Gonne to hys death-bedde, See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Gon to hys death-bedde, Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, Gonne to hys death-bedde, 25 30 35 40 waves His nature, and, though capable of arts To distant shores, and she would sit and By which the world might profit and him 555 Though pressed with hunger oft, or come- I see a column of slow-rising smoke O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung 560 Between two poles upon a stick transverse, Receives the morsel; flesh obscene of dog, Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloined From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race! They pick their fuel out of every hedge, 565 Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquenched The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide 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 That even our enemies, so oft employed In forging chains for us, themselves were free: For he that values liberty, confines 395 him Wherever pleaded; 'tis the cause of man. 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, |