Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun! And been most tyrannous. From east to west Engulfed in courts, committees, institutions, A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting guild, We have drunk up, demure as at a grace, Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life Might stem destruction, were they wisely preached, Sounds like a juggler's charm; and, bold with joy Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon, Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close, And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven, Cries out, "Where is it?" Thankless too for peace, (Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas) Secure from actual warfare, we have loved To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war! Alas! for ages ignorant of all Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague, No speculation or contingency, However dim and vague, too vague and dim Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which As if the soldier died without a wound; As if the fibres of this godlike frame Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch, Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed; Strong and retributive, should make us know Of our fierce doings! Spare us yet awhile, Father and God! O! spare us yet awhile! Laughed at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, all Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure! Impious and false, a light yet cruel race, Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast I have told, O Britons! O my brethren! I have told All change from change of constituted power; On which our vice and wretchedness were tagged Poor drudges of chastising Providence, Who borrow all their hues and qualities From our own folly and rank wickedness, Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, mean. while, Dote with a mad idolatry; and all Who will not fall before their images, And yield them worship, they are enemies Even of their country! Such have I been deemed But, O dear Britain! O my Mother Isle ! Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy A husband, and a father! who revere All bonds of natural love, and find them all O native Britain! O my Mother Isle! How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills, Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, Have drunk in all my intellectual life, All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, All adoration of the God in nature, May my fears, Pass like the gust, that roared and died away But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe And my babe's mother dwell in peace! With light Is softened, and made worthy to indulge Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind. NETHER STOWEY, April 28th, 1798. AT the house of a gentleman, who, by the principles and corresponding virtues of a sincere Christian, consecrates a cultivated genius and the favourable accidents of birth, opulence, and splendid connections, it was my good fortune to meet, in a dinner-party, with more men of celebrity in science or polite literature, than are commonly found collected round the same table. In the course of conversation, one of the party reminded an illustrious poet, then present, of some verses which he had recited that morning, and which had appeared in a newspaper under the name of a War-Eclogue, in which Fire, Famine, and Slaughter were introduced as the speakers. The gentleman so addressed replied, that he was rather surprised that none of us should have noticed or heard of the poem, as it had been, at the time, a good deal talked of in Scotland. It may be easily supposed, that my feelings were at this moment not of the most comfortable kind. Of all present, one only knew, or suspected me to be the author; a man who would have established himself in the first rank of England's living poets, if the Genius of our country had not decreed that he should rather be the first in the first rank of its philosophers and scientific benefactors. It appeared the general wish to hear the lines. As my friend chose to remain silent, I chose to follow his example, and Mr. recited the poem. This he could do with the better grace, being known to have ever been not only a firm and active Anti-Jacobin and Anti-Gallican, but likewise a zealous admirer of Mr. Pitt, both as a good man and a great statesman. As a poet exclusively, he had been amused with the Eclogue; as a poet he recited it; and in a spirit, which made it evident, that he would have read and repeated it with the same pleasure, had his own name been attached to the imaginary object or agent. After the recitation, our amiable host observed, that in his opinion Mr. had over-rated the merits of the poetry; but had they been tenfold greater, they could not have compensated for that malignity of heart, which could alone have prompted sentiments so atrocious. I perceived that my illustrious friend became greatly distressed on my account; but fortunately I was able to preserve fortitude and presence of mind enough to take up the subject without exciting even a suspicion how nearly and painfully it interested me. What follows, is the substance of what I then replied, but dilated and in language less colloquial. It was not my intention, I said, to justify the publication, whatever its author's feelings might have been at the time of composing it. That they are calculated to call forth so severe a reprobation from a good man, is not the worst feature of such poems. Their moral deformity is aggravated in proportion to the pleasure which they are capable of affording to vindictive, turbulent, and unprincipled readers. Could it be supposed, though for a moment, that the author seriously wished what he had thus wildly imagined, even the attempt to palliate an inhumanity so monstrous would be an insult to the hearers. But it seemed to me worthy of consideration, whether the mood |