' unfeeling
Heart,

The dread dependence on the low-born
mind,

Told every Woe, for which thy breast might smart,

Neglect and grinning scorn and Want combin❜d

Recoiling back, thou sent'st the friend of Pain

To roll a tide of Death thro' every freezing vein.

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'Tis hard on Bagshot Heath to try
Unclosed to keep the weary eye;
But ah! Oblivion's nod to get
In rattling coach is harder yet.
Slumbrous God of half-shut eye!
Who lovest with limbs supine to lie;
Soother sweet of toil and care
Listen, listen to my prayer;
And to thy votary dispense
Thy soporific influence!

What tho' around thy drowsy head
The seven-fold cap of night be spread,
Yet lift that drowsy head awhile
And yawn propitiously a smile;
In drizzly rains poppean dews

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Curst road! whose execrable way Was darkly shadow'd out in Milton's lay,

When the sad fiends thro' Hell's. sulphureous roads

Took the first survey of their new abodes;

Or when the fall'n Archangel fierce
Dared through the realms of Night to
pierce,

What time the Bloodhound lured by
Human scent

Thro' all Confusion's quagmires floundering went.

Nor cheering pipe, nor Bird's shrill note
Around thy dreary paths shall float;
Their boding songs shall scritch-owls pour
To fright the guilty shepherds sore,
Led by the wandering fires astray
Thro' the dank horrors of thy way!
While they their mud-lost sandals hunt
May all the curses, which they grunt
In raging moan like goaded hog,
Alight upon thee, damned Bog! 1790.

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Thou mightier Goddess, thou demand'st my lay,

Born when earth was seized with

cholic ;

Or as more sapient sages say,
What time the Legion diabolic

Compell'd their beings to enshrine
In bodies vile of herded swine,
Precipitate adown the steep
With hideous rout were plunging
in the deep,

And hog and devil mingling grunt and yell

Seized on the ear with horrible obtrusion ;

Then if aright old legendaries tell, Wert thou begot by Discord on Confusion!

What though no name's sonorous power
Was given thee at thy natal hour!-
Yet oft I feel thy sacred might,
While concords wing their distant flight.
Such power inspires thy holy son

Sable clerk of Tiverton.

And oft where Otter sports his stream,
I hear thy banded offspring scream.
Thou Goddess! thou inspir'st each
throat;

'Tis thou who pour'st the scritch-owl note !

Transported hear'st thy children all Scrape and blow and squeak and squall, And while old Otter's steeple rings, Clappest hoarse thy raven wings!

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Yet here her pensive ghost delights to stay;

Oft pouring on the winds the broken. lay

And hark, I hear her-'twas the passing blast.

I love to sit upon her tomb's dark grass, Then Memory backward rolls Time's shadowy tide;

The tales of other days before me glide:

With eager thought I seize them as they pass;

For fair, tho' faint, the forms of Memory gleam,

Like Heaven's bright beauteous bow reflected in the stream. ? 1790.

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ON A LADY WEEPING-MONODY ON A TEA-KETTLE

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As if no joy had ever chear'd my My woes, my joys unshared! Ah! long breast ere then When from thy spout the stream did On me thy icy dart, stern Death, be arching flow,proved ;

As if, inspir'd, thou ne'er hadst known Better to die, than live and not be loved!

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