Of her corpses, and clods, and abortions-they pave Thy path to the grave.

IV.

Hearest thou the festal 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 thy bride!

SONG TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND.

I.

MEN of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?

II.

Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat-nay, drink your blood?

III.

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?

IV.

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm ?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?

V.

The seed ye sow, another reaps;
The wealth ye find, another keeps;
The robes ye weave, another wears;
The arms ye forge, another bears.

VI.

Sow seed, but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth,-let no impostor heap;
Weave robes,-let not the idle wear;
Forge arms,-in your defence to bear.

VII.

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells;
In halls ye deck another dwells.

Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see
The steel ye tempered glance on ye.

VIII.

With plough and spade, and hoe and loom,
Trace your grave, and build your tomb,
And weave your winding-sheet, till fair
England be your sepulchre.

SONNET: ENGLAND IN 1819.

AN old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,—
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn,-mud from a muddy spring,-
Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,
But leech-like to their fainting country cling,
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow,-
A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field,—
An army, which liberticide and prey

Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;
Religion Christless, Godless-a book sealed;
A Senate, Time's worst statute unrepealed,-
Are graves, from which a glorious Phantom may
Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.

SIMILES, FOR TWO POLITICAL CHARACTERS OF 1819

I.

As from an ancestral oak

Two empty ravens sound their clarion,
Yell by yell, and croak by croak,
When they scent the noonday smoke
Of fresh human carrion:-

II.

As two gibbering night-birds flit
From their bowers of deadly yew
Through the night to frighten it,
When the moon is in a fit,

And the stars are none, or few:

III.

As a shark and dog-fish wait

Under an Atlantic isle,

For the negro-ship, whose freight

Is the theme of their debate,

Wrinkling their red gills the while

IV.

Are ye, two vultures sick for battle,
Two scorpions under one wet stone,
Two bloodless wolves whose dry throats rattle,
Two crows perched on the murrained cattle,
Two vipers tangled into one.

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;
Who build warm houses...

And are like gods who give them all they have,

And nurse them from the cradle to the grave...

What men gain fairly-that they should possess,
And children may inherit idleness,
From him who earns it-This is understood;
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 stript from a convicted thief, and he
Left in the nakedness of infamy.

NATIONAL ANTHEM.

I.

GOD prosper, speed, and save,
God raise from England's grave
Her murdered Queen!

Pave with swift victory

The steps of Liberty,

Whom Britons own to be

Immortal Queen.

II.

See, she comes throned on high,

On swift Eternity!

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
Moulding the mighty whole,-
God save the Queen!

She is thine own deep love
Rained down from heaven above,-
Wherever she rest or move,

God save our Queen!

10

15

Wilder her enemies

IV.

In their own dark disguise,-
God save our Queen!

All earthly things that dare
Her sacred name to bear,

Strip them, as kings are, bare;
God save the Queen!

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

Breathe out the choral hymn

"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
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet

Hath led me-who knows how!
To thy chamber window, Sweet!

II.

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream-