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There is a bondage which is worse to bear Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, and wall, Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall:

'Tis his who walks about in the open air, One of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear Their fetters in their Souls. For who could be, Who, even the best, in such condition, free From self-reproach, reproach which he must share With Human Nature? Never be it ours To see the Sun how brightly it will shine, And know that noble Feelings, manly Powers, Instead of gathering strength must droop and pine, And Earth with all her pleasant fruits and flowers Fade, and participate in Man's decline.

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These times touch money'd Worldlings with dismay:

Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air

With words of apprehension and despair:

While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray,

Men unto whom sufficient for the day

And minds not stinted or untilled are given,

Sound, healthy Children of the God of Heaven,

Are cheerful as the rising Sun in May.

What do we gather hence but firmer faith

That every gift of noble origin

Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath;

That virtue and the faculties within

Are vital,—and that riches are akin

To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death!

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England ! the time is come when thou shouldst wean

Thy heart from its emasculating food;

The truth should now be better understood;

Old things have been unsettled; we have seen

Fair seed-time, better harvest might have been

But for thy trespasses; and, at this day,

If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa,

Aught good were destined, Thou wouldst step between.

England! all nations in this charge agree:

But worse, more ignorant in love and hate,

Far, far more abject is thine Enemy:

Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight

Of thy offences be a heavy weight:

Oh grief! that Earth's best hopes rest all with Thee!


October, 1803.

When, looking on the present face of things,

I see one Man, of Men the meanest too!

Raised up to sway the World, to do, undo,

With mighty Nations for his Underlings,

The great events with which old story rings

Seem vain and hollow; I fiud nothing great;

Nothing is left which I can venerate;

So that almost a doubt within me springs

Of Providence, such emptiness at length

Seems at the heart of all things. But, great God

I measure back the steps which I have trod;

And tremble, seeing, as I do, the strength

Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts sublime

I tremble at the sorrow of the time.


October, 1803.

Vanguard of Liberty, ye Men of Kent,

Ye Children of a Soil that doth advance

Its haughty brow against the coast of France,

Now is the time to prove your hardiment!

To France be words of invitation sent!

They from their Fields can see the countenance

Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance,

And hear you shouting forth your brave intent.

Left single, in bold parley, Ye, of yore.

Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath;

Confirmed the charters that were yours before;—

No parleying now! In Britain is one breath;

We all are with you now from Shore to Shore:—

Ye Men of Kent, 'tis Victory or Death!

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