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AN ODE,

to The ASSERTORS OF LIBERTY.

ARISE, arise, arise ! There is blood on the earth that denies ye bread; Be your wounds like eyes To weep for the dead, the dead, the dead. What other grief were it just to pay Your sons, your wives, your brethren, were they; Who said they were slain on the battle day ?

Awaken, awaken, awaken The slave and the tyrant are twin-born foes; Be the cold chains shaken To the dust, where your kindred repose, repose: Their bones in the grave will start and move, When they hear the voices of those they love, Most loud in the holy combat above.

Wave, wave high the banner 1 When Freedom is riding to conquest by : Though the slaves that fan her Be famine and toil, giving sigh for sigh. And ye who attend her imperial car, Lift not your hands in the banded war, But in her defence whose children ye are.

Glory, glory, glory, To those who have greatly suffered and done ! Never name in story Was greater than that which ye shall have won. Conquerors have conquered their foes alone, Whose revenge, pride, and power, they have overthrown: Ride ye, more victorious, over your own.

Bind, bind every brow With crownals of violet, ivy, and pine: Hide the blood-stains now With hues which sweet nature has made divine, Green strength, azure hope, and eternity. But let not the pansy among them be; Ye were injured, and that means memory.

ENGLAND IN 1810.

AN old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn—mud from a muddy
spring,
Rulers, who neither see, nor feel, nor know,
But leech-like to their fainting country cling,
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow,
A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field,—
An army, which liberticide and pre
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield,
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay,+
Religion Christless, Godless—a book sealed ;
A Senate—Time's worst statute unrepealed,
Are graves, from which a glorious Phantom may
Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.

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All overgrown with azure moss and flowers ODE TO THE WEST WIND.o. So sweet, the sense faints picturing them | Thou

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Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, *This poem was conceived and chiefly written in a wood that skirts the Arno, near Florence, and on a day when that tempestuous wind, whose temperature is at once mild and animating, was collecting the vapours which pour down the autumnal rains. They began, as I foresaw, at sunset, with a violent tempest of hail and rain, attended by that magnificent thunder and lightning peculiar to the Cisalpine regions. The phenomenon alluded to at the conclusion of the third stanza is well known to naturalists. The vegetation at the bottom of the sea, of rivers, and of lakes, sympathises with that of the land in the change of seasons, and is consequently influenced by the winds which announce it.

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear !

IV. If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable ! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed
Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud 1
I fall upon the thorns of life I bleed 1

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

W. Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : What if my leaves are falling like its own The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one !

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth ; And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind 1 Be through my lips to unawakened earth

The trumpet of a prophecy 0 wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind

AN EXHORTATION.

CAMELEoNs feed on light and air:
Poets' food is love and fame :
If in this wide world of care
Poets could but find the same
With as little toil as they,
Would they ever change their hue
As the light cameleons do,
Suiting it to every ray
Twenty times a-day !

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oN THE MEDUSA OF LEONARDO DA WINCI,

IN THE FLORENTINE GALLERY.

It lieth, gazing on the midnight sky,
Upon the cloudy mountain peak supine;
Below, far lands are seen tremblingly ;
Its horror and its beauty are divine.
Upon its lips and eyelids seems to lie
Loveliness like a shadow, from which shrine,
Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath,
The agonies of anguish and of death.

Yet it is less the horror than the grace Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone; Whereon the lineaments of that dead face Are graven, till the characters be grown Into itself, and thought no more can trace; 'Tis the melodious hue of beauty thrown Athwart the darkness and the glare of pain, Which humanize and harmonize the strain.

And from its head as from one body grow,
As I J grass out of a watery rock,
Hairs which are vipers, and they curl and flow,
And their long tangles in each other lock,
And with unending involutions show
Their mailed radiance, as it were to mock
The torture and the death within, and saw
The solid air with many a ragged jaw.

And from a stone beside, a poisonous eft
Peeps idly into these Gorgonian eyes;
Whilst in the air a ghastly bat, bereft
Of sense, has flitted with a mad surprise
Out of the cave this hideous light hath cleft,
And he comes hastening like a moth that hies
After a taper; and the midnight sky
Flares, a light more dread than obscurity.

'Tis the tempestuous loveliness of terror;
For from the serpents gleams a brazen glare

Kindled by that inextricable error,
Which makes a thrilling vapour of the air

Become a [ 1 and ever-shifting mirror
Of all the beauty and the terror there—

A woman's countenance, with serpent locks,

Gazing in death on heaven from those wet

rocks.

FLORENCE, 1819.

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