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I. YE clouds ! that far above me float and pause, Whose pathless march no mortal may control ' Ye ocean waves' that, wheresoe'er ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws' Ye woods ! that listen to the night-birds' singing, Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined, Save when your own imperious branches swinging, Have made a solemn music of the wind' Where, like a man beloved of God, Through glooms, which never woodman trod, How oft, pursuing fancies holy, My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, Inspired, beyond the guess of folly, By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound ! O ye loud waves' and 0 ye forests high And O ye clouds that far above me soar'd ' Thou rising sun' thou blue, rejoicing sky! Yea, every thing that is and will be free ' Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, With what deep worship I have still adored The spirit of divinest Liberty.

II. When France in wrath her giant-limbs uprear'd, And with that oath, which smote air, earth and sea, Stamp'd her strong foot, and said she would be free, Bear witness for me, how I hoped and fear'd : With what a joy my lofty gratulation Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band: And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, The monarchs march'd in evil day, And Britain join'd the dire array; Though dear her shores and circling ocean, Though many friendships, many youthful loves Had swoln the patriot emotion, And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves; Yet still my voice, unalter’d, sang defeat To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, And shame too long delay’d and vain retreat!

For ne'er, 0 Liberty! with partial aim

I dimm'd thy light or damp'd thy holy flame; But bless'd the paeans of deliver'd France,

And hung my head, and wept at Britain's name.


“And what,” I said, “though blasphemy's loud
With that sweet music of deliverance strove :
Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove
A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream :
Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled,
The sun was rising, though he hid his light!
And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and
The dissonance ceased, and all seem'd calm and
When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory
Conceal’d with clustering wreaths of glory;
When, insupportably advancing,
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp;
While timid looks of fury glancing,
Domestic treason, crush'd beneath her fatal stamp,
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore;
Then I reproach'd my fears that would not flee;
“And soon,” I said, “shall wisdom teach her lore
In the low huts of them that toil and groan'
And, conquering by her happiness alone,
Shall France compel the nations to be free,
Till love and joy look round, and call the earth
their own.”

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Forgive me, Freedom | 0 forgive those dreams'
I hearthy voice, I hearthy loud lament,
From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent—
I hearthy groans upon her blood-stain’d streams'
Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish'd;
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain snows
With bleeding wounds; forgivene that I cherish'd
One thought that ever bless'd your cruel foes."
To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt,
Where peace her jealous home had built;
A patriot race to disinherit
Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear;
And with inexpiable spirit
To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer—
0 France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind,
And patriot only in pernicious toils'
Are these thy boasts, champion of human kind?
To mix with kings in the low lust of sway,
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey;
To insult the shrine of liberty with spoils
From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray

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A GREEN and silent spot amid the hills,
A small and silent dell ! O'er stiller place
No sinking skylark ever poised himself.
The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope,
Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on,
All golden with the never-bloomless furze,
Which now blooms most profusely ; but the dell,
Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate
As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax,
When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve,
The level sunshine glimmers with green light.
O! 'tis a quiet, spirit-healing nook'
Which all, methinks, would love; but chiefly he,
The humble man, who, in his youthful years,
Knew just so much of folly as had made
His early manhood more securely wise !
Here he might lie on fern or wither'd heath,
While from the singing lark, (that sings unseen
The minstrelsy that solitude loves best,)
And from the sun, and from the breezy air,
Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame;
And he, with many feelings, many thoughts,
Made up a meditative joy, and found
Religious meanings in the forms of nature!
And so, his senses gradually wrapt
In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds,
And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark'
That singest like an angel in the clouds !
My God! it is a melancholy thing
For such a man, who would full sain preserve
His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel
For all his human brethren—O my God!
It weighs upon the heart, that he must think
What uproar and what strife may now be stirring
This way or that way o'er these silent hills—
Invasion, and the thunder and the shout,
And all the crash of onset; fear and rage,
And undetermined conflict—even now,
E’en now, perchance, and in his native isle;
Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun'
We have offended, O' my countrymen'
We have offended very grievously,
And been most tyrannous. From east to west
A groan of accusation pierces heaven'
The wretched plead against us; multitudes
Countless and vehement, the sons of God,

Our brethren Like a cloud that travels on,
Steam'd up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence,
E’en so, my countrymen' have we gone forth,
And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs,
And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint
With slow perdition murders the whole man,
His body and his soul! Meanwhile, at home,
All individual dignity and power
Ingulf'd in courts, committees, institutions,
Associations and societies,
A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting guild,
One benefit club for mutual flattery,
We have drunk up, demure as at a grace,
Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth;
Contemptuous of all honourable rule,
Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life
For gold, as at a market! The sweet words
Of Christian promise, words that even yet
Might stem destruction were they wisely preach'd,
Are mutter'd o'er by men whose tones proclaim
How flat and wearisome they feel their trade:
Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent
To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth.
O! blasphemous ! the book of life is made
A superstitious instrument, on which
We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break;
For all must swear—all and in every place,
College and wharf, council and justice court;
All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed,
Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest,
The rich, the poor, the old man and the young;
All, all make up one scheme of perjury,
That faith doth reel ; the very name of God
Sounds like a juggler's charm; and, bold with joy,
Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place,
(Portentous sight !) the owlet Atheism,
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,
Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,)
We, this whole people, have been clamorous
For war and bloodshed; animating sports,
The which we pay for as a thing to talk of,
Spectators and not combatants' No guess
Anticipative of a wrong unfelt,
No speculation or contingency,
However dim and vague, too vague and dim
To yield a justifying cause; and forth
(Stuff"d out with big preamble, holy names,
And adjurations of the God in heaven)
We send our mandates for the certain death
Of thousands and ten thousands ! Boys and girls,
And women, that would groan to see a child
Pull off an insect’s leg, all read of war,
The best amusement for our morning meal?
The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers
From curses, who knows scarcely words enough
To ask a blessing from his heavenly Father, o
Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute


And technical in victories and defeats,
And all our dainty terms for fratricide;
Terms which we trundle smoothly o’er our tongues
Like mere abstractions, empty sounds, to which
We join no feeling and attach no form
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,
Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds,
Pass'd off to heaven; translated and not kill’d:
As though he had no wife to pine for him,
No God to judge him ' Therefore, evil days
Are coming on us, O my countrymen'
And what if all-avenging Providence,
Strong and retributive, should make us know
The meaning of our words, force us to feel
The desolation and the agony
Of our fierce doings '

Spare us yet a while,
Father and God O ! spare us yet a while *
O' let not English women drag their flight
Fainting beneath the burden of their babes, -
Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday
Laugh’d at the breast ! Sons, brothers, husbands, all
Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms
Which grew up with you round the same fireside,
And all who ever heard the Sabbath-bells
Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure'
Stand forth : be men' repel an impious foe,
Impious and false, a light yet cruel race,
Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth
With deeds of murder; and still promising
Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free,
Poison life’s amities, and cheat the heart
Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes
And all that lifts the spirit ! Stand we forth;
Render them back upon the insulted ocean,
And let them toss as idly on its waves
As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain blast
Swept from our shores! And O' may we return,
Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear,
Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung
So fierce a foe to frenzy '

I have told,
0 Britons ! O my brethren ' I have told
Most bitter truth, but without bitterness.
Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed ;
For never can true courage dwell with them,
Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look
At their own vices. We have been too long
Dupes of a deep delusion' Some, belike
Groaning with restless enmity, expect
All change from change of constituted power;
As if a government had been a robe,
On which our vice and wretchedness were tagg'd
Like fancy points and fringes, with the robe
Pull'd off at pleasure. Fondly these attach
A radical causation to a few
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,

Pote with a mad idolatry; and all
Who will not fall before their images,

And yield them worship, they are enemies
E’en of their country !
Such have I been deem’d—
But, O dear Britain O my mother isle'
Needs must thou prove a name most dear and
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend,
A husband, and a father' who revere
All bonds of natural love, and find them all
Within the limits of thy rocky shores.
O native Britain O my mother isle !
How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and
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,
All lovely and all honourable things,
Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel
The joy and greatness of its future being 2
There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul
Unborrow'd from my country. O divine
And beauteous island ' thou hast been my sole
And most magnificent temple, in the which
I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs,
Loving the God that made me !
May my fears,
My filial fears, be vain' and may the vaunts
And menace of the vengeful enemy
Pass like the gust, that roar'd and died away
In the distant tree: which heard, and only heard
In this low dell, bow’d not the delicate grass.
But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad
The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze:
The light has left the summit of the hill,
Though still a sunny gleam.lies beautiful,
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell,
Farewell, a while, O soft and silent spot '
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill,
Homeward I wind my way; and lo! recall’d
From bodings that have wellnigh wearied me,
I find myself upon the brow, and pause
Startled ! And after lonely sojourning
In such a quiet and surrounding nook,
This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main,
Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty
Of that huge amphitheatre of rich
And elmy fields, seems like society—
Conversing with the mind, and giving it
A livelier impulse and a dance of thought !
And now, beloved Stowey ! I behold
Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge
Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend,
And close behind them, hidden from 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 soften'd, and made worthy to indulge
Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind.
Nether Stowey, April 28th, 1798.

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FAMINE. 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 2 I heard a groan and a peevish squall, And through the chink of a cottage wall— Can you guess what I saw there Both.

Whisper it, sister' in our ear.

FAMINE. A baby beat its dying mother. I had starved the one, and was starving the other!

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FIRE. Sisters! I from Ireland came " . Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, I triumph'd o'er the setting sun And all the while the work was done, On as I strode with my huge strides, I flung back my head and I held my sides, It was so rare a piece of fun To see the swelter’d cattle run With uncouth gallop through the night, Scared by the red and noisy light! By the light of his own blazing cot Was many a naked rebel shot: The house-stream met the flame and hiss'd, While crash' fell in the roof, I wist, On some of those old bedrid nurses, That deal in discontent and curses.

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