Poems Written in Close Confinement in The Tower and Newgate ::

Ah! who yet conscious of the social glow
Of Nature—or whose generous breast can feel
An offspring's future woe or future weal,
The cause of sacred Freedom would forego,
For aught luxurious Grandeur can bestow,
Or Tyranny inflict? Who that can view
In Meditation's glass the scenes of woe
The darling issue of his loins must know
Beneath the Despot's rod, but would pursue
(To Nature, and to Patriot virtue true)
The glorious chace of Liberty, and scorn
Each fierce opposing danger—the fell steel
Of ruthless Janissaries—the stern Bastille—
Its bars, its iron doors, and caves forlorn,
Ere leave a trampled Realm in chains to mourn?

Tower, 12th July, 1794.

SONNET II. TO TYRANNY.

O HELL born Tyranny! how blest the land
Whose watchful Citizens with dauntless breast
Oppose thy first approach! With aspect bland
Thou wont, alas! too oft, to lull to rest
The sterner virtues that should guard the throne
Of Liberty. Deck'd with the gaudy zone
Of Pomp, and usher'd with lascivious arts
Of glossing Luxury thy fraudful smile
Ensnares the dazzled senses, till our hearts
Sink, palsied, in degenerate lethargy.
Then bursts the swoln destruction forth; and while
Down the rough tide of Power Oppression drives
The shipwreck'd multitude, no hope survives,
But from the whelming storm of Anarchy.

Tower, 14th July, 1794.

SONNET III. TO LUXURY.

HENCE, Luxury! fell opiate of the soul!
Hence! with thy gaudy visions, that confound
The wildering sense, and to the base controul
Of Vice subdue thy votaries. On the ground
Where thy detested drugs are strew'd, shall blow
No flower of manly worth: there Liberty,
That on the rugged cliff delights to grow
Of virtuous Poverty, shall never shed
Its soul-reviving sweets; nor there shall spread
The wild flowers of Content, and guiltless Joy—
The twining woodbine Friendship—nor thy flower,
Fair Truth! that like the snow-drop, the stern power
Of Winter's blast defies: No, Luxury!
These, and each pure delight, thy noxious weeds destroy.

Tower, 16th July.

SONNET IV. TO SIMPLICITY OF MANNERS.

O for the Spartan Fife, to pierce the ear
Of slumbering Virtue, and again restore
Those ancient Manners—simple and severe,
That aw'd encroaching Tyranny!—No more
Should'st thou, degenerate Briton! then deplore
Thy desolated villages—thy plains,
(Where Joy no more, nor rural Plenty reigns)
Deserted for the distant, happy shore,
Where smiles thy once-lov'd Liberty: and where
No trampled myriads shed the bitter tear
Of Want, that pamper'd Luxury may lie
Stretch'd on her gorgeous couch, and quaff the strain
Of soul-seducing Flattery, while the train
Of Misery heave unheard the pleading sigh.

Tower, 17th July.

SONNET V. THE SOURCE OF SLAVERY.

AH! why, forgetful of her ancient fame,
Does Britain in lethargic fetters lie?
Why from the burning cheek, and kindling eye,
Burst no keen flashes of that sacred flame
That wont the free-born energies proclaim
Of Albion's hardy race?—Alas! we fly
The homely altars—slight the once-lov'd name
Of rustic Liberty, and deify
Luxurious Pride. To her the pliant soul
We bend degenerate! her vain pomps adore,
And chace the simple virtues from the shore
They wont to guard. Hence to the base controul
Of Tyranny we bow, nor once complain;
But hug with servile fear the gilded chain.

Tower, 17th July.

SONNET VI. TO ANCESTRY.

