The sons of France shake off the tyrant yoke;
I have, as much as lies in mine own arm,
Hurl'd down the usurper.-Come death when it will,
I have lived long enough.

BARRERE.

[Shouts without.

Hark! how the noise increases! through the gloom
Of the still evening-harbinger of death,
Rings the tocsin! the dreadful generale
Thunders through Paris-

Enter LECOINTRE.

LECOINTRE.

So may eternal justice blast the foes

Of France! so perish all the tyrant brood,
As Robespierre has perish'd! Citizens,
Cæsar is taken.

[Loud and repeated applauses.
I marvel not, that with such fearless front,
He braved our vengeance, and with angry eye
Scowl'd round the hall defiance. He relied
On Henriot's aid—the Commune's villain friendship,
And Henriot's boughten succors. Ye have heard
llow Henriot rescued him-how with open arms
The Commune welcomed in the rebel tyrant-
How Fleuriot aided, and seditious Vivier
Stirr'd up the Jacobins. All had been lost-
The representatives of France had perish'd-
Freedom had sunk beneath the tyrant arm
Of this foul parricide, but that her spirit
Inspired the men of Paris. Henriot call'd

"To arms" in vain, whilst Bourdon's patriot voice
Breathed eloquence, and o'er the Jacobins
Legendre frown'd dismay. The tyrants fled-
They reach'd the Hotel. We gather'd round-we

call'd

Rush'd o'er her frontiers, plunder'd her fair hamlets And sack'd her populous towns, and drench'd with

blood

The reeking fields of Flanders.-When within,
Upon her vitals prey'd the rankling tooth
Of treason; and oppression, giant form,
Trampling on freedom, left the alternative
Of slavery, or of death. Even from that day,
When, on the guilty Capet, I pronounced
The doom of injured France, has Faction rear'd
Her hated head amongst us. Roland preach'd
Of mercy-the uxorious dotard Roland.
The woman-govern'd Roland durst aspire
To govern France; and Petion talk'd of virtue,
And Vergniaud's eloquence, like the honey'd tongue
Of some soft Syren, wooed us to destruction.
We triumph'd over these. On the same scaffold
Where the last Louis pour'd his guilty blood,
Fell Brissot's head, the womb of darksome treasons,
And Orleans, villain kinsman of the Capet,
And Hebert's atheist crew, whose maddening hand
Hurl'd down the altars of the living God,
With all the infidel's intolerance.
The last worst traitor triumph'd-triumph'd long,
Secured by matchless villany. By turns
Defending and deserting each accomplice
As interest prompted. In the goodly soil
Of Freedom, the foul tree of treason struck
Its deep-fix'd roots, and dropt the dews of death
On all who slumber'd in its specious shade
He wove the web of treachery. He caught
The listening crowd by his wild eloquence,
His cool ferocity, that persuaded murder,
Even whilst it spake of mercy!-Never, never
Shall this regenerated country wear
The despot yoke. Though myriads round assail,
And with worse fury urge this new crusade
Than savages have known; though the leagued
despots

Depopulate all Europe, so to pour

The accumulated mass upon our coasts,
Sublime amid the storm shall France arise,
And like the rock amid surrounding waves
Repel the rushing ocean.-She shall wield
The thunderbolt of vengeance-she shall blast
The despot's pride, and liberate the world!
221

29

LOVE.*

ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking drearns do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay

Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy,

My own dear Genevieve!

She leant against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight; She stood and listen'd to my lay,

Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own.

his piece may be found, as originally published, under anwther title at page 28.

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 that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night;

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 that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserabie Knight!

And that, unknowing what he did,
He leap'd amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land!

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
And how she tended him in vain-
And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain.
And that 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 tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrill'd my guiltless Genevieve;
The music 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 virgin shame;
And like the murmur of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved-she stept aside, As conscious of my look she stepp'dThen suddenly, with timorous eye

She fled 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.

Twas 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.

DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE,

THE ONLY SURE FRIEND OF DECLINING LIFE.

A SOLILOQUY.

