VIII. With plough and spade, and hoe and loom, LINES WRITTEN DURING THE CASTLEREAGH I. CORPSES are cold in the tomb; And their mothers look pale-like the deathwhite shore Of Albion, free no more. II. Her sons are as stones in the way- III. Then trample and dance, thou Oppressor! For thy victim is no redresser ; Thou art sole lord and possessor Of her corpses, and clods, and abortions—they pave Thy path to the grave. This poem is headed England in the Harvard College manuscript book.-ED. IV. Hearest thou the festival din Of Death, and Destruction, and Sin, And Wealth crying Havock! within? 'Tis the bacchanal triumph which makes Truth dumb, Thine epithalamium. V. Aye, marry thy ghastly wife! Let Fear and Disquiet and Strife Spread thy couch in the chamber of Life! Marry Ruin, thou Tyrant! and God be thy guide To the bed of the bride! SIMILES, FOR TWO POLITICAL I. As from an ancestral oak Two empty ravens sound their clarion, II. As two gibbering night-birds flit And the stars are none, or few: 1 Castlereagh and Sidmouth.-ED. III. As a shark and dog-fish wait For the negro-ship, whose freight Wrinkling their red gills the while IV. Are ye, two vultures sick for battle, FRAGMENT: TO THE PEOPLE OF ENGLAND. PEOPLE of England, ye who toil and groan, Who reap the harvests which are not your own, Who weave the clothes which your oppressors wear, And for your own take the inclement air; And are like gods who give them all they have, And children may inherit idleness, From him who earns it-This is understood; 10 Private injustice may be general good. But he who gains by base and armèd wrong, Or guilty fraud, or base compliances, May be despoiled; even as a stolen dress Is stripped from a convicted thief, and he Left in the nakedness of infamy. NATIONAL ANTHEM. I. God prosper, speed, and save, Pave with swift victory The steps of Liberty, Whom Britons own to be Immortal Queen. II. See, she comes throned on high, God save the Queen! Millions on millions wait Firm, rapid, and elate, On her majestic state! God save the Queen! III. She is thine own pure soul She is thine own deep love God save our Queen! IV. Wilder her enemies In their own dark disguise,- All earthly things that dare Strip them, as kings are, bare; V. Be her eternal throne Built in our hearts alone God save the Queen! Let the oppressor hold Canopied seats of gold; She sits enthroned of old O'er our hearts Queen. VI. Lips touched by seraphim God save the Queen!" Sweet as if angels sang, Loud as that trumpet's clang Wakening the world's dead gang,— God save the Queen! THE INDIAN SERENADE. I. I ARISE from dreams of thee |