O, THAT there were indeed some hidden charm—
Some magic power in Ancestry!—thy shore,
O Britain! then, renown'd in days of yore
For gallant spirits, ne'er should brook the arm
Of tyrannous Oppression;—then no more
Should thy degenerate progeny adore
The arts of splendid Slavery, that now
Unnerve the soul, and of her 'custom'd vow
Defraud thy once-lov'd Liberty;—the lore
Of Freedom should be reverenc'd; nor the few,
To ancient fame, and patriot feeling true,
Who dare assert thy rights, deserted mourn—
From each endearing tie of Nature torn,
And from the dungeon's gloom their Country's fall deplore.

Tower, 17th July, 1794.

SONNET VII. THE VANITY OF NATIONAL GRANDEUR.

ILL fares the land to giddy lust of Power,
To Pomp, and vain Magnificence resign'd,
Whose wasteful arts the hard earn'd fruits devour
Wrung from the labours of the weary Hind,
And Artist's curious hand:—the cheated mind
May hail a while, 'tis true, the splendid hour,
Delusive; but Destruction hovers near:
The gaudy vapour fades!—dark tempests lour!
And fell Oppression's thunder shakes with fear
The enervate Soul. So the way-faring swain,
Loitering in trackless wilds, intent, admires
The gaudy clouds ting'd with Sol's parting fires,
Till dark'ning mists involve the spacious plain,
And rising tempests wake the prowling train—
Then from his trance awakes; and wails his fate—in vain!

Tower, 18th July, 1794.

SONNET VIII. ON THE REPORT OF THE DEATH OF THOMAS MUIR, ON BOARD THE SURPRISE, IN HIS PASSAGE TO BOTANY BAY.

AH, who shall now on happiness presume
From Parts of Virtue, on this thankless earth,
When, in the floating dungeon's noxious gloom,
Muir falls a victim to his Patriot worth?

That noble spirit, still for Freedom warm
Enlighten'd, manly, eloquent, and brave,
That fearless stemm'd Oppression's raging storm,
Has sunk, subdued, beneath the whelming wave.

Yet O brave Martyr! (if thy hovering shade
Still feel its wonted ardour) let the tear
And grateful honours to thy memory paid,
With kindling hopes thy Patriot spirit cheer—
Proofs that, with souls unaw'd, the virtuous few,
The sacred cause of Freedom still pursue.

Tower, 18th Sept. 1794.

SONNET IX. THE CELL.

WITHIN the Dungeon's noxious gloom
The Patriot still, with dauntless breast,
The cheerful aspect can assume—
And smile—in conscious Virtue blest!

The damp foul floor, the ragged wall,
And shattered window, grated high;
The trembling Ruffian may appal,
Whose thoughts no sweet resource supply.

But he, unaw'd by guilty fears,
(To Freedom and his Country true)
Who o'er a race of well-spent years
Can cast the retrospective view,
Looks inward to his heart, and sees
The objects that must ever please.

Newgate, 24th Oct.

SONNET X. TO THOMAS HARDY, ON HIS CONDUCT ON THE DAY OF HIS ACQUITTAL.

HARDY, whose Spartan virtue wakes the glow
Of generous emulation—while the tear
(Erewhile by Patriot zeal forbad to flow)
Amidst thy well-earn'd triumphs, o'er the bier
Of a lov'd Consort falls, our hearts bestow
Responsive drops, and brighter still appear
Thy manly virtues.—O supremely blest—
Could worth our bliss secure!—Thy generous soul,
By Nature's partial hand alike imprest
With Fortitude, above the base controul
Of Tyranny, and the diviner zest
Of social Tenderness, a meed shall claim
Beyond the Muse's praise, while deathless Fame
Inscribes, in Freedom's shrine, thy Patriot name.

Newgate, Nov. 6.

SONNET XI. THE PHŒNIX.

ON READING PHOCION'S FIRST LETTER IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE.

PHOCION—or whether from the Phœnix tomb
Of Junius, thou, with renovated youth,
Awak'st, to soar like him on equal plume
To Freedom's solar height, or art in truth
That Phœnix self—with eager joy we view
Thy daring flight, and thy bold course pursue
With new-reviving ardour, from thy wings
Shook thro' the bright'ning æther. Rarest bird,
For splendor and unequall'd flight preferr'd.
Still, o'er our sky when proud Oppression flings
Her veil of threat'ning clouds, to chill the soul
Of Britain's sons (once foremost at the goal
Of virtuous Liberty) may thou appear
Corruption's towering progress to controul,
And Freedom's drooping train with brighter visions cheer.

