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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 fires thro' nether seas upthund'ring Soothes her fierce solitude; yet, as she lies

By livid fount, or roar of blazing stream,
If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes,
O Albion ! thy predestin'd ruins rise,

* The Poet from having considered the peculiar advantages which this country has enjoyed, passes in rapid transition to the uses which we have made of these advantages. We have been preserved by our insular situation, from suffering the actual horrors of war ourselves, and we have shown our gratitude to Providence, for this immunity by our eagerness to spread those horrors over nations less happily situated. In the midst of plenty and safety we have raised or joined the yell for famine and blood. Of the one hundred and seven last years, fifty have been years of war. Such wickedness cannot pass unpunished. We have been proud and confident in our alliances and our fleets—but God has prepared the canker-worm, and will smite the gourds of our pride. “ Art thou better than populous No, that was situate among the rivers, that had the waters round about it, whose rampart was the sea ? Ethiopia and Egypt were her strength, and it was infinite; Put and Lubin were her helpers. Yet she was carried away, she went into captivity; and they cast lots for her honourable men, and all her great men were bound in chains. Thou also shalt be drunken; all thy strong-holds shall be like fig trees with the first ripe figs; if they be shaken, they shall ever fall into the mouth of the eater. Thou hast multiplied thy merchants above the stars of heaven. Thy cowned are as the locusts; and thy captains as the great grasshoppers which camp in the hedges in the cool-day ; but when the sun ariseth they flee away, and their place is not known where they are. There is no healing of thy bruise; thy wound is grievous; all that hear the report of thee, shall clap the hands over thee; for upon whom hath not thy wickedness passed continually ?" -NAHUM, CHAP. II.

The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap, Mutt'ring distemper'd triumph in her charmed sleep.

Away, my soul, away!
In vain, in vain, the birds of warning sing-
And hark! I hear the famish'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 for food my scanty soil,
Have wail'd my country with a loud lament.
Now I recentre my immortal mind

In the deep sabbath of blest self-content;
Cleans'd from the fears and anguish that bedim
God's image, sister of the Seraphim.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON.

When faint and sad o'er Sorrow's desart wild
Slow journeys onward poor Misfortune's child ;
When fades each lovely form by fancy dress’d,
And inly pines the self-consuming breast;
(No scourge of scorpions in thy right arm dread,
No helmet terrors nodding o'er thy head,)
Assume, O Death! the cherub wings of Peace,
And bid the heart-sick wanderer's anguish cease!

Thee, CHATTERTON! yon unblest stones protect
From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect !
Escap'd the sore wounds of affliction's rod
Meek at the throne of mercy, and of God,
Perchance, thou raisest high th' enraptur'd hymn

Amid the blaze of Seraphim !

Yet oft ('tis nature's call)
I weep, that heaven-born genius so should fall ;
And oft, in fancy's saddest hour, my soul
Averted shudders at the poison'd bowl.
Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view

Thy corse of livid hue:
And now a flash of indignation high
Darts thro' the tear, that glistens in mine eye!

Is this the land of song-ennobled line?
Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain

Pour'd forth his lofty strain ?
Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,
Beneath chill disappointment's shade,
His weary limbs in lonely anguish lay'd :

And o'er her darling dead

Pity hopeless hung her head, While “mid the pelting of that merciless storm," Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famish'd form!

Sublime of thought, and confident of fame,
From vales where Avon winds the Minstrel* came.

Light-hearted youth! he hastes along,

And meditates the future song,
How dauntless Ælla fray'd the Dacyan foes ;

See, as floating high in air

Glitter the sunny visions fair,
His eyes dance rapture, and his bosom glows !

Yes! clad in nature's rich array, And bright in all her tender hues, Sweet tree of hope! thou loveliest child of spring Most fair didst thou disclose thine early bloom, * Avon, a river near Bristol, the birth-place of Chatterton.

Loading the west-winds with its soft perfume !
And fancy, elfin form of gorgeous wing,
On every blossom hung her fostering dews,

That, changeful, wonton'd to the orient day!
But soon upon thy poor unshelter'd head
Did penury her sickly mildew shed.
And soon the scathing Light’ning bade thee stand
In frowning horror o'er the blighted land !

Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace,
And Joy's wild gleams, light-flashing o'er thy face?

Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye !
Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view,
On thy cold forehead starts the anguish'd dew :
And dreadful was that bosom-rending sigh!
Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour,

When Care, of wither'd brow,
Prepar'd the poison's power :
Already to thy lips was rais’d the bowl,

When near thee stood Affection meek

(Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek)
Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll
On scenes that well might melt thy soul;
Thy native cat she flash'd upon thy view,
Thy native cot, where still, at close of day,
Peace smiling sate, and listen'd to thy lay ;
'Thy Sister's shrieks she bade thee hear,
And mark thy Mother's tear ;

See, see her breast's convulsive throe,

Her silent agony of woe!
Ah! dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand !

And thou had'st dash'd it, at her soft command,

But that Despair and Indignation rose,
And told again the story of thy woes ;

Told the keen insult of th' unfeeling heart;

The dread dependence on the low-born mind ; Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart,

Neglect, and grinning Scorn, and Want combin'd! Recoiling quick, thou bad'st the friend of pain Roll the black tide of Death thro' every freezing

vein!

Ye woods! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep,
To Fancy's ear sweet is your murm'ring deep !
For here she loves the cypress wreath to weave;
Watching, with wistful eye, the sad’ning tints of eve.
Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove,
In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove,
Like star-beam on the slow sequester'd tide
Lone-glittering, thro' the high tree branching wide.
And here, in Inspiration's eager hour,
When most the big soul feels the mad’ning pow'r,
These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er,
Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar,
With wild unequal steps he pass'd along,
Oft pouring on the winds a broken song:
Anon, upon some rough rocks fearful brow
Would pause abrupt—and gaze upon the waves below.

Poor Chatterton! he sorrows for thy fate
Who would have prais’d and lov'd thee, ere too late.
Poor Chatterton! farewell ! of darkest hues

This chaplet cast I on thy unshap'd tomb;
But dare no longer on the sad theme muse,

Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom.
For oh! big gall-drops, shook from Folly's wing,
Have blacken'd the fair promise of my spring;
And the stern Fate transpierc'd with viewless dart
The last pale Hope, that shiver'd at my heart !

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