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All consequences: work he hath begun
Of fortitude, and piety, and love,

Which all his glorious ancestors approve :
The Heroes bless him, him their rightful Son.


OUSSAINT, the most unhappy Man of Men!
Whether the rural Milk-maid by her Cow

Sing in thy hearing, or thou liest now
Alone in some deep dungeon's earless den,
O miserable chieftain! where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow;
Though fallen Thyself, never to rise again,

Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;
There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies ;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,

And love, and Man's unconquerable mind.

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If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said, they were not base;
And never blush was on my face.

Ah little doth the young one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power hath even his wildest scream,
Heard by his mother unawares !
He knows it not, he cannot guess :
Years to a mother brings distress;
But do not make her love the less.

Neglect me! no I suffer'd lorg

From that ill thought; and being blind,
Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong:
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As ever breathed:" and that is true;
I've wet my path with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one knew.

My son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain,
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
Think not of me with grief and pain:
I now can see with better eyes;
And worldly grandeur 1 despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies.

Alas! the fowls of Heaven have wings,
And blasts of Heaven will aid their flight;
They mount, how short a voyage brings
The wanderers back to their delight !
Chains tie us down by land and sea ;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men ;
Or thon upon a desart thrown
Inheritest the lion's den;

Or hast been summoned to the deep,
Thoù, thou and all thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.

I look for ghosts; but none will force
Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
That there was ever intercourse
Betwixt the living and the dead


For surely, then I should have sight
Of him I wait for day and night,
With love and longings infinite.

My apprehensions come in crowds ;
I dread the rustling of the grass ;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass ?
1 question things, and do not find
One that will answer to my mind;
And all the world appears unkind.

Beyond participation lie

My troubles, and beyond relief:
If any chance to heave a sigh
They pity me, and not my grief.
Then come to me, my Son, or send
Some tiding that my woes may end;
I have no other earthly friend.



From the same.

HE had a tall man's height, or more ;
No bonnet screen'd her from the heat;

A long drab-colour'd cloak she wore,

A mantle reaching to her feet :

What other dress she had I could not know ;

Only she wore a cap that was as white as snow.

In all my walks, through field or town,
Such figure had I never seen :
Her face was of Egyptian brown :

Fit person was she for a queen,

To head those ancient Amazonian files :

Or ruling Bandit's wife, among the Grecian Isles.

Before me begging did she stand,
Pouring out sorrows like a sea;
Grief after grief :-on English land
Such woes I knew could never be;

And yet a boon I gave her; for the creature
Was beautiful to see; aweed of glorious feature!

I left her and pursued my way;
And soon before me did espy
A pair of little boys, at play,
Chasing a crimson butterfly;
3Y 3

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The taller follow'd with his hat in hand,
Wreath'd round with yellow flow'rs, the gayest of the land-

The other wore a rimless crown,
With leaves of laurel stuck about:
And they both follow'd up and down,
Each whooping with a merry shout;

Two brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old;
And like that woman's face as gold is like to gold.

They bolted on me thus, and lo!
Each ready with plaintive whine ;
Said I, "Not half an hour ago

Your mother has had alms of mine."

"That cannot be," one answer'd, "She is dead." "Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread."

"She has been dead, Sir, many a day.”
"Sweet boys, you're telling me a lie;
"It was your mother, as I say—"
And in the twinkling of an eye,

"Come, come!" cried one; and, without more ade Off to some other play they both together flew.



Addressed to Miss Cresswell, a little, short Lady. By Old Nick.

Satis parva res est. Amphitruo. Act 2, sc. 2.

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The god of Love's a little wight,
But beautiful as thought;
Thou too art little, fair as light,
And ev'ry thing-in short +!

* See Josephus de Uxoribus-a very ancient and serious jest.
Nulla voluptas longa est. Seneca.

O, happy

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