Newgate.

SONNET XII. THE CRISIS.

“I will not, like a careless poet, spoil
“The last act of my play, till now applauded,
“By giving the world just cause to say I fear'd
“Death more than the loss of honor.”
Beaumont and Fletcher.

IT comes—the awful hour!—Compatriots dear,
Who oft, confiding in my honest zeal,
And keen attachment to the public weal,
Bent to my artless theme the partial ear;
Now search my breast with scrutiny severe:
That breast which frequent in the swelling pride
Of youthful ardor, the stern threats defied
Of distant danger: mark, if now base fear
Palsy its boasted virtue—or if now
(Forgetful of the truths so oft upheld)
Abject beneath the imperious foot I bow
Of terror-vested Power—suppliant!—depress'd!—
Or one emotion feel, but what the breast
Of Hampden or of Sidney might have swell'd.

Newgate, Nov. 26.

ODE I. THE UNIVERSAL DUTY.

I.

THERE are, degenerate!—to the future blind—
Who deem the Patriot fervor—the firm soul
That spurns Oppression, and the base controul
Of Tyranny, should be to him resign'd,
To whose lone bosom for protection clings
No tender Bride—to whose embraces springs
No smiling infant, to awake the mind
To social tenderness.—Ah, fond mistake!
Freedom, the just inheritance of all,
Should be by all asserted; at the call
Of this eternal principle should wake,
As at th' Archangel's trump, the slumb'ring world;
And to the glorious standard, wide unfurl'd,
Of soul-ennobling Truth impatient throng;
While Civic-Virtue chaunts the martial song,
And on their blood-stain'd Thrones fell Tyrants shake.

II.

The enamour'd Youth, stung with ingenuous shame,
While at the Despot's nod his Country bows,
Should blush to meet the Virgin's answering vows
With unscar'd breast, or Love's endearments claim,
Till his indignant Virtue had been prov'd
In some brave effort. For the wretch, unmov'd
By Patriot Virtue, tho' his outward frame,
Blooming as spring, and gay as youthful steers,
Promise Love's joyous harvest, yet, pursu'd
By Slavery's abject terrors—aw'd—subdu'd—
To Hymen's couch but half his manhood bears.
Even hoary Age should fire the rising race
With grave example; and, the dire disgrace
To spurn, one brave, expiring effort lend;
Scorning beneath a servile yoke to bend
That of all reverence robs his silver hairs!

III.

But chief the Patriot flame should rouse the Sire
To deeds of manly Virtue, and inspire

The high disdain of Tyrannous controul.
Each Grace
New op'ning in the smiling face
Of a lov'd Infant, should awake his soul
To bolder energy:
For who that traces, with delighted eye,
In the Babe's playful features the soft smile
Of a lov'd Consort, or the bolder traits
Of his own manly form, but heaves the sigh,
And feels the burning blush, to think, the while
Inglorious indolence consumes his days,
The chains are forging by encroaching Power
Shall cramp those darling limbs, and bend that neck
Round which his anxious arms so oft entwin'd!
Ah! who could bear—nor curse his natal hour—
To see his offspring to the general wreck
Of fell Oppression hopelessly resign'd?
Or who, with Nature's generous feeling blest,
While o'er his couch the iron sceptre waves,
Would strain a trembling Partner to his breast,
And stamp his image on a brood of Slaves?

Tower, 13th July, 1794.

ODE II.

