Obrazy na stronie

His slumbers are but varied agonies;
They prey like scorpions on the springs of life.
There needeth not the hell that bigots frame
To punish those who err : earth in itself
Contains at once the evil and the cure;
And all-sufficing Nature can chastise
Those who transgress her law,—she only knows
How justly to proportion to the fault
The punishment it merits.

Is it strange
That this poor wretch should pride him in his woe,
Take pleasure in his abjectness, and hug
The scorpion that consumes him? Is it strange
That, placed on a conspicuous throne of thorns,
Grasping an iron sceptre, and immured
Within a splendid prison, whose stern bounds
Shut him from all that's good or dear on earth,
His soul asserts not its humanity ?

hat man's mild nature rises not in war
Against a king's employ? No-'tis not strange:

s like the vulgar, thinks, feels, acts, and lives
Just as his father did ; the unconquered powers
of precedent and custom interpose
etween a king and virtue. Stranger yet

those who know not nature, nor deduce
e future from the present) it may seem

not one slave who suffers from the crimes
his unnatural being, not one wretch
ose children famish, and whose nuptial bed

th's unpitying bosom, rears an arm
dash him from his throne !

Those gilded flies , basking in the sunshine of a court, non its corruption—what are they? drones of the community. They feed e mechanic's Tabour ; the starved hind

em compels the stubborn glebe to yield Shared harvests; and yon squalid form, er than fleshless misery, that wastes pless life in the unwholesome mine, sout in labour a protracted death

That not one sla

Whose children
Is earth's unpitying

Fatten on its co
The drones of the
On the mechanic
For them compe
Its unshared har
Leaner than ile:
A sunless life
Drags out in


To glut their grandeur; many faint with toil,
That few may know the cares and woe of sloth.

Whence think'st thou kings and parasites arose ?
Whence that unnatural line of drones, who heap
Toil and unvanquishable penury
On those who build their palaces, and bring
Their daily bread ?-From vice, black loathsome vice;
From rapine, madness, treachery, and wrong;
From all that genders misery, and makes
Of earth this thorny wilderness ; from lust,
Revenge, and murder.–And, when Reason's voice,
Loud as the voice of Nature, shall have waked
The nations; and mankind perceive that vice
Is discord, war, and misery-that virtue
Is peace, and happiness, and harmony;
When man's maturer nature shall disdain
The playthings of its childhood ; kingly glare
Will lose its power to dazzle ; its authority
Will silently pass by ; the gorgeous throne
Shall stand unnoticed in the regal hall,
Fast falling to decay; whilst falsehood's trade
Shall be as hateful and unprofitable
As that of truth is now.

Where is the fame
Which the vainglorious mighty of the earth
Seek to eternize? Oh! the faintest sound
From Time's light footfall, the minutest wave
That swells the flood of ages, whelms in nothing
The unsubstantial bubble! Ay! to-day
Stern is the tyrant's mandate, red the gaze
That flashes desolation, strong the arm
That scatters multitudes. To-morrow comes :
That mandate is a thunder-peal that died
In ages past ; that gaze, a transient flash
On which the midnight closed; and on that arm
The worm has made his meal.

The virtuous man,
As great in his humility as kings
Are little in their grandeur; he who leads
Invincibly a life of resolute good,
And stands amid the silent dungeon-depths

More free and fearless than the trembling judge
Who, clothed in venal power, vainly strove
To bind the impassive spirit ;-when he falls,
His mild eye beams benevolence no more;
Withered the hand outstretched but to relieve;
Sunk reason's simple eloquence, that rolled
But to appal the guilty. Yes, the grave
Hath quenched that eye, and death's relentless frost
Withered that arm : but the unfading fame
Which virtue hangs upon its votary's tomb;
The deathless memory of that man whom kings
Call to their mind and tremble; the remembrance
With which the happy spirit contemplates
Its well-spent pilgrimage on earth,

Shall never pass away.


