The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ladies and Gentlemen, on Monday night,
For the ninth time—oh accents of delight
To the poor author's ear, when three times three
With a full bumper crowns his Comedy!
When, long by money, and the muse, forsaken,
He finds at length his jokes and boxes taken,
And sees his play-bill circulate—alas,
The only bill on which his name will pass!
Thus, Vapid, thus shall Thespian scrolls of fame
Through box and gallery waft your well-known name,

354

While critic eyes the happy cast shall con,
And learned ladies spell your Dram. Person.

'Tis said our worthy Manager intends
To help my night, and he, you know, has friends.
Friends, did I say? for fixing friends, or parts,
Engaging actors, or engaging hearts,
There's nothing like him! wits, at his request,
Are turn'd to fools, and dull dogs learn to jest;
Soldiers, for him, good “trembling cowards” make,
And beaus, turn'd clowns, look ugly for his sake;
For him ev'n lawyers talk without a fee,
For him (oh friendship!) I act tragedy!
In short, like Orpheus, his persuasive tricks
Make boars amusing, and put life in sticks.

With such a manager we can't but please,
Tho' London sent us all her loud O. P.'s ,
Let them come on, like snakes, all hiss and rattle,
Arm'd with a thousand fans, we'd give them battle;

355

You, on our side, R. P. upon our banners,
Soon should we teach the saucy O. P.'s manners:
And show that, here—howe'er John Bull may doubt—
In all our plays, the Riot-Act's cut out;
And, while we skim the cream of many a jest,
Your well-timed thunder never sours its zest.

Oh gently thus, when three short weeks are past,
At Shakspeare's altar , shall we breathe our last;
And, ere this long-lov'd dome to ruin nods,
Die all, die nobly, die like demigods!

The late Mr. Richard Power.

The brief appellation by which those persons were distinguished who, at the opening of the new theatre of Covent Garden, clamoured for the continuance of the old prices of admission.

The initials of our manager's name.

This alludes to a scenic representation then preparing for the last night of the performances.

356

EXTRACT FROM A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE AUTHOR, AT THE OPENING OF THE KILKENNY THEATRE, OCTOBER, 1809.

[OMITTED]

Yet, even here, though Fiction rules the hour,
There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power;
And there are tears, too—tears that Memory sheds
Ev'n o'er the feast that mimic fancy spreads,
When her heart misses one lamented guest ,
Whose eye so long threw light o'er all the rest!
There, there, indeed, the Muse forgets her task,
And drooping weeps behind Thalia's mask.

Forgive this gloom—forgive this joyless strain,
Too sad to welcome pleasure's smiling train.
But, meeting thus, our hearts will part the lighter,
As mist at dawn but makes the setting brighter;

357

Gay Epilogue will shine where Prologue fails—
As glow-worms keep their splendour for their tails.

I know not why—but time, methinks, hath pass'd
More fleet than usual since we parted last.
It seems but like a dream of yester-night,
Whose charm still hangs, with fond, delaying light;
And, ere the memory lose one glowing hue
Of former joy, we come to kindle new.
Thus ever may the flying moments haste
With trackless foot along life's vulgar waste,
But deeply print and lingeringly move,
When thus they reach the sunny spots we love.
Oh yes, whatever be our gay career,
Let this be still the solstice of the year,
Where Pleasure's sun shall at its height remain,
And slowly sink to level life again.

The late Mr. John Lyster, one of the oldest members and best actors of the Kilkenny Theatrical Society.

358

THE SYLPH'S BALL.

A Sylph, as bright as ever sported
Her figure through the fields of air,
By an old swathy Gnome was couted,
And, strange to say, he won the fair.

The annals of the oldest witch
A pair so sorted could not show,
But how refuse?—the Gnome was rich,
The Rothschild of the world below;

And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures,
Are told, betimes, they must consider
Love as an auctioneer of features,
Who knocks them down to the best bidder.

Home she was taken to his Mine—
A Palace, paved with diamonds all—
And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine,
Sent out her tickets for a Ball.

359

The lower world, of course, was there,
And all the best; but of the upper
The sprinkling was but shy and rare,—
A few old Sylphids, who lov'd supper.

As none yet knew the wondrous Lamp
Of Davy, that renown'd Aladdin,
And the Gnome's Halls exhal'd a damp,
Which accidents from fire were bad in;

The chambers were supplied with light
By many strange but safe devices;
Large fire-flies, such as shine at night
Among the Orient's flowers and spices;—

Musical flint-mills—swiftly play'd
By elfin hands—that, flashing round,
Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids,
Gave out, at once, both light and sound.