I. 1.

WHY toils my friend, to train the docile mind
Of yon gay stripling to the arduous chace
Of Virtue?—Why with greedy ear, reclin'd
In rapturous trance (while o'er his blooming face
The emulous suffusion steals, and wakes
Athenian ardour in his kindling eye)
Imbibes he the proud lesson, and partakes,
In strong Imagination, the fierce joy
Of Greece triumphant o'er the threat'ning hords
Of Persia's despot, when the Spartan spear
And Attica's firm phalanx mock'd the swords
Innumerous of marshall'd slaves, by fear
Alone of the fell scourge impell'd to wield
The forceless steel, and unavailing shield?

I. 2.

Or when the patriot legend greets his ear
Of Rome enfranchis'd from the galling yoke
Of Tarquin, (when the patriot soul severe
Of Brutus from the cloud of torpor broke;

And, brandishing the reeking steel, that shed
Chaste purple drops, fresh from the bleeding breast
Of wrong'd Lucretia, on the Tyrant's head
He pour'd avenging wrath—nor yet supprest
The indignant Virtue, when his sons conspir'd
Against their Country's freedom) wherefore swells
His youthful breast with Roman ardor fir'd,
While he, in turn, the like adventure tells—
How in the assembled Senate with firm blow
A second Brutus laid Rome's Tyrant low?

I. 3.

Ah, heedless parent! ere too late forego
The dangerous lesson; nor with fatal zeal
Wake that keen ardour for the public weal
Which might, in happier times, renown bestow,
And love, and admiration:—ah, forbear
To rouse those generous feelings whence shall flow
Down the lov'd cheek of him thy anxious care
So fondly nurtures, the sad drops that show
The inward-bleeding heart—the deep despair
And anguish that the Patriot bosom tear,
When Public Spirit buried in the tomb
Of Avarice lies; and from the fruitful womb

Of overgrown Corruption (unrestrain'd
By shame, or soft compunction) bursts to day
Oppression's monster brood—to havoc train'd,
And waste, and fell rapacity—that prey
Upon a Country's vitals, and destroy
Whate'er laborious Virtue should enjoy.

II. 1.

'Tis true, the antique tale may charm the ear
Of Athens, long with Arts and Freedom crown'd,
And Lacedæmon's hardy race, severe
In Patriot Virtue; each for arms renown'd,
And stedfast hate of Tyranny: nor thou,
Peaceful Achaia! less canst warm the mind
With sacred love of Justice:—for whose brow
Equality a Civic wreath entwin'd
Of all the softer Virtues that adorn
Humanity—and which, but on the soil
Where Freedom, like the dew-distilling morn
Sheds her bland influence, ever deign to smile.
But who would cherish now the sacred fire
These glowing scenes of ancient worth inspire?

II. 2.

Lo, for the patriot, now, whose manly voice
Loud in the cause of Justice, dare proclaim
A trampled People's sufferings—or rejoice
When Freedom triumphs, and, o'erwhelm'd with shame,
The routed hordes of Despotism retire—
Lo, what for him Tyrannic Power prepares,
Insatiable of vengeance!—for base hire
While perjur'd sycophants with treacherous snares
Encompass him around. Canst thou endure
The fruit of all thy cares immur'd should pine
Within the Dungeon's gloom, and drink, impure,
The Prison's pent-up breeze, where never shine
Or Morning's cheering beams, or the soft ray
That gilds with varying tints the fading day.

II. 3.

But what are these?—What is the Dungeon's gloom,
The gale impure that round the sullen walls
Creeps noxious, and, in deathful whispers, calls
The fiend Contagion to assure the doom

Which Tyranny pronounces?—What are these
(The worst that wait upon the ruffian crimes
Of Violence!) to what stern Power decrees
Should rend his feeling soul who, in the times
Of Tyrannous Corruption, dare proclaim
A Country's wrongs, and the insulted name
Of Liberty invoke—or call to mind
The deeds of Ancient Worth, which (ere resign'd
To Luxury and Avarice) the brave race
Of Albion's sons atchiev'd:—the deathless fame
Of steel-clad sires, who nobly dar'd to chace
The royal Lion to the toils, and claim
Their country's Charter;—the undaunted pride
Of Hampden, who a Tyrant's wrath defied,
And bled for Freedom;—or the virtuous zeal
Of Russell, Sidney, who like martyrs died,
The certain doom of Tyranny to seal?

