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Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood
S late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale,
With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise, I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise : She spake ! not sadder moans the autumnal gale
Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name, Ere in an evil hour with altered voice Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice Blasting with wizard spell my laurelled fame. Yet never, Burke! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl! Thee stormy Pity and the cherished lure Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul Wildered with meteor fires. Ah, Spirit pure! That error's mist had left thy purged eye: So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy !"
SONNET III THOUGH roused by that dark Vizir Riot rude
Have driven our Priestly o'er the ocean swell; Though Superstition and her wolfish brood Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell; Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell! For lo! Religion at his strong behest Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell, And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest,
Her mitred state and cumbrous
WHEN British Freedom for a happier land
Spread her broad wings, that fluttered with
IT was some Spirit, Sheridan! that breathed
O'er thy young mind such wildly various power ! My soul hath marked thee in her shaping hour, Thy temples with Hymettian flow'rets wreathed :
And sweet thy voice, as when o’er Laura's bier
O WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there, As though a thousand souls one death.groan
poured! Ah me! they saw beneath a hireling's sword Their Kosciusko fall! Through the swart air (As pauses the tired Cossack's barbarous yell Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell The dirge of murdered Hope! while Freedom pale Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier, As if from eldest time some Spirit meek Had gathered in a mystic urn each tear That ever on a Patriot's furrowed cheek Fit channel found, and she had drained the bowl In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!
| SONNET VII. AS
S when far off the warbled strains are heard
That soar on Morning's wing the vales among, Within his cage the imprisoned matin bird Swells the full chorus with a generous song: He bathes no pinion in the dewy light, No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares, Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight: His fellows' freedom soothes the captive's cares! Thou, Fayette! who didst wake with startling voice Life's better sun from that long wintry night, Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice, And mock with raptures high the dungeon's might: For lo! the morning strugyles into day, And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the
Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam
PALE Roamer through the night! thou poor
To see thee, poor Old Man and thy grey hairs
young man's arm ! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.