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The sighs and groans of miserable men !
There's not an English heart that would not leap
To hear that ye were fallen at last, to know
That even our enemies, so oft employed

In forging chains for us, themselves were free.
For he that values liberty, confines
His zeal for her predominance within

No narrow bounds; her cause engages him
Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man.
There dwell the most forlorn of human kind,
Immured though unaccused, condemn'd untried,
Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape.
There like the visionary emblem seen
By him of Babylon, life stands a stump,
And filletted about with hoops of brass,




Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are gone.
To count the hour-bell and expect no change;
And ever as the sullen sound is heard,
Still to reflect that though a joyless note


To him whose moments all have one dull pace,
Ten thousand rovers in the world at large
Account it music; that it summons some
To theatre or jocund feast or ball;
The wearied hireling finds it a release
From labour; and the lover that has chid
Its long delay, feels every welcome stroke
Upon his heart-strings trembling with delight:-
To fly for refuge from distracting thought
To such amusements as ingenious woe
Contrives, hard-shifting and without her tools;—
To read engraven on the mouldy walls,

In staggering types, his predecessor's tale,

S. C.-9.




A sad memorial, and subjoin his own :—
To turn purveyor to an overgorged
And bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest
Is made familiar, watches his approach,

Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend :-
To wear out time in numbering to and fro
The studs that thick emboss his iron door,
Then downward and then upward, then aslant
And then alternate, with a sickly hope

By dint of change to give his tasteless task
Some relish, till the sum exactly found
In all directions, he begins again :-

Oh comfortless existence! hemm'd around




With woes, which who that suffers, would not kneel. And beg for exile, or the pangs of death?

That man should thus encroach on fellow man 15, 435

14 With spiders I had friendship made,

And watch'd them in their sullen trade, &c.

Byron. Prisoner of Chillon.

15 And this place our forefathers made for man,
This is the process of our love and wisdom
To each poor brother who offends against us,
Most innocent, perhaps-and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pure and natural outlet shrivelled up
By ignorance and parching poverty,

His energies roll back upon his heart,

And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,

They break out on him, like a loathsome plague spot.
Then we call in our pampered mountebanks-

And this is their best cure! uncomforted

And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces, at the clanking hour,

Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,

Abridge him of his just and native rights,
Eradicate him, tear him from his hold
Upon the endearments of domestic life
And social, nip his fruitfulness and use,
And doom him for perhaps an heedless word
To barrenness and solitude and tears,
Moves indignation; makes the name of king,
(Of king whom such prerogative can please,)
As dreadful as the Manichean God,
Adored through fear, strong only to destroy.

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower



Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume,

And we are weeds without it. All constraint,
Except what wisdom lays on evil men,

Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes


Their progress in the road of science; blinds
The eyesight of discovery, and begets

In those that suffer it, a sordid mind
Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit

To be the tenant of man's noble form.


Thee therefore still, blame-worthy as thou art,

With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed
By public exigence till annual food

Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
Thee I account still happy, and the chief
Among the nations, seeing thou art free!

My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude,

By the lamp's dismal twilight! so he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed
By sights of evermore deformity.

Coleridge. Remorse.


Replete with vapours, and disposes much

All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine;


Thine unadulterate manners are less soft

And plausible than social life requires,
And thou hast need of discipline and art
To give thee what politer France receives
From Nature's bounty,-that humane address
And sweetness, without which no pleasure is
In converse, either starved by cold reserve,
Or flush'd with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl;
Yet being free, I love thee. For the sake
Of that one feature, can be well content,
Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art,
To seek no sublunary rest beside.

But once enslaved, farewell! I could endure
Chains no where patiently, and chains at home
Where I am free by birthright, not at all.
Then what were left of roughness in the grain
Of British natures, wanting its excuse
That it belongs to freemen, would disgust

And shock me. I should then with double pain
Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;
And if I must bewail the blessing lost

For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,
I would at least bewail it under skies
Milder, among a people less austere,

In scenes which, having never known me free,
Would not reproach me with the loss I felt.
Do I forebode impossible events,






And tremble at vain dreams? Heaven grant I may !

But the age of virtuous politics is past,

And we are deep in that of cold pretence.

Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere,

And we too wise to trust them. He that takes

Deep in his soft credulity the stamp

Designed by loud declaimers on the part

Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust,

Incurs derision for his easy faith



And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough.
For when was public virtue to be found
Where private was not? Can he love the whole
Who loves no part? he be a nation's friend
Who is in truth the friend of no man there?
Can he be strenuous in his country's cause,
Who slights the charities for whose dear sake
That country, if at all, must be beloved?

'Tis therefore, sober and good men are sad For England's glory, seeing it wax pale

And sickly, while her champions wear their hearts
So loose to private duty, that no brain,

Healthful and undisturb'd by factious fumes,
Can dream them trusty to the general weal.



Such were not they of old, whose temper'd blades 515 Dispersed the shackles of usurp'd controul,

And hew'd them link from link.

Then Albion's sons

Were sons indeed. They felt a filial heart
Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs,
And shining each in his domestic sphere,
Shone brighter still once call'd to public view.
'Tis therefore, many whose sequester'd lot
Forbids their interference, looking on
Anticipate perforce some dire event;
And seeing the old castle of the state,



That promised once more firmness, so assail'd

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