Bologna stones, that drink the sun;
And water from that Indian sea,
Whose waves at night like wild-fire run—
Cork'd up in crystal carefully.

360

Glow-worms, that round the tiny dishes,
Like little light-houses, were set up;
And pretty phosphorescent fishes,
That by their own gay light were eat up.

'Mong the few guests from Ether, came
That wicked Sylph, whom Love we call—
My Lady knew him but by name,
My Lord, her husband not at all.

Some prudent Gnomes, 'tis said, appriz'd
That he was coming, and, no doubt,
Alarm'd about his torch, advis'd
He should, by all means, be kept out.

But others disapprov'd this plan,
And, by his flame though somewhat frighted,
Thought Love too much a gentleman,
In such a dangerous place to light it.

However, there he was—and dancing
With the fair Sylph, light as a feather;
They look'd like two fresh sunbeams, glancing,
At daybreak, down to earth together.

361

And all had gone off safe and well,
But for that plaguy torch, whose light,
Though not yet kindled—who could tell
How soon, how devilishly, it might?

And so it chanced—which, in those dark
And fireless halls was quite amazing;
Did we not know how small a spark
Can set the torch of Love a-blazing.

Whether it came (when close entangled
In the gay waltz) from her bright eyes,
Or from the lucciole, that spangled
Her locks of jet—is all surmise;

But certain 'tis the' ethereal girl
Did drop a spark, at some odd turning,
Which, by the waltz's windy whirl
Was fann'd up into actual burning.

Oh for that Lamp's metallic gauze,
That curtain of protecting wire,
Which Davy delicately draws
Around illicit, dangerous fire!—

362

The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air,
(Like that, which barr'd young Thisbe's bliss,)
Through whose small holes this dangerous pair
May see each other, but not kiss.

At first the torch look'd rather bluely,—
A sign, they say, that no good boded—
Then quick the gas became unruly,
And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.

Sylphs, gnomes, and fiddlers mix'd together,
With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces,
Like butterflies in stormy weather,
Were blown—legs, wings, and tails—to pieces!

While, 'mid these victims of the torch,
The Sylph, alas, too, bore her part—
Found lying, with a livid scorch
As if from lightning, o'er her heart!

363

[OMITTED]

“Well done”—a laughing Goblin said—
Escaping from this gaseous strife—
“'Tis not the first time Love has made
“A blow-up in connubial life!”

------ Partique dedêre
Oscula quisque suæ, non pervenientia contrà.

Ovid.

364

REMONSTRANCE.

[_]

After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits.

What! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name—
Thou, born of a Russell—whose instinct to run
The accustom'd career of thy sires, is the same
As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun!

Whose nobility comes to thee, stamp'd with a seal,
Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set;
With the blood of thy race, offer'd up for the weal
Of a nation, that swears by that martyrdom yet!

Shalt thou be faint-hearted and turn from the strife,
From the mighty arena, where all that is grand,
And devoted, and pure, and adorning in life,
'Tis for high-thoughted spirits like thine to command?

365

Oh no, never dream it—while good men despair
Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow,
Never think, for an instant, thy country can spare
Such a light from her darkening horizon as thou.

With a spirit, as meek as the gentlest of those
Who in life's sunny valley lie shelter'd and warm;
Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose
To the top cliffs of Fortune, and breasted her storm;

With an ardour for liberty, fresh as, in youth,
It first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre;
Yet mellow'd, ev'n now, by that mildness of truth,
Which tempers, but chills not, the patriot fire;

With an eloquence—not like those rills from a height,
Which sparkle, and foam, and in vapour are o'er;
But a current, that works out its way into light
Through the filtering recesses of thought and of lore.

366

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade;
If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame,
And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade,
Yet think how to Freedom thou'rt pledg'd by thy Name.

Like the boughs of that laurel, by Delphi's decree,
Set apart for the Fane and its service divine,
So the branches, that spring from the old Russell tree,
Are by Liberty claim'd for the use of her Shrine.

367

MY BIRTH-DAY.

“My birth-day”—what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears!

