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Feeble and dim! Stranger, these im- But what is all, to his delight, pulses

Who having long been doomed to Blame thou not lightly; nor will I pro

roam, fane,

Throws off the bundle from his back, With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, Before the door of his own home? That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel That God is everywhere! the God who

Home-sickness is a wasting pang ; framed

This feel I hourly more and more : Mankind to be one mighty family,

There's healing only in thy wings, Himself our Father, and the World our

Thou breeze that play'st on Albion's Home.

shore ! May 17, 1799.

May 26, 1799.

THE DAY-DREAM

SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT

VERY NATURAL

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WRITTEN IN GERMANY
If I had but two little wings
And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,

And I stay here.
But in my sleep to you I fly :
I'm always with you in my sleep!

The world is all one's own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?

All, all alone.
Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids :

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So I love to wake ere break of day:

For though my sleep be gone,
Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,

And still dreams on.
April 23, 1799.

A sweet and playful tenderness doth

linger, Touching my heart as with an infant's

finger.

My mouth half open, like a witless man,

I saw our couch, I saw our quiet room,
Its shadows heaving by the fire-light

gloom ;
And o'er my lips a subtle feeling ran,
All o'er my lips a soft and breeze-like

feelingI know not what—but had the same been

stealing

HOME-SICK

WRITTEN IN GERMANY

'Tis sweet to him who all the week Through city-crowds must push his

way, To stroll alone through fields and woods,

And hallow thus the Sabbath-day.
And sweet it is, in summer bower,

Sincere, affectionate and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,

To celebrate one's marriage-day.

Upon a sleeping mother's lips, I guess

I
It would have made the loving mother

dream
That she was softly bending down to kiss
Her babe, that something more than

babe did seem,
A floating presence of its darling father,
And yet its own dear baby self far rather!
Across my chest there lay a weight, so

warm !
As if some bird had taken shelter there;

He saw a cottage with a double coach

house, A cottage of gentility ! And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin

Is pride that apes humility.

And lo! I seem’d to see a woman's form-. Thine, Sara, thine ? O joy, if thine it

were ! I gazed with stified breath, and fear'd to

stir it, No deeper trance e'er wrapt a yearning

spirit ! And now, when I seem'd sure thy face to

see, Thy own dear self in our own quiet

home; There came an elfish laugh, and waken'd

me : 'Twas Frederic, who behind my chair

had clomb, And with his bright eyes at my face was

peeping. I bless'd him, tried to laugh, and fell a-weeping !

1799.

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THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS

FROM his brimstone bed at break of day
A walking the Devil is gone,
To visit his little snug farm of the earth
And see how his stock went on.

Over the hill and over the dale,
And he went over the plain,
And backward and forward he swished

his long tail
As a gentleman swishes his cane.
And how then was the Devil drest?
Oh ! he was in his Sunday's best : 10
His jacket was red and his breeches

were blue, And there was a hole where the tail came

through. He saw a LAWYER killing a Viper On a dung heap beside his stable, And the Devil smiled, for it put him in

mind Of Cain and his brother, Abel. A POTHECARY on a white horse

Rode by on his vocations, And the Devil thought of his old Friend

DEATH in the Revelations.

So clomb this first grand thief-
Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life
Sat like a cormorant.'

Par. Lost, iv. The allegory here is so apt, that in a catalogue of various readings obtained from collating the MSS. one might expect to find it noted, that for LIFE' Cod. quid. habent, 'TRADE.' Though indeed THE TRADE, i.e. the bibliopolic, so called κατ' εξόχην, may be regarded as LIFE sensu eminentiori; a suggestion, which I owe to a young retailer in the hosiery line, who on hearing a description of the net profits, dinner parties, country houses, etc., of the trade, exclaimed, 'Ay! that's what I call Life now !’--This 'Life, our Death,' is thus happily contrasted with the fruits of Authorship.-Sic nos non nobis mellificamus Apes.

Of this poem, which with the 'Fire, Famine, and Slaughter' first appeared in the Morning Post (6th Sept. 1799), the three first stanzas, which are worth all the rest, and the ninth, were dictated by Mr. Southey. See Apologetic Preface [to 'Fire, Famine and Slaughter '). Between the ninth and the concluding stanza, two or three are omitted as grounded on subjects which have lost their interest—and for better reasons.

If any one should ask who General meant, the Author begs leave to inform him, that he did once see a red-faced person in a dream whom by the dress he took for a General; but he might have been mistaken, and most certainly he did not hear any names mentioned. In simple verity, the author never meant any one, or indeed any thing but to put a concluding stanza to his doggerel. [S. T. C.'s note in 1829.] [See the originalversion of the poem in the “Notes.”-- ED.]

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Down the river there plied, with wind While the pert Captain, or the primmer and tide,

Priest, A pig with vast celerity;

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Prattles accordant scandal in her ear. And the Devil look'd wise as he saw how the while,

O give me, from this heartless scene It cut its own throat. · There !' quoth

released, he with a smile,

To hear our old musician, blind and "Goes “England's commercial prosper

grey, ity.”

(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms

I kissed,) As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he

His Scottish tunes and warlike marches saw

play, A solitary cell ;

By moonshine, on the balmy summerAnd the Devil was pleased, for it gave

night, him a hint

The while I dance amid the tedded For improving his prisons in Hell.

hay
*
*
*

With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in General burning face

light. He saw with consternation, And back to hell his way did he take, 40 Or lies the purple evening on the bay For the Devil thought by a slight mistake Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide It was general conflagration.

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder

trees,

For round their roots the fisher's boat is LINES COMPOSED IN A

tied,

On whose trim seat doth Edmund CONCERT-ROOM

stretch at ease, Nor cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I

And while the lazy boat sways to and

fro, detest These scented Rooms, where, to a

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild

and slow, gaudy throng, Heaves the proud Harlot her distended

That his own cheek is wet with quiet breast

tears. In intricacies of laborious song.

But 0, dear Anne ! when midnight These feel not Music's genuine power,

wind careers, nor deign

And the gust pelting on the out-house To melt at Nature's passion-warbled

shed plaint,

Makes the cock shrilly in the rainBut when the long - breathed singer's

storm crow, uptrilled strain

To hear thee sing some ballad full of Bursts in a squall — they gape for

woe, wonderment.

Ballad of ship-wreck'd sailor floating

dead, Hark! the deep buzz of Vanity and Whom his own true-love buried in the Hate !

sands ! Scornful, yet envious, with self-tortur- Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice reing sneer

measures My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, ! Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures

,

The things of Nature utter ; birds or

trees, Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Or where the stiff grass mid the heath

plant waves, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.

1799.

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The unenjoying toiler's misery.
And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child,
You hailed the Chapel and the Platform

wild,
Where once the Austrian fell

Beneath the shaft of Tell !
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure !
Whence learnt you that heroic measure?

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ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCHESS There crowd your finely-fibred frame

All living faculties of bliss ;
OF DEVONSHIRE

And Genius to your cradle came,

His forehead wreathed with lambent ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA

flame, IN HER PASSAGE OVER MOUNT GOTHARD'

And bending low, with godlike kiss Conti

Breath'd in a more celestial life; 30 And hail the Chapel ! hail the Platform wild ! But boasts not many a fair compeer Where Tell directed the avenging dart,

A heart as sensitive to joy and fear? With well-strung arm, that first preserved his

And some, perchance, might wage an child,

equal strife, Then aim'd the arrow at the tyrant's heart.

Some few, to nobler being wrought,

Co-rivals in the nobler gift of thought.
SPLENDOUR's fondly-foster'd child !

Yet these delight to celebrate
And did you hail the platform wild, Laurelled War and plumy State ;
Where once the Austrian fell

Or in verse and music dress
Beneath the shaft of Tell !

Tales of rustic happiness-
O Lady, nursed in pomp and plea- Pernicious tales ! insidious strains ! 40
sure !

That steel the rich man's breast, Whence learnt you that heroic mea- And mock the lot unblest, sure ?

The sordid vices and the abject pains, Loutro

Which evermore must be Light as a dream your days their circlets The doom of ignorance and penury ! ran,

free Nature's uncorrupted child, From all that teaches brotherhood to You hail'd the Chapel and the Platform Man

wild, Far, far removed ! from want, from hope,

Where once the Austrian fell from fear!

Beneath the shaft of Tell ! Enchanting music lulled your infant ear, O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleaObeisance, praises soothed your infant

sure ! heart :

Whence learnt you that heroic measure? Emblazonments and old ancestral crests,

You were a Mother! That most holy With many a bright obtrusive form of art,

name, Detained your eye from Nature : stately Which Heaven and Nature bless, vests,

I may not vilely prostitute to those That veiling strove to deck your charms Whose infants owe them less divine,

Than the poor caterpillar owes
Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine, Its gaudy parent fly.
Were yours unearned by toil; nor could You were a mother! at your bosom
you see

fed

But you,

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II

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70

The babes that loved you. You, with

II
laughing eye,
Each twilight-thought, each nascent feel-

They told her how a glorious light, ing read,

60

Streaming from a heavenly throng,
Which you yourself created. Oh!

Around them shone, suspending night!
While sweeter than a mother's song,

a
delight!
A second time to be a mother,

Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth,
Without the mother's bitter groans: | Glory to God on high ! and Peace on

Earth.
Another thought, and yet another,
By touch, or taste, by looks or

III
tones,
O'er the growing sense to roll,

She listened to the tale divine,
The mother of your infant's soul !

And closer still the Babe she pressed;
The Angel of the Earth, who, while he

And while she cried, the Babe is mine! guides

The milk rushed faster to her breast: His chariot-planet round the goal of Joy rose within her, like a summer's day,

morn;
All trembling gazes on the eye of Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of
God,

Peace is born.
A moment turned his awful face away ;
And as he viewed you, from his aspect
sweet

IV
New influences in your being rose, Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
Blest intuitions and communions fleet

Poor, simple, and of low estate ! 20
With living Nature, in her joys and

That strife should vanish, battle cease, woes !

O why should this thy soul elate ? Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see

Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's The shrine of social Liberty !

story,-O beautiful ! O Nature's child !

Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame 'Twas thence you hailed the Plat

and glory?
form wild,
Where once the Austrian fell 80

V
Beneath the shaft of Tell!
O Lady, nursed in pomp and And is not War a youthful king,
pleasure !

A stately hero clad in mail ? Thence learnt you that heroic Beneath his footsteps laurels spring ; measure.

1799.

Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail Their friend, their playmate! and his

bold bright eye

Compels the maiden's love-confessing A CHRISTMAS CAROL

sigh.

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VI
The shepherds went their hasty way,

And found the lowly stable-shed "Tell this in some more courtly scene,
Where the Virgin-Mother lay :

Tomaids and youths in robes of state!
And now they checked their eager I am a woman poor and mean,
tread,

And therefore is my soul elate.
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung. That from the aged father tears his child:

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