English

Too long mere words have thralled us. Let us think!
O ponder, are we “free and equal” yet?
That July bombast, writ with blood for ink,
Is blurred with floods of unavailing sweat!

An empty sound we won from Royal George!
Yea, till a greater fight be fought and won,
A sentimental show was Valley Forge,
A mawkish, tawdry farce was Lexington!

No longer blindfold Justice reigns; but leers
A barefaced, venal strumpet in her stead!
The stolen harvests of a hundred years
Are lighter than a stolen loaf of bread!

M ADAM

Accept this Billetdoux;
'Tis meant in earnest, and to you — —
Believe for once what's writ in Rhime,
And pardon my presumptuous Crime.

The Proverb says, 'Tis wrong to sport
With what may give a serious Hurt;
And Men below, and Gods above,
All own th' Omnipotence of Love — —
Love, long the Subject of my Jest,
But now the Tyrant of my Breast,
But now enabled to controul,
As thy Vice-gerent, all my Soul. — —

'Twas at my Aunts one Ev'ning late
Upon thy Knees the Rover sate — —

You knew me of old and feared me,
Dreading my face revealed;
Temples and altars you reared me,
Wooed me with shuddering names;
Masking your fear in meekness,
You pæaned the doom I wield,
Wrought me a robe of your weakness,
A crown of your woven shames.

Image of all earth's error,
Big as the bulk of its guilt,
Lo, I darkled with terror,
A demon of spite and grudge;
You made me a vessel of fury
Brimmed with the blood you spilt;
With devils of hell for jury,
You throned me a pitiless judge.

Fair Lady, take a special Care,
This pleasing Toy become no Snare;
The subtle God is full of Wiles,
And mischieves most, when most he smiles.
Beware to clasp him in your Arms,
Nor gaze too much upon his Charms;
Left in a borrow'd Shape he wound,
As once unhappy Dido found;
For while she view'd his smiling Look,
Her Heart receiv'd a fatal Stroke.

When came the hour that faint love fell asleep,
I crept unto his side
And with both hands I drove the knife in deep —
And thus love died.

Then, far within a cypress forest's shade,
While no sun shone above,
With stealthy haste a secret grave I made,
And laid dead love.

Cold was he then, as winter snows are cold,
His throbbing pulses stilled;
Wan were his eyes that once had been so bold,
His warm heart chilled.

Aye, he was dead — quite dead! — but that same night
I learned what I had lost —

Who rears his country's fair renown,
Shall earn a patriot's lofty praise —
Yes! he shall wear a laurel crown,
And him shall sing the poet's lays;
What prouder fame, what greener bays
Can history offer? — be his meed
Eternal laud within the shrine,
Lighted by glory's lamp divine,
That every triumph, every deed
Thro everlasting years may shine.

Zizka! Bohemia's chief — arise!
Of murdered Hus th' avenger thou!
Thou hast o'erwhelm'd thine enemies
In the fierce battle-field; and now

Death stalketh through the land,
And with unsparing hand,
He smiteth one and all incuriously.
Or prince in palace hall,
Or humble slave in thrall,
From high and low he taketh his grim fee.

But from his heaven above
God sendeth mortals love,
To give sweet solace for all suffering:
And long as love shall reign
Foul death may rage in vain —
For love and love alone, shall be our king!

At first in Vales obscure, the Lyre I strung;
Vales, where the Muse her annual Labours sung:
Now, leaving these, she ranges o'er the Plains,
And tunes her Voice to Flocks and Shepherd Swains;
Yet, fresh in Grief, but feebly moves her Wings,
Weeps, while she flies; and trembles as she sings.

Two Country Swains, in Friendship firmly join'd;
Lov'd each alike, and were, like Brothers, kind:
Great C AROLINE her Royal Bounty show'd
To one, and rais'd him from the grov'ling Crowd;

I have stood and watched the Eagle soar into the Sun,
And envied him his swift light-cleaving pinion;
And, though I may not soar, at least I may
Lift up my feet above the encumbering clay.

There be three things real in all the earth:
Mother-love, Death, and a Little Child's mirth.