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(6 1772

d 1834).


Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that goodman be? –
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roar'd in the winter alone,

and the birch in its stead is grown.
The Knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;
His soul is with the saints, I trust.

Is gone,




Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause,
Whose pathless march no mortal may control!

Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll,
Yield homage only to eternal laws!
Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds' singing,

Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined , Save when your own imperious branches swinging,

Have made a solemn music of the wind !
Where, like a man beloved of God,
Through glooms, which never woodman trod,

How oft pursuing fancies holy,
My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound,

Inspired, beyond the guess of folly,
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound !
O ye loud Waves! and 0 ye Forests high!

And 0 ye Clouds that far above me soar'd!
Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky!

Yea, every thing that is and will be free!

Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be,
With what deep worship I have still adored

The spirit of divinest Liberty.


When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreard,

And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea,

Stamp'd her strong foot and said she would be free,
Bear witness for me, how I hoped and fear'd !
With what a joy my lofty gratulation

Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band:
And when to whelm the disenchanted nation,
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand ,

The Monarchs march'd in evil day,

And Britain join'd the dire array;
Though dear her shores and circling ocean,
Though many friendships, many youthful loves,

Had swoln the patriot emotion,
And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves;
Yet still my voice, unalter'd, sang defeat

To all that braved the tyant-quelling lance,
And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat!
For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim
I dimm'd thy light or damp'd thy holy flame;

But bless'd the pæans of deliver'd France,
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name.


"And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's loud scream With that sweet music of deliverance strove?

Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove HOEKZEMA, Poetry. 4th Ed.


A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream?

Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled, The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!"

And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, The dissonance ceased , and all seem'd calm and bright,

When France her front, deep-scarr'd and gory,
Conceal'd with clustering wreaths of glory;

When, insupportably advancing,
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp;

While, timid looks of fury glancing,
Domestic treason, crush'd beneath her fatal stamp,
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore;

Then I reproach'd my fears that would not flee;
“And soon,” I said, "shall Wisdom teach her lore
In the low huts of them that toil and groan!
And, conquering by her happiness alone,

Shall France compel the nations to be free,
Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own.”


Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams!

I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,

From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stain'd streams!

Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish'd ,
And ye that, fleeing , spot your mountain-snows

With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherish'd
One thought that ever bless'd your cruel foes!

To scatter rage and traitorous guilt,
Where Peace her jealous home had built;

A patriot-race to disinherit
Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear;

And with inexpiable spirit
To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer-
O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind,

And patriot only in pernicious toils,

Are these thy boasts, champion of human kind ?

To mix with kings in the low lust of sway,

Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey; To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils

From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray?


The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain,

Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game

They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!

O Liberty! with profitless endeavour Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour;

But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.

Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee,
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee,)

Alike from Priestcraft's barpy minions,
And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves,

Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves ! And there I felt thee! on that sea-cliff's verge,

Whose pines, scarce travell’d by the breeze above, Had made one murmur with the distant surge!

Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare,
And shot my being through earth, sea and air,

Possessing all things with intensest love,
O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.
February, 1798.


The frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelp'd by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud—and hurk, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,

Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings; save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea! and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! The thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which flutter'd on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathios with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of thought.

But O! how oft, How oft, at school, with most believing mind, Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, To watch that futtering stranger! and as oft, With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, So sweetly, that they stirr'd and haunted me With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear Most like articulate sounds of things to come! So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt Lull’d me to sleep, and sleep prolong'd my dreams! And so I brooded all the following morn, Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye Fix'd with mock study on my swimming book Save if the door half open'd, and I snatch'd

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