And, when the TYRANT, with unhallow'd pow'r,
Would bid the storm of Desolation lour,
And bend the free-born soul
Beneath his strong controul;
Where dwells the spirit but would joy to dare
The proud oppressor in his onward way;
Hurl fierce Ambition from his glittering car, And mock the vain assail of unattemper'd sway. HARMODIUS.
GAY Bacchus o'er my festive head,
His soul-entrancing spells had shed,
When on the Tyrian-tinctur'd bed
I softly sunk to rest;
See, see! what angel forms advance,
They knit the love-inspiring dance,
With many a wild and witching glance
Inviting to be blest!
All, all were fair,-beyond comparing
One beauteous nymph my fond heart sharing,
With love, with fear, though trembling, daring,
I seized her azure zone:
But whilst I revel on her charms,
And clasp elysium in my arms,
While passion every fibre warms,
I wake-and am alone!
THORNTON, while polish'd DARWIN tells,
The loves of Flora's gaudy train,
"Tis thine to guard from Time's decay
The fading glories of her reign.
Thy garden of perpetual bloom
No change of threatening skies can fear; Nor dashing rains, nor chilling blasts, Can reach the lovely fav'rites here.
Bright Tulipa in form as fair
As on the lap of Nature shines;
As gaily spreads each opening flow'r,
As soft each varying tint combines.
Whether in Asia's sun-bright soil
The nymph her crimson chalice rears,
Or 'mid Batavia's fost'ring clime
In every added charm appears.
Here view august, in conscious pride,
Agave lift her standard high;
Swell in full pomp her cluster'd flowers,
Resolv'd to flourish ere she die.
There Cerea, rich in countless charms,
Spreads to the moon her golden ray;
Nor fears that, ere yon orb descends,
Each blooming grace should fade away.
Behold in realms of endless spring
Mimosa's beauteous form arise;
While, circling round on festive wing,
The ruby-throated spoiler flies.
Here, floating to the evening air,
Fair Passiflora scents the gale;
Expands her crowns of sapphire blue,
And softly waves her petals pale.
Nature well pleas'd at Art's success,
Each imitative grace shall see;
And Flora with approving smile
Shall twine her choicest wreaths for thee.
I DREAMT, that on thy lovely face
I gaz'd (thine eyes no more retreating),
And wildly snatch'd thee to my breast,
With hope, with fear, with transport beating.
These eyes that saw thee in that dream,
O! will they ever more behold thee?
Those arms that clasp'd thee to my soul,
O will they, will they, e'er enfold thee?
I HAVE found what the Learn'd seem so puzzled to tell,
The true shape of the Devil, and where is his Hell;
Into serpents, of old, crept the author of ill,
But Satan now works as a WORM of the STILL.
Of all his migrations this last he likes best,
Now the arrogant reptile, here, raises his crest!
His head winding up from the tail of his plan,
"Till the Worm stands erect o'er the prostrated Man.
Here, he joys to transform, by his magical spell,
The sweet milk of the earth to an essence of Hell:
Fermented our food, and corrupted our grain,
To famish the stomach, and madden the brain.
By his Water of Life, what distraction and fear!
By the gloom of its light, what pale spectres appear!
A Demon keeps time with his fiddle, Finance;
While the Passions spring forth in a horrible dance.
Then, prone on the earth, they adore in the dust,
A man's baser half rais'd in room of his bust:
Such orgies the nights of the drunkard display,
But how black with ennui, how benighted his day!
With drams it begins, and with drams it must end, A dram is his Country, his Mistress, his Friend, Then his opify'd heart hates itself at the last,
And a dram nerves his hand for the death-doing blast.
Mark that mother, that monster, that shame, and that curse,
See her child hang, dead drunk, at the breast of its
As it drops from the arm, mark her stupefy'd stare! 'Till she wakes with a yell, and a laugh of despair.
Is this the civility promis'd our nation?
This the UNION, dissolv'd in a cup of damnation,
Which our Chancellor Comus extols as divine,
To train up our fate and our fortunes-as swine.
Drink, ERIN, drink deep, from this crystalline round,
Till the tortures of self-recollection be drown'd;
Till the hopes of thy heart be all stiffen'd to stone,
Then sit down in the dirt, like a queen on her throne.
No frenzy for freedom to flash o'er the brain,
Thou shalt dance to the musical clank of the chain;
A crown of cheap straw shall seem rich to thine eye,
And peace, and good order, shall reign-in the stye.
Nor boast that no track of the viper is seen,
To stain thy pure surface of emerald green;
For the serpent will never want poison to kill,
While the fat of thy fields feeds the WORM of the
STILL.
|