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ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT.
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forgot not...
Forget not; in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
A hundred fold, who, having learned thy way,
ON HIS BLINDNESS.
WHEN I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
I fondly ask : But patience to prevent
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best : his state
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
TO MR. LAWRENCE.
LAWRENCE ! of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire .