Hither, in perplexed dance,
Ye WOES, and young-eyed Joys, advance!
By Time's wild harp, and by the Hand
Whose indefatigable Sweep
Forbids its fateful strings to sleep,
I bid you haste, a mixt tumultuous band!
From every private bower,
And each domestic hearth,
Haste for one solemn hour;
And with a loud and yet a louder voice
O'er the sore travail of the common earth
Weep and rejoice!
Seiz'd in sore travail and portentous birth
(Her eye-balls flashing a pernicious glare)
Sick NATURE struggles! Hark-her pangs increase!
Her groans are horrible! But O! most fair
The promis'd Twins, she bears—EQUALITY and Peace!
EPODE
I mark'd Ambition in his war-array:
I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry--
"Ah! whither [wherefore] does the Northern Conqueress stay? Groans not her Chariot o'er its onward way ?
Fly, mailed Monarch, fly!
Stunn'd by Death's "twice mortal
No more on MURDER'S lurid face
Th' insatiate Hag shall glote with drunken eye!
Manes of th' unnumbered Slain !
Ye that gasp'd on WARSAW's plain !
Ye that erst at ISMAIL'S tower,
When human Ruin chok'd the streams,
Fell in Conquest's glutted hour
Mid Women's shrieks, and Infants' screams;
Whose shrieks, whose screams were vain to stir
Loud-laughing, red-eyed Massacre !
Spirits of th' uncoffin'd Slain,
Sudden blasts of Triumph swelling
Oft at night, in misty train
Rush around her narrow Dwelling!
Th' exterminating Fiend is fled
(Foul her Life and dark her Doom!)
Mighty Army of the Dead,
Dance, like Death-fires, round her Tomb!
Then with prophetic song relate
Each some scepter'd Murderer's fate!
When shall scepter'd SLAUGHTER cease?
Awhile He crouch'd, O Victor France!
Beneath the light'ning of thy Lance,
With treacherous dalliance wooing PEACE.
But soon up-springing from his dastard trance
The boastful, bloody Son of Pride betray'd
His hatred of the blest and blessing Maid.
One cloud, O Freedom! cross'd thy orb of Light
And sure, he deem'd, that Orb was quench'd in night:
For still does MADNESS roam on GUILT'S bleak dizzy height!
Departing YEAR! 'twas on no earthly shore
My Soul beheld thy Vision. Where, alone,
Voiceless and stern, before the Cloudy Throne
Aye MEMORY Sits; there, garmented with gore,
With many an unimaginable groan
Thou storiedst thy sad Hours! Silence ensued:
Deep Silence o'er th' etherial Multitude,
Whose purple Locks with snow-white Glories shone.
Then, his eye wild ardors glancing,
From the choired Gods advancing,
The SPIRIT of the EARTH made reverence meet
And stood up beautiful before the Cloudy Seat!
On every Harp, on every Tongue
While the mute Enchantment hung;
Like Midnight from a thundercloud,
Spake the sudden SPIRIT loud-
"Thou in stormy blackness throning
"Love and uncreated Light,
By the Earth's unsolac'd groaning "Seize thy terrors, Arm of Might!
By Belgium's corse-impeded flood!
"By Vendee steaming Brother's blood!
"By PEACE with proffer'd insult scar'd,
"Masked hate, and envying scorn!
66 By Tears of Havoc yet unborn;
"And Hunger's bosom to the frost-winds bar'd!
"But chief by Afric's wrongs
"Strange, horrible, and foul!
By what deep Guilt belongs
"To the deaf Synod, 'full of gifts and lies!'
"By Wealth's insensate Laugh! By Torture's Howl! Avenger, rise!
"For ever shall the bloody Island scowl?
"For aye unbroken, shall her cruel Bow
"Shoot Famine's arrows o'er thy ravag'd World?
"Hark! how wide NATURE joins her groans below
"Rise, God of Nature, rise! Why sleep thy Bolts unhurl'd?"
The Voice had ceas'd, the Phantoms fled,
Yet still I gasp'd and reel'd with dread.
And even when the dream of night
Renews the vision to my sight,
Cold sweat-damps gather on my limbs,
My Ears throb hot, my eye-balls start,
My Brain with horrid tumult swims,
Wild is the Tempest of my Heart;
And my thick and struggling breath
Imitates the toil of Death!
No uglier agony confounds
The Soldier on the war-field spread,
When all foredone with toil and wounds
Death-like he dozes among heaps of Dead!
(The strife is o'er, the day-light fled,
And the Night-wind clamours hoarse;
See the startful Wretch's head
Lies pillow'd on a Brother's Corse!)
O doom'd to fall, enslav'd and vile,
O ALBION! O my mother Isle!
Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers,
Glitter green with sunny showers;
Thy grassy Upland's gentle Swells
Echo to the Bleat of Flocks;
(Those grassy Hills, those glitt'ring Dells
Proudly ramparted with rocks)
And Ocean 'mid his uproar wild
Speaks safely to his Island-child.
Hence for many a fearless age
Has social Quiet lov'd thy shore;
Nor ever sworded Foeman's rage
Or sack'd thy towers, or stain'd thy fields with gore.
Disclaim'd of Heaven! mad Av'rice at thy side,
At coward distance, yet with kindling pride-
Safe 'mid thy herds and corn-fields thou hast stood,
And join'd the yell of Famine and of Blood.
All nations curse thee: and with eager wond'ring
Shall hear DESTRUCTION like a vulture, scream!
Strange-eyed DESTRUCTION, who with many a dream
Of central flames thro' nether seas upthund'ring
Soothes her fierce solitude, yet (as she lies
Stretch'd on the marge of some fire-flashing fount
In the black chamber of a sulphur'd mount,)
If ever to her lidless dragon eyes,
O ALBION ! thy predestin'd ruins rise,
The Fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap, Mutt'ring distemper'd triumph in her charmed sleep.
Appendix
Away, my soul, away!
In vain, in vain, the birds of warning sing-
And hark! I hear the famin'd brood of prey
Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind!
Away, my Soul, away!
I unpartaking of the evil thing,
With daily prayer, and daily toil
Soliciting my scant and blameless soil,
Have wail'd my country with a loud lament.
Now I recenter my immortal mind
In the long sabbath of high self-content;
Cleans'd from the fleshly Passions that bedim
God's Image, Sister of the Seraphim.
WITHER'S “SUPERSEDEAS TO ALL THEM, WHOSE CUSTOME IT IS, WITHOUT ANY DESERVING, TO IMPORTUNE AUTHORS TO GIVE UNTO THEM THEIR BOOKES"
FROM A COLLECTION OF EMBLEMS, 1635
(See Letter 35, page 123)
T merits not your Anger, nor my Blame,
That, thus I have inscrib'd this Epigram:
For, they who know me, know, that, Bookes thus large,
And, fraught with Emblems, do augment the Charge
Too much above my Fortunes, to afford
A Gift so costly, for an Aierie-word:
And, I have prov'd, your Begging-Qualitie,
So forward, to oppresse my Modestie;
That, for my future ease, it seemeth fit,
To take some Order, for preventing it.
And, peradventure, other Authors may,
Find Cause to thanke me for't, another day.
These many years, it hath your Custom bin,
That, when in my possession, you have seene
A Volume, of mine owne, you did no more,
But, Aske and Take; As if you thought my store
Encreast, without my Cost; And, that, by Giving,
(Both Paines and Charges too) I got my living;
Or, that, I find the Paper and the Printing,
As easie to me, as the Bookes Inventing.
If, of my Studies, no esteeme you have,
You, then abuse the Courtesies you crave;
And, are Unthankfull. If you prize them ought,
Why should my Labour, not enough be thought,
Unlesse, I adde Expences to my paines?
The Stationer, affoords for little Gaines,
The Bookes you crave: And, He, as well as I
Might give away, what you repine to buy:
For, what hee Gives, doth onely Mony Cost,
In mine, both Mony, Time, and Wit is lost.
What I shall Give, and what I have bestow'd
On Friends, to whom, I Love, or Service ow'd,
I grudge not; And, I thinke it is from them,
Sufficient, that such Gifts they do esteeme :
Yea, and, it is a Favour too, when they
Will take these Trifles, my large Dues to pay;
(Or, Aske them at my hands, when I forget,
That, I am to their Love, so much in debt.)
But, this inferres not, that, I should bestow
The like on all men, who, my Name do know;
Or, have the Face to aske: For, then, I might,
Of Wit and Mony, soone be begger'd, quite.
So much, already, hath beene Beg'd away,
(For which, I neither had, nor looke for pay)
As being valu'd at the common Rate,
Had rais'd, Five hundred Crownes, in my Estate.
Which, (if I may confesse it) signifies,
That, I was farre more Liberall, than Wise.
But, for the time to come, resolv'd I am,
That, till without denyall (or just blame)
I may of those, who Cloth and Clothes do make,
(As oft as I shall need them) Aske, and Take;
You shall no more befoole me. Therfore, Pray
Be Answer'd; And, henceforward, keepe away.
PASSAGE FROM GEORGE DYER'S "POETIC SYMPATHIES"
FROM POEMS, 1800
(See Letter 83, page 218)
ET, Muse of Shakspeare,1 whither wouldst thou fly,
With hurried step, and dove-like trembling eye?
Thou, as from heav'n, that couldst each grace dispense,
Fancy's rich stream, and all the stores of sense;
Give to each virtue face and form divine,
Make dulness feel, and vulgar souls refine,
1It is not meant to say, that even Shakspeare followed invariably a correct and chastized taste, or that he never purchased public applause by offering incense at the shrine of public taste. Voltaire, in his Essays on Dramatic Poetry, has carried the matter too far; but in many respects
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