When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as Youth counts the shining links,
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last.
Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said —“were he ordain'd to run
“His long career of life again,
“He would do all that he had done.”—
Ah, 'tis not thus the voice, that dwells
In sober birth-days, speaks to me;

368

Far otherwise—of time it tells,
Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly;
Of counsel mock'd; of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines;
Of nursing many a wrong desire;
Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire,
That cross'd my pathway, for his star.—
All this it tells, and, could I trace
The' imperfect picture o'er again,
With pow'r to add, retouch, efface
The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away—
All—but that Freedom of the Mind,
Which hath been more than wealth to me;
Those friendships, in my boyhood twin'd,
And kept till now unchangingly;
And that dear home, that saving ark,
Where Love's true light at last I've found,
Cheering within, when all grows dark,
And comfortless, and stormy round!

Fontenelle.—“Si je recommençais ma carrière, je ferai tout ce que j'ai fait.”

369

FANCY.

The more I've view'd this world, the more I've found,
That, fill'd as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare,
Fancy commands, within her own bright round,
A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.
Nor is it that her power can call up there
A single charm, that's not from Nature won,—
No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear
A single tint unborrow'd from the sun;
But 'tis the mental medium it shines through,
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light, that o'er the level lake
One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make
Colours as gay as those on angels' wings!

370

FANNY, DEAREST!

SONG.

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
To tears when thou art nigh.
But, between love, and wine, and sleep,
So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give.
Then wish me not to despair and pine,
Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that's order'd to bathe in wine,
Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny dearest, thy image lies;
But, ah! the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimm'd too often with sighs.

371

They lose the half of beauty's light,
Who view it through sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright
That I keep my eye-beams clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow—
Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.

372

TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS.

Carm. 70.

TO LESBIA.

Dicebas quondam, &c.

Thou told'st me, in our days of love,
That I had all that heart of thine;
That, ev'n to share the couch of Jove,
Thou would'st not, Lesbia, part from mine.

How purely wert thou worshipp'd then!
Not with the vague and vulgar fires
Which Beauty wakes in soulless men,—
But lov'd, as children by their sires.

That flattering dream, alas, is o'er;—
I know thee now—and though these eyes
Doat on thee wildly as before,
Yet, even in doating, I despise.

373

Yes, sorceress—mad as it may seem—
With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee,
That passion even outlives esteem,
And I, at once, adore—and scorn thee.

Carm. 11.

Pauca nunciate meæ puellæ.

[OMITTED]

Comrades and friends! with whom, where'er
The fates have will'd through life I've rov'd,
Now speed ye home, and with you bear
These bitter words to her I've lov'd.

Tell her from fool to fool to run,
Where'er her vain caprice may call;
Of all her dupes not loving one,
But ruining and maddening all.

Bid her forget—what now is past—
Our once dear love, whose ruin lies
Like a fair flower, the meadow's last,
Which feels the ploughshare's edge, and dies!

374

Carm. 29.

Peninsularum Sirmio, insularumque
Ocelle.

Sweet Sirmio! thou, the very eye
Of all peninsulas and isles,
That in our lakes of silver lie,
Or sleep, enwreath'd by Neptune's smiles—

How gladly back to thee I fly!
Still doubting, asking—can it be
That I have left Bithynia's sky,
And gaze in safety upon thee?

Oh! what is happier than to find
Our hearts at ease, our perils past;
When, anxious long, the lighten'd mind
Lays down its load of care at last:

When, tired with toil o'er land and deep,
Again we tread the welcome floor

375

Of our own home, and sink to sleep
On the long-wish'd-for bed once more.

This, this it is, that pays alone
The ills of all life's former track.—
Shine out, my beautiful, my own
Sweet Sirmio, greet thy master back.

And thou, fair Lake, whose water quaffs
The light of heav'n like Lydia's sea,
Rejoice, rejoice—let all that laughs
Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!

Desideratoque acquiescimus lecto.

376

TIBULLUS TO SULPICIA.

Nulla tuum nobis subducet femina lectum, &c. &c. Lib. iv. Carm. 13.

“Never shall woman's smile have power
“To win me from those gentle charms!”—
Thus swore I, in that happy hour,
When Love first gave thee to my arms.

And still alone thou charm'st my sight—
Still, though our city proudly shine
With forms and faces, fair and bright,
I see none fair or bright but thine.

Would thou wert fair for only me,
And could'st no heart but mine allure!—
To all men else unpleasing be,
So shall I feel my prize secure.

377

Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest
Of others' envy, others' praise;
But, in its silence safely blest,
Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.