Nature rejects the monarch, not the man;
The subject, not the citizen : for kings
And subjects, mutual soes, for ever play

losing game into each other's hands,

hose stakes are vice and misery. The man Of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys. Power, like a desolating pestilence,

lutes whate'er it touches ; and obedience, ne of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth,

kes slaves of men, and of the human frame A mechanized automaton.

When Nero
ligh over flaming Rome with savage joy

red like a fiend, drank with enraptured ear
shrieks of agonizing death, beheld
frightful desolation spread, and felt
W-created sense within his soul

to the sight, and vibrate to the sound;
s'st thou his grandeur had not overcome
force of human kindness? and, when Rome

one stern blow hurled not the tyrant down,
shed not the arm red with her dearest blood,

not submissive abjectness destroyed ure's suggestions?

Look on yonder earth : golden harvests spring; the unfailing sun


The frightful d
A new-created
Thrill to the sig
Think'st thou
The force of
With one ster
Crushed not the
Had not subml
Nature's sug

The golder

Sheds light and life; the fruits, the flowers, the trees,
Arise in due succession ; all things speak
Peace, harmony, and love. The Universe,
In nature's silent eloquence, declares
That all fulfil the works of love and joy,-
All but the outcast, Man. He fabricates
The sword which stabs his peace ; he cherisheth
The snakes that gnaw his heart; he raiseth up
The tyrant whose delight is in his woe,
Whose sport is in his agony. Yon sun,
Lights it the great alone? Yon silver beams,
Sleep they less sweetly on the cottage thatch
Than on the dome of kings? Is mother Earth
A step-dame to her numerous sons who earn
Her unshared gifts with unremitting toil ;
A mother only to those puling babes
Who, nursed in ease and luxury, make men
The playthings of their babyhood, and mar,
In self-important childishness, the peace
· Which men alone appreciate ?

Spirit of Nature ! no !
The pure diffusion of thy essence throbs
Alike in every human heart.

Thou aye erectest there
Thy throne of power unappealable:

Thou art the judge beneath whose nod
Man's brief and frail authority

Is powerless as the wind

That passeth idly by :
Thine the tribunal which surpasseth

The show of human justice
As God surpasses man.

Spirit of Nature ! thou
Life of interminable multitudes;

Soul of those mighty spheres
Whose changeless paths through heaven's deep silence lie;

Soul of that smallest being
The dwelling of whose life
Is one faint April sun-gleam;
Man, like these passive things,
Thy will unconsciously fulfilleth :

Like theirs, his age of endless peace,

Which time is fast maturing,

Will swiftly, surely, come;
And the unbounded frame which thou pervadest

Will be without a flaw
Marring its perfect symmetry.


How beautiful this night! The balmiest sigh
Which vernal Zephyrs breathe in Evening's ear
Were discord to the speaking quietude
That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault,
Studded with stars unutterably bright,
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which Love has spread
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow;
Yon darksome rocks whence icicles depend,
So stainless that their white and glittering spires
Tinge not the moon's pure beam ; yon castled steep
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly that rapt fancy deemeth it
A metaphor of peace ;-all form a scene
Where musing Solitude might love to lift
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness,
Where Silence undisturbed might watch alone, -
So cold, so bright, so still.

The orb of day,
In southern climes, o'er ocean's waveless field
Sinks sweetly smiling : not the faintest breath
Steals o'er the unruffled deep; the clouds of eve
Reflect unmoved the lingering beam of day;
And vesper's image on the western main
Is beautifully still. To-morrow comes :
Cloud upon cloud, in dark and deepening mass,
Roll o'er the blackened waters ; the deep roar
Of distant thunder mutters awfully;
Tempest unfolds its pinion o'er the gloom
That shrouds the boiling surge ; the pitiless fiend,
With all his winds and lightnings, tracks his prey ;
The torn deep yawns,—the vessel finds a grave
Beneath its jagged gulf.

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