LIBERTY. BY MOIR. I mark'd her childhood on the breezy hill, The vision changed. 'Mid battle's slaughter'd ranks She raised awhile the bleeding warrior's head. Leave pomps to those who need 'em Adorn but man with freedom, And proud he braves The gaudiest slaves, That crawl, where monarchs lead 'em. Moore. MERCY. The quality of Mercy is not strained, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, Shakspeare Mercy. ODE TO MERCY. STROPHE. BY COLLINS. O THOU! Who sittest a smiling bride Wean'st from his fatal grasp the spear, And hidest in wreaths of flowers his bloodless Thou who, amidst the deathful field, By god-like chiefs alone beheld, Oft with thy bosom bare art found, Pleading for him, the youth who sinks to ground: ANTISTROPHE. When he whom e'en our joys provoke, And rush'd in wrath to make our isle his prey: Thy form, from out thy sweet abode, O'ertook him on his blasted road, And stopp'd his wheels, and look'd his rage away I see recoil his sable steeds, That bore him swift to savage deeds, Thy tender melting eyes they own; O maid! for all thy love to Britain shown, To thee we build a roseate bower, Thou, thou shalt rule our queen, and share our monarch's throne. HENRY VI. ON HIS LENITY. BY SHAKSPEARE. My meed hath got me fame, I have not stopp'd my ears to their demands, Nor posted off their suits with slow delays; My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds, My mildness hath allay'd their swelling griefs, My mercy dried their water-flowing tears: I have not been desirous of their wealth, Nor much oppress'd them with great subsidies, Nor forward to revenge, 'though they much erred. |