III. 1.

To him, presumptuous, who the inspiring theme
Dares thus recount of Albion's former fame,
Or strife of Patriot Heroes to redeem
Invaded Liberty—To him—oh, shame

Of this degenerate age!—To him no more
The cheering voice of confidence shall flow,
Nor friend, nor gentle relative, explore
The feelings of his heart; no more the glow
Of social tenderness, whose smiles bestow
Hope in despair, and in affliction joy,
Shall warm his breast, but solitude consume
His cheerless days, and the fine nerve destroy
Of soul-ennobling sympathy.—Such doom
Must Virtue now experience in the isle
That vainly boasts of Freedom's partial smile.

III. 2.

And wilt thou yet the filial pupil train
To deeds of Patriot worth? Wilt thou still seek
To enforce the scorn of strong Oppression's chain,
And call the blushing virtue in his cheek
With themes of emulation? Generous Sire!
Thine is a Roman's part—the awful zeal
That fir'd the Consul's soul, whose Patriot ire
Condemn'd his offspring for the general weal
To ignominious death. Yet, oh, proceed;
Instil the lore of Virtue, and imbue
His youthful reason with the sacred creed,
That not for self alone—not for the few

Whom kindred ties endear, we live. The soul
By Justice warm'd pants for the kindred whole.

III. 3.

Fired with this truth, the energetic mind
Rises superior to the vengeful pride
Of Power, and, with unfailing stores supplied
Of intellectual ardour, leaves behind
The world's ignoble passions—such as bow
The flexile soul—and chief desponding Fear,
That with ideal terrors arms the brow
Of tyrant Death, and barbs the lifted spear.
What then, to those who breathe the heart-felt vow
At Freedom's shrine, and the pure flame avow
Of Virtue—what are dungeons?—what the gloom
Of Solitude, to him who thus can turn
From Self to Sentient Nature— to the doom
Of myriads yet in embrio, who shall learn
To bless his virtues, and enjoy secure
The Liberty he toil'd for? Blissful thought!
Who would not bleed such prospects to insure,
And own the patriot triumph cheaply bought?

NELLY's COMPLAINT.

A BALLAD. ON THE MARCH OF A DETACHMENT OF GUARDS FROM THE TOWER; TO JOIN THE ARMY IN FLANDERS.

WHEN Willy first, by war's alarms,
Was summon'd to the hostile shores,
Keen sorrow dimm'd young Nelly's charms;
And thus the nymph her fate deplores:—

“Ah, foul befal the wicked wights
“Who plunge the world in endless strife,
“Which Love's delightful harvest blights,
“And blasts each tender joy of life?

“Must Willy, from his Country torn,
“A stranger's doubtful cause sustain,
“And leave his faithful maid to mourn,
“O'er vows of Love return'd in vain?

“Must he the weary march sustain,
“And rest on the unshelter'd ground,
“While ruthless winds, and pelting rain,
“And countless dangers rage around?

“Must he the graceful form expose,
“That early won my virgin heart,
“Where cannon, placed in murd'rous rows,
“At once a thousand deaths impart?

“Ah yet, ye great ones! pause and hear—
“Let Peace dispel these dire alarms;
“Ah! dry the widow's, virgin's tear,
“Nor tear my Willy from my arms.”

She sigh'd, and dropp'd the pearly show'r,
And rear'd her pleading arms on high.
But what avails to haughty pow'r
The humble maiden's pleading sigh?

Still, at the nod of ruthless pride,
The widow-making cannon roars;
And torn from Nelly's faithful side,
Her Willy seeks the hostile shores.

Tower, 5th July, 1794.

STANZAS ON HEARING FOR CERTAINTY THAT WE WERE TO BE TRIED FOR HIGH TREASON.

SHORT is perhaps our date of life,
But let us while we live be gay—
To those be thought and anxious care
Who build upon the distant day.