UNCHANGED within to see all changed without, Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. Yet why at others' warnings shouldst thou fret? Then only mightst thou feel a just regret, Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light In selfish forethought of neglect and slight. O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed, While, and on whom, thou mayest-shine on! nor heed Whether the object by reflected light Return thy radiance or absorb it quite; And though thou notest from thy safe recess

Old Friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air, Love them for what they are: nor love them less, Because to thee they are not what they were.

PHANTOM OR FACT?

A DIALOGUE IN VERSE.

AUTHOR.

A LOVELY form there sate beside my bed,
And such a feeding calm its presence shed,
A tender love so pure from earthly leaven
That I unnethe the fancy might control,
"T was my own spirit newly come from heaven
Wooing its gentle way into my soul!

But ah! the change-It had not stirr'd, and yet—
Alas! that change how fain would I forget!
That shrinking back, like one that had mistook!
That weary, wandering, disavowing Look!
Twas all another, feature, look, and frame,
And still, methought, I knew it was the same!

Or rather say at once, within what space
Of time this wild disastrous change took place?

AUTHOR.

Call it a moment's work (and such it seems), This tale's a fragment from the life of dreams; But say, that years matured the silent strife, And 'tis a record from the dream of Life.

WORK WITHOUT HOPE.

LINES COMPOSED 21ST FEBRUARY, 1827.

ALL Nature seems at work. Stags leave their lair-
The bees are stirring-Birds are on the wing-
And Winter, slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul!
Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And hope without an object cannot live.

YOUTH AND AGE.

VERSE, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!

When I was young?-Ah, woful when!
Ah for the change 'twixt now and then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flash'd along:-
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,

That ask no aid of sail or oar,

That fear no spite of wind or tide!

Nought cared this body for wind or weather

When Youth and I lived in't together

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like,
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O the joys, that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
"Tis known, that thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit-
It cannot be, that thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:-
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on.
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this alter'd size:

But springtide blossoms on thy lips,

And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought: so think I will
That youth and I are house-mates still.

What outward form and feature are

He guesseth but in part;
But what within is good and fair
He seeth with the heart.

A DAY DREAM.

My eyes make pictures, when they are shut :-
I see a fountain, large and fair,

A willow and a ruin'd hut,

And thee, and me, and Mary there. O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow!

Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow!

A wild-rose roofs the ruin'd shed,

And that and summer well agree:
And lo! where Mary leans her head,

Two dear names carved upon the tree!
And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow:
Our sister and our friend will both be here to-morrow.

"T was day! But now few, large, and bright, The stars are round the crescent moon! And now it is a dark warm night,

The balmiest of the month of June!

A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting Shines, and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain.

O ever-ever be thou blest!

For dearly, Asra! love I thee! This brooding warmth across my breast, This depth of tranquil bliss-ah me! Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither, But in one quiet room we three are still together.

The shadows dance upon the wall,

By the still dancing fire-flames made;
And now they slumber, moveless all!

And now they melt to one deep shade!

But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee: I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee!

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play-
"Tis Mary's hand upon my brow!
But let me check this tender lay,

Which none may hear but she and thou! Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women!

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE LAST WORDS OF BERENGARIUS.

OB. ANNO DOM. 1088.

No more 'twixt conscience staggering and the Pope,
Soon shall I now before my God appear,
By him to be acquitted, as I hope;
By him to be condemned, as I fear,

REFLECTIONS ON THE ABOVE.

Lynx amid moles! had I stood by thy bed,
Be of good cheer, meek soul! I would have said.
I see a hope spring from that humble fear.
All are not strong alike through storms to steer
Right onward. What though dread of threaten'd
death

And dungeon torture made thy hand and breath
Inconstant to the truth within thy heart?

That truth, from which, through fear, thou twice didst start,

Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife,
Or not so vital as to claim thy life:

And myriads had reach'd Heaven, who never knew
Where lay the difference 'twixt the false and true!