Charm of my life! by whose sweet power
All cares are hush'd, all ills subdued—
My light, in even the darkest hour,
My crowd, in deepest solitude!

No, not though heaven itself sent down
Some maid, of more than heavenly charms,
With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown,
Would he for her forsake those arms!

Displiceas aliis, sic ego tutus ero.

Tu mihi curarum requies, tu nocte vel atrâ
Lumen, et in solis tu mihi turba locis.

378

IMITATION FROM THE FRENCH.

With women and apples both Paris and Adam
Made mischief enough in their day:—
God be prais'd that the fate of mankind, my dear Madam,
Depends not on us, the same way.
For, weak as I am with temptation to grapple,
The world would have doubly to rue thee;
Like Adam, I'd gladly take from thee the apple,
Like Paris, at once give it to thee.

379

INVITATION TO DINNER,

ADDRESSED TO LORD LANSDOWNE.

September, 1818.

Some think we bards have nothing real;
That poets live among the stars so,
Their very dinners are ideal,—
(And, heaven knows, too oft they are so,)—
For instance, that we have, instead
Of vulgar chops, and stews, and hashes,
First course—a Phœnix, at the head,
Done in its own celestial ashes;
At foot, a cygnet, which kept singing
All the time its neck was wringing.
Side dishes, thus—Minerva's owl,
Or any such like learned fowl:
Doves, such as heav'n's poulterer gets,
When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.
Larks, stew'd in Morning's roseate breath,
Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendour;

380

And nightingales, berhymed to death—
Like young pigs whipp'd to make them tender.

Such fare may suit those bards, who're able
To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table;
But as for me, who've long been taught
To eat and drink like other people;
And can put up with mutton, bought
Where Bromham rears its ancient steeple—
If Lansdowne will consent to share
My humble feast, though rude the fare,
Yet, season'd by that salt he brings
From Attica's salinest springs,
'Twill turn to dainties;—while the cup,
Beneath his influence brightening up,
Like that of Baucis, touch'd by Jove,
Will sparkle fit for gods above!

A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is separated but by a small verdant valley.

381

VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.

WRITTEN MAY, 1832.

All, as he left it!—even the pen,
So lately at that mind's command,
Carelessly lying, as if then
Just fallen from his gifted hand.

Have we then lost him? scarce an hour,
A little hour, seems to have past,
Since Life and Inspiration's power
Around that relic breath'd their last.

Ah, powerless now—like talisman,
Found in some vanish'd wizard's halls,
Whose mighty charm with him began,
Whose charm with him extinguish'd falls.

382

Yet though, alas! the gifts that shone
Around that pen's exploring track,
Be now, with its great master, gone,
Nor living hand can call them back;

Who does not feel, while thus his eyes
Rest on the enchanter's broken wand,
Each earth-born spell it work'd arise
Before him in succession grand?—

Grand, from the Truth that reigns o'er all;
The unshrinking Truth, that lets her light
Through Life's low, dark, interior fall,
Opening the whole, severely bright:

Yet softening, as she frowns along,
O'er scenes which angels weep to see—
Where Truth herself half veils the Wrong,
In pity of the Misery.

True bard!—and simple, as the race
Of true-born poets ever are,
When, stooping from their starry place,
They're children, near, though gods, afar.

383

How freshly doth my mind recall,
'Mong the few days I've known with thee,
One that, most buoyantly of all,
Floats in the wake of memory ;

When he, the poet, doubly graced,
In life, as in his perfect strain,
With that pure, mellowing power of Taste,
Without which Fancy shines in vain;

Who in his page will leave behind,
Pregnant with genius though it be,
But half the treasures of a mind,
Where Sense o'er all holds mastery:—

Friend of long years! of friendship tried
Through many a bright and dark event;
In doubts, my judge—in taste, my guide—
In all, my stay and ornament!

384

He, too, was of our feast that day,
And all were guests of one, whose hand
Hath shed a new and deathless ray
Around the lyre of this great land;

In whose sea-odes—as in those shells
Where Ocean's voice of majesty
Seems still to sound—immortal dwells
Old Albion's Spirit of the Sea.

Such was our host; and though, since then,
Slight clouds have ris'n twixt him and me,
Who would not grasp such hand again,
Stretch'd forth again in amity?

Who can, in this short life, afford
To let such mists a moment stay,
When thus one frank, atoning word,
Like sunshine, melts them all away?

