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AN ADDRESS TO LORD HOWE.
At the time the following lines were written, Lord Howe was command. er in chief of the British forces in the American revolutionary war. Mr. Paine also addressed to him the second number of "The Crisis," dated at Philadelphia, Jan. 13, 1777; in which he remarks, "Your avowed object here, is to kill, conquer, plunder, pardon, and enslave; and the ravages of your army through the Jerseys, have been marked with as much barbarism as if you had openly professed yourself the prince of ruffians; not even the appearance of humanity has been preserved, either on the march or on the retreat of your troops. In a folio general order book, belonging to colonel Rhol's battalion, taken at Trenton, and now in possession of the council of safety of this state, the following barbarous order is frequently repeated, His Excellency, the Commander in Chief, orders, that all inhabitants who shall be found in arms, not having an officer with them, shall be immediately taken and hung up'! How many you may thus have privately sacrificed we know not, and the account can only be settled in another world."
The rain pours down, the city looks forlorn,
So oft has black revenge engross'd the care
From flight to flight the mental path appears,
In guilt alike, but more alike in fate,
Cursed supremely for the blood they drew,
Each from the rising world, while each was new.
Go, man of blood! true likeness of the first, And strew your blasted head with homely dust: In ashes sit-in wretched sackcloth weep, And with unpitied sorrows cease to sleep. Go haunt the tombs, and single out the place Where earth itself shall suffer a disgrace. Go spell the letters on some mouldering urn, And ask if he who sleeps there can return. Go count the