Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; 20 And worse than all, and most to be deplored, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding. heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast.25 Then what is man? And what man seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 30 And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 35 From BOOK V There shame to manhood, and opprobri ous more To France than all her losses and defeats Old or of later date, by sea or land, 381 Her house of bondage worse than that of old Which God avenged on Pharaoh-the Bastile! Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts, Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair, 385 That monarchs have supplied from age to age With music such as suits their sovereign ON THE RECEIPT OF MY Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" 6 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalise, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bidst me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long, By expectation every day beguiled, 40 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 45 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 50 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; 61 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 65 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes That humor interposed too often makes; Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jassamine, 75 I pricked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Would softly speak, and stroke my head and smile), Could those few pleasant days again And day by day some current's thwarting And since thou ownest that praise, I spare force thee mine. 115 To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine: He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld; And so long he, with unspent power, And ever, as the minutes flew, At length, his transient respite past, No poet wept him; but the page Of narrative sincere, That tells his name, his worth, his age, 40 45 50 |