XIII. TO THE MEN OF KENT.
VANGUARD of Liberty, ye Men of Kent,
Ye children of a soil that doth advance
Her haughty brow against the coast of France, Now is the time to prove your hardiment! To France be words of invitation sent! They from their fields can see the countenance Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance, And hear you shouting forth your brave intent. Left single, in bold parley, Ye, of yore, Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath; Confirmed the charters that were yours before ;- No parleying now! In Britain is one breath; We all are with you now from shore to shore :— Ye Men of Kent, 'tis Victory or Death!
XIV. IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKY, AN INVASION BEING EXPECTED, OCTOBER 1803.
Six thousand Veterans practised in War's game, Tried men, at Killicranky were arrayed
Against an equal host that wore the plaid, Shepherds and Herdsmen.-Like a whirlwind came The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like flame; And Garry, thundering down his mountain road, Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath the load Of the dead bodies.-'Twas a day of shame For them whom precept and the pedantry Of cold mechanic battle do enslave.
O for a single hour of that Dundee, Who on that day the word of onset gave! Like conquest would the Men of England see; And her Foes find a like inglorious grave.
ENGLAND! the time is come when thou should'st wean Thy heart from its emasculating food;
The truth should now be better understood;
Old things have been unsettled; we have seen
Fair seed-time, better harvest might have been But for thy trespasses; and, at this day,
If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa,
Aught good were destined, Thou would'st step between. England! all nations in this charge agree:
But worse, more ignorant in love and hate, Far, far more abject is thine Enemy:
Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight Of thy offences be a heavy weight;
Oh grief, that Earth's best hopes rest all with Thee!
ANOTHER year!-another deadly blow! Another mighty Empire overthrown! And We are left, or shall be left, alone; The last that dare to struggle with the Foe. 'Tis well! from this day forward we shall know That in ourselves our safety must be sought; That by our own right hands it must be wrought, That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low. O Dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer! We shall exult, if they who rule the land Be men who hold its many blessings dear, Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band, Who are to judge of danger which they fear, And honour which they do not understand.
XVII. TO THOMAS CLARKSON, ON THE FINAL PASSING OF THE BILL FOR THE ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE TRADE, MARCH 1807.
CLARKSON! it was an obstinate hill to climb : How toilsome-nay, how dire it was, by Thee Is known, by none, perhaps, so feelingly; But Thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime, Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime, Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat, Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat, First roused thee.-O true yoke-fellow of Time, Duty's intrepid liegeman, see, the palm
Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn! The bloody Writing is for ever torn,
And Thou henceforth shalt have a good man's calm, A great man's happiness; thy zeal shall find Repose at length, firm Friend of human kind!
HERE pause: the poet claims at least this praise, That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope In the worst moment of these evil days; From hope, the paramount duty that Heaven lays, For its own honour, on man's suffering heart. Never may from our souls one truth depart, That an accursed thing it is to gaze
On prosperous Tyrants with a dazzled eye; Nor, touched with due abhorrence of their guilt For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt, And justice labours in extremity,
Forget thy weakness, upon which is built, O wretched Man, the throne of Tyranny!
SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; Camöens soothed with it an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet, whence he blew Soul-animating strains-alas, too few!
NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room, And Hermits are contented with their cells, And Students with their pensive citadels : Maids at the wheel, the Weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy; Bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest Peak of Furness Fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: In truth, the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is: and hence to me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground: Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
PELION and Ossa flourish side by side, Together in immortal books enrolled : His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold; And that inspiring Hill, which "did divide Into two ample horns his forehead wide," Shines with poetic radiance as of old; While not an English Mountain we behold By the celestial Muses glorified.
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds: What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee, Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty Our British Hill is fairer far; he shrouds
His double front among Atlantic clouds,
And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.
XXII. TO THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT.
[Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, Esq., for St. John's College, Cambridge.]
Go, faithful portrait ! and where long hath knelt Margaret, the saintly Foundress, take thy place! And, if Time spare the colours for the grace Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt, Thou, on thy rock reclined, though kingdoms melt And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream, And think and feel as once the Poet felt. Whate'er thy fate, those features have not grown Unrecognised through many a household tear More prompt, more glad to fall than drops of dew By morning shed around a flower half-blown ; Tears of delight, that testified how true To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear!
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