Ye who, secure 'mid trophies not your own,
Judge him who won them when he stood alone,
And proudly talk of recreant BERENGARE-
O first the age, and then the man compare!
That age how dark! congenial minds how rare!
No host of friends with kindred zeal did burn'
No throbbing hearts awaited his return!
Prostrate alike when prince and peasant fell,
He only disenchanted from the spell,

Like the weak worm that gems the starless night,
Moved in the scanty circlet of his light:
And was it strange if he withdrew the ray
That did but guide the night-birds to their prey!

The ascending Day-star with a bolder eye
Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn!
Yet not for this, if wise, will we decry
The spots and struggles of the timid DAWN!
Lest so we tempt th' approaching Noox to scorn
The mists and painted vapors of our MORN.

TO A LADY,

THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS

HAVE NO SOULS.

NAY, dearest Anna! why so grave?
I said, you had no soul, 'tis true!

For what you are you cannot have:

"Tis I, that have one since I first had you!

I HAVE heard of reasons manifold Why Love must needs be blind, But this the best of all I holdHis eyes are in his mind

A-walking the DEVIL is gone,

To visit his little snug farm of the earth, And see how his stock went on.

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.

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.

He went into a rich bookseller's shop, Quoth he! we are both of one college; For I myself sate like a cormorant once Fast by the tree of knowledge.*

Down the river there plied with wind and tide,
A pig, with vast celerity;

And the Devil look'd wise as he saw how the while,

it cut its own throat. There! quoth he, with a smile, Goes "England's commercial prosperity."

As he went through Cold-Bath Fields, he saw
A solitary cell,

And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint
For improving his prisons in Hell.

CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT.
SINCE all, that beat about in Nature's range,
Or veer or vanish, why shouldst thou remain
The only constant in a world of change-
O yearning THOUGHT, that livest but in the brain?
Call to the HOURS, that in the distance play,
The fairy people of the future day——
Fond THOUGHT! not one of all that shining swarm
Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath,
Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm,
Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!
Yet still thou haunt'st me; and though well I see,
She is not thou, and only thou art she,

Still, still as though some dear embodied good,
Some living love before my eyes there stood,
With answering look a ready ear to lend,

I mourn to thee and say-" Ah! loveliest friend'
That this the meed of all my toils might be,
To have a home, an English home and thee!
Vain repetition! Home and thou art one.
The peacefull'st cot the moon shall shine upon,
Lull'd by the thrush and waken'd by the lark,
Without thee were but a becalmed Bark,

Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide
Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside.

And art thou nothing? Such thou art, as when
The woodman winding westward up the glen
At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze
The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze,
Sees full before him, gliding without tread,
An imaget with a glory round its head;
The enamour'd rustic worships its fair hues,
Nor knows, he makes the shadow he pursues!

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, Karyny, may be regarded as Life sansu 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 Dobis mellificamus Apes.

Of this poem, with which the Fire, Famine and Slaughter first appeared in the Morning Post, the three first stanzas, which are worth all the rest, and the ninth, were dictated by Mr. Southey. Between the ninth and the concluding stanza, two or three are omitted as grounded on subjects that have lost their interest-and for better reasons.

If any one should ask, who General meant, the Author beg 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

THE SUICIDE'S ARGUMENT.

ERE the birth of my life, if I wish'd it or no
No question was ask'd me-it could not be so!
If the life was the question, a thing sent to try,
And to live on be YES; what can No be? to die.

NATURE'S ANSWER.

Is't return'd as 't was sent? Is 't no worse for the wear?
Think first, what you ARE! Call to mind what you
WERE!

I gave you innocence, I gave you hope,
Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope.
Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair?
Make out the Invent'ry; inspect, compare!
Then die-if die you dare!

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.

†This phenomenon, which the Author has himself experienced, and of which the reader may find a description in one of the earlier volumes of the Manchester Philosophical Transactions, is applied figuratively in the following passage of the Aids to Reflection:

on different characters, holds equally true of Genius: as many "Pindar's fine remark respecting the different effects of music as are not delighted by it are disturbed, perplexed, irritated. The beholder either recognizes it as a projected form of his own Being, that moves before him with a Glory round its head, or recoils from it as a spectre."-Aids to Reflection, p. 220