Tho' in our cup tyrannic Power
Would dash the bitter dregs of fear,
We'll gaily quaff the mantling draught,
While patriot toasts the fancy cheer.

Sings not the seaman, tempest-tost,
When surges wash the rivven shroud—
Scorning the threat'ning voice of Fate,
That pipes in rocking winds aloud?

Yes;—he can take his cheerful glass,
And toast his mistress in the storm,
While duty and remember'd joys
By turns his honest bosom warm.

And shall not we, in storms of state,
At base Oppression's fury laugh,
And while the vital spirits flow,
To Freedom fill, and fearless quaff?

Short is perhaps our date of life,
But let us while we live be gay—
To those be thought and anxious care
Who build upon the distant day.

Tower, Sept. 28, 1794.

STANZAS ON HAPPINESS.

WHO is the man that's truly blest?
Not he who in inglorious ease
Saunters thro' life;—whose sordid breast
The sensual joy alone can please.

Not he who waits the slow decays
Of sickness or decrepid age,
Counting the long—long—listless days
That no benignant views engage.

No; but the man whose generous soul
Glows with the love of Human kind;
Who, pressing on to Freedom's goal,
Casts every selfish thought behind.

'Tis he—the Patriot—honour'd name!
Blest with a heart that cannot fear,
Can best the proud distinction claim
Of solid bliss, and joy sincere.

What tho' Oppression's iron fang
Arrest him, yet in youthful bloom?
He owns perhaps one kindred pang;—
And then—exulting! meets his doom.

His Country o'er the ruthless deed
Perhaps the future tear may shed:
But he can glory so to bleed
As Russell and as Sidney bled!

Tower, 18th Oct. 1794.

ANACREONTIC.

'TIS not how long we have to live,
But how much Pleasure is to come,
That real Wisdom would enquire,
Could Oracles proclaim our doom.

Could we, like those before the Flood,
Instead of years, by cent'ries count,
If fetter'd by monastic rules,
Say, what would be the vast amount?

Days, months, and years—the driv'ller's tale—
Are cyphers—and for nothing tell:
Enjoyments are the numeral signs
That Life's intrinsic value swell.

Then let us seize the present hour,
The bliss within our grasp enjoy;
Since well we know, Bliss once possess'd
Not Jove himself can e'er destroy.

Who will, Oppression's power may aid,
(Crouching beneath the iron rod!)
And yield his cheerful powers of mind
Obsequious to the haughty nod.

For me—what force would grasp in vain
I scorn, from timid awe, to give:—
My Life the Tyrant may destroy;—
But not my Pleasures while I live.

Tower, 18th Oct. 1794.

STANZAS, WRITTEN ON THE MORNING OF TRIAL, TO THE FOUR PRISONERS LIBERATED ON THE SAME DAY.

PATRIOTS belov'd, with whom so long
Oppression's fang I've borne,
Attend the cordial, parting song,
That greets this happy morn.

Tho' o'er my head the harpy Power
Still yell for guiltless blood,
I hail the long-expected hour
Fraught with your present good.

Go, cheer again the kindred train,
And long-divided friend;
The fair one to your bosom strain,
And all her terrors end.

Go, fill the laughing goblet high
To Freedom, Mirth, and Love;
And, as the unheeded minutes fly,
The social joy improve:

For sweeter, from the lonely cell
At length to life restor'd,
Shall every soft emotion swell
Around the social board.

For me, who thus your triumph greet,
The struggle still remains.
And I with pride the contest meet
May snap a People's chains.

Yes—whatsoe'er my fate decree,
This prospect cheers my breast,
The contest shall assist to free
A nation sore opprest.

Should Tyrant arts my fall secure—
A martyr, with my blood
The seeds of Freedom I manure,
Of Truth, and Public-good.

But should I triumph, every power
And effort of my mind
Has tenfold virtue, from that hour,
To benefit mankind.

Newgate, Dec. 1.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

POEMS.

SONNET I. THE FEELINGS OF A PARENT.