Bright was our board that day—though one
Unworthy brother there had place;
As 'mong the horses of the Sun,
One was, they say, of earthly race.

385

Yet, next to Genius is the power
Of feeling where true Genius lies;
And there was light around that hour
Such as, in memory, never dies;

Light which comes o'er me, as I gaze,
Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee,
Like all such dreams of vanish'd days,
Brightly, indeed—but mournfully!

Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the honour of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, &c. which their distinguished father had long been in the habit of using.

The lines that follow allude to a day passed in company with Mr. Crabbe, many years since, when a party, consisting only of Mr. Rogers, Mr. Crabbe, and the author of these verses, had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Thomas Campbell, at his house at Sydenham.

386

TO CAROLINE, VISCOUNTESS VALLETORT.

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.

When I would sing thy beauty's light,
Such various forms, and all so bright,
I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,
Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, which to sing.

When I would paint thee, as thou art,
Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart—
The graceful child, in beauty's dawn,
Within the nursery's shade withdrawn,
Or peeping out—like a young moon
Upon a world 'twill brighten soon.
Then next, in girlhood's blushing hour,
As from thy own lov'd Abbey-tower
I've seen thee look, all radiant, down,
With smiles that to the hoary frown

387

Of centuries round thee lent a ray,
Chasing even Age's gloom away;—
Or, in the world's resplendent throng,
As I have mark'd thee glide along,
Among the crowds of fair and great
A spirit, pure and separate,
To which even Admiration's eye
Was fearful to approach too nigh;—
A creature, circled by a spell
Within which nothing wrong could dwell;
And fresh and clear as from the source,
Holding through life her limpid course,
Like Arethusa through the sea,
Stealing in fountain purity.

Now, too, another change of light!
As noble bride, still meekly bright,
Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above
All earthly price, pure woman's love;
And show'st what lustre Rank receives,
When with his proud Corinthian leaves
Her rose thus high-bred Beauty weaves.

388

Wonder not if, where all's so fair,
To choose were more than bard can dare;
Wonder not if, while every scene
I've watch'd thee through so bright hath been,
The' enamour'd Muse should, in her quest
Of beauty, know not where to rest,
But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall,
Hailing thee beautiful in all!

389

A SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth,
The best that I know for a lover of pelf,
Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth,
And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.

390

TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.

They tell us of an Indian tree,
Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot, and blossom, wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms
Downward again to that dear earth,
From which the life, that fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth.

'Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (if fame it be)
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee!

391

LOVE AND HYMEN.

Love had a fever—ne'er could close
His little eyes till day was breaking;
And wild and strange enough, Heav'n knows,
The things he rav'd about while waking.

To let him pine so were a sin;—
One, to whom all the world's a debtor—
So Doctor Hymen was call'd in,
And Love that night slept rather better.

Next day the case gave further hope yet,
Though still some ugly fever latent;—
“Dose, as before”—a gentle opiate,
For which old Hymen has a patent.

After a month of daily call,
So fast the dose went on restoring,
That Love, who first ne'er slept at all,
Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.

392

LINES ON THE ENTRY OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO NAPLES, 1821.

Carbone notati.

Ay—down to the dust with them, slaves as they are,
From this hour, let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,
Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on like a cloud, through their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er—
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails
From each slave-mart of Europe, and shadow their shore!

Let their fate be a mock-word—let men of all lands
Laugh out, with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,

393

When each sword, that the cowards let fall from their hands,
Shall be forg'd into fetters to enter their souls.

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driv'n,
Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,
To think—as the Doom'd often think of that heav'n
They had once within reach—that they might have been free.

Oh shame! when there was not a bosom, whose heat
Ever rose 'bove the zero of C---h's heart,
That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat,
And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start;

When the world stood in hope—when a spirit, that breath'd
The fresh air of the olden time, whisper'd about;
And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheath'd,
But waited one conquering cry, to flash out!

When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame,
Filicajas and Petrarchs, seemed bursting to view,

394

And their words, and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame
Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!

Oh shame! that, in such a proud moment of life,
Worth the hist'ry of ages, when, had you but hurl'd
One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife
Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world—

That then—oh! disgrace upon manhood—ev'n then,
You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath;
Cow'r down into beasts, when you might have stood men,
And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.

It is strange, it is dreadful:—shout, Tyranny, shout
Through your dungeons and palaces, “Freedom is o'er;”—
If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.

395

For, if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss;
Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,
Than to sully ev'n chains by a struggle like this!