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, '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 II. Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save, III. Wherefore, Bees of England, forge IV. Have ye leisure, comfort, calm, V. The seed ye sow, another reaps; VI. Sow seed, but let no tyrant reap; VII. Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells; Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see VIII. With plough and spade, and hoe and loom, SONNET: ENGLAND IN 1819. AN old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,— Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield SIMILES, FOR TWO POLITICAL CHARACTERS OF 1819 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: 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, FRAGMENT: TO THE PEOPLE OF ENGLAND. PEOPLE of England, ye who toil and groan, 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, But he who gains by base and armèd wrong, 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, 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 She is thine own deep love God save our Queen! 10 15 Wilder her enemies IV. 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- 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,- THE INDIAN SERENADE. I. I ARISE from dreams of thee Hath led me-who knows how! II. The wandering airs they faint |