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


Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend,
And close behind them, hidden froin 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 sofien'd, and made worthy to indulge
Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human-kind.

Nether Stowey, April 28th, 1798.

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?






Whisper it, sister! in our ear. The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendée. FAMINE

FAMINE. is discovered lying on the ground; to her enter FIRE and SLAUGHTER.

A baby beat its dying mother.

I had starved the one, and was starving the other FAMINE.

SISTERS ! sisters! who sent you here?

Who bade you do't?

FAMINE. ( will whisper it in her ear.

The same! the same!

Letters four do form his name.
No! no! no!

He let me loose, and cried Halloo!

To him alone the praise is due.
Spirits hear what spirits téll :
"T will make a holiday in Hell.

No! no! no!
Myself, I named him once below,

Sisters! I from Ireland came!
And all the souls, that damned be,

Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, Leap'd up at once in anarchy,

I triumph'd o'er the setting sun! Clapp'd their hands and danced for glee.

And all the while the work was done The: ww longer heeded me;

On as I strode with my huge strides, But laugh'd to hear Hell's burning rafters

I flung back my head and I held my sides,
Unwillingly re-echo laughters !

It was so rare a piece of fun
No! no! no!

To see the swelter'd cattle run
Spirits hear what spirits tell !

With uncouth gallop through the night, "T will make a holiday in Hell !

Scared by the red and noisy light!

By the light of his own blazing cot

Was many a naked rebel shot:
Whisper it, sister! so and so!

The house-stream met the flame and hissid, la a dark hint, soft and slow.

While crash! fell in the roof, I wist,

On some of those old bedrid nurses,

That deal in discontent and curses.
Letters four do form his name
And who sent you ?


Who bade you do't?
The same! the same!


The same! the same!
He came by stealth, and unlock'd my den,

Letters four do form his name. And I have drunk the blood since then

He let me loose, and cried Halloo! Of thrice three hundred thousand men.

To him alone the praise is due.

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Should you a rat to madness tease,

Why even a rat might plague you :
There's no philosopher but sees
That rage and fear are one disease-
Though that may burn and this may freeze

They're both alike the ague.

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 farms
Halloo! the parish is up in arms
(A hoaring hunt has always charms),

Halloo! the Ox is mad.

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And so this Ox, in frantic mood,

Faced round like any Bull-
The mob turn'd tail, and he pursued,
Till they with fright and fear were stew'd,
And not a chick of all this brood

But had his belly-full.

Old Nick's astride the beast, 't'is clear

Old Nicholas to a tittle!
But all agree he'd disappear,
Would but the parson venture near,
And through his teeth, right o'er the steer

Squirt out some fasting-spittle.t

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?"

Achilles was a warrior fleet,

The Trojans he could worry-
Our parson too was swift of feet,
But show'd it chiefly in retreat!
The victor Ox scour'd down the street,

The mob fled hurry-skurry.

Ah, hapless sage! his ears they stun,

And curse him o'er and o'er * Yon bloody-minded dog!” (cries one,) * To slit your windpipe were good fun'Od bl- you for an impious* son

Of a Presbyterian w-re!

Through gardens, lanes, and fields new-plow'd,

Through his hedge and through her hedge,
He plunged and toss'd, and bellow'd loud,
Till in his madness he grew proud
To see this helter-skelter crowd

That had more wrath than courage.

One of the many fine words which the most uneducated † According to the superstition of the West Countries, if you had about this time a constant opportunity of arquiring from meet the Devil, you may either cut him in half with a straw, or the termou in the palpit, and the proclamations on the you may cause him instantly to disappear by spitting over him


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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 bubbub 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
Dec. 21, 1799.

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.

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.

"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 cypress and a myrtle-bough

This morn around my harp you twined Because it fashion'd mournfully

Its murmurs in the wind.

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She listen'd with a fitting blush,

With downcast eyes and modest graco, For well she knew, I could not choose

But gaze upon her face.


DARK LADIE. The following Poem is intended as the introduction to a somewhat longer one. The use of the old Ballad word Ladie for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity (as Camden says) will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and propriety in it A heavier objection may be adduced against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties ezplodo around us in all directions, he should

I told her of the Knight that wore

Upon his shield a burning brand ; And how for ten long years he wood The Ladie of the Land :

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.

I wld 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;

'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.

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 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.


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

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;

And how she tended him in vainAnd 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 fnusic 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 bosoma rise.

The moon was high, the moonlight gleam

And the shadow of a star Heaved upon Tarnaha’s stream;

But the rock shone brighter far, The rock half-shelter'd from my view By pendent boughs of tressy yewSo shines my Lewti's forehead fair, Gleaming through her sable hair. Image of Lewti! from my mind Depart; for Lewti is not kind.

I saw a cloud of palest hue,

Onward to the moon it pass'd ;
Still brighter and more bright it grews
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.

The little cloud-it floats away,

Away it goes; away so soon?
Alas! it has no power to stay :
Its hues are dim, its hues are gray-

Away it passes from the moon!
How mournfully it seems to fly,

Ever fading more and more, To joyless regions of the sky,

And now 't is whiter than before !
As white as my poor cheek will be,

When, Lewti! on my couch I lie,
A dying man for love of thee.
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind
And yet thou didst not look unkind.

O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot
Crushing the purple whorts ; while oft unseen,
Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves,
The scared snake rustles, Onward still I toil,
I know not, ask not whither! A new joy,
Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust,
And gladsome as the first-born of the spring,
Beckons me on, or follows from behind,
Playmate, or guide! The master-passion quell'd,
I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark
The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak,
Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake

Soar up, and form a melancholy vault
High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea.

I saw a vapor in the sky,

Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse; Thin, and white, and very high;

Here too the lovelorn man who, sick in soul, I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud :

And of this busy human heart aweary, Perhaps the breezes that can fly

Worships the spirit of unconscious life Now below and now above,

In tree or wild-flower.-Gentle Lunatic! Have snatch'd aloft the lawny shroud

If so he might not wholly cease to be, Of Lady fair that died for love.

He would far rather not be that, he is; For maids, as well as youths, have perish'd

But would be something, that he knows not of, From fruitless love too fondly cherish'd.

In winds or waters, or among the rocks!
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind
For Lewti never will be kind.

But hence, fond wretch! breathe not contagio Hush! my heedless feet from under

here! Slip the crumbling banks for ever:

No myrtle-walks are these: these are no groves Like echoes to a distant thunder,

Where Love dare loiter! If in sullen mood They plunge into the gentle river.

He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore The river-swans have heard my tread,

His dainty feet, the brier and the thorn And startle from their reedy bed.

Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird O beauteous Birds! methinks ye measure

Easily caught, ensnare him, Oye Nymphs, Your movements to some heavenly tune!

Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades ! O beauteous Birds! 't is such a pleasure And you, ye Earth-winds ! you that make at moro To see you move beneath the moon,

The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs! I would it were your true delight

You, O ye wingless Airs ! that creep between To sleep by day and wake all night.

The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze,

Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon, I know the place where Lewti lies,

The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bedWhen silent night has closed her eyes :

Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp, It is a breezy jasmine-bower,

Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb. The nightingale sings o'er her head :

Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes! Voice of the Night! had I the power

With prickles sharper than his darts bemock That leafy labyrinth to thread,

His little Godship, making him perforce And creep, like thee, with soundless tread, Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's bad I then might view her bosom white Heaving lovely to my sight,

This is my hour of triumph! I can now As these two swans together heave

With my own fancies play the merry fool, On the gently swelling wave.

And laugh away worse folly, being free. Oh! that she saw me in a dream,

Here will I seat myself, beside this old, And dreamt that I had died for care ;

Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine

Clothes as with net-work : here will I couch m All pale and wasted I would seem,

limbs, Yet fair withal, as spirits are ! I'd die indeed, if I might see

Close by this river, in this silent shade,

As safe and sacred from the step of man Her bosom heave, and heave for me!.

As an invisible world—unheard, unseen, Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!

And list’ning only to the pebbly brook Tomorrow Lewti may be kind.

That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound 1795.

Or to the bees, that in the neighboring trunk
Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits me
Was never Love's accomplice, never raised

The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow,
THE PICTURE, OR THE LOVER'S And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek;

Ne'er play'd the wanton-never half-disclosed

The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence THROUGU weeds and thorns, and matted underwood Eye-poisons for some love-distemper'd youth, I force my way; now climb, and now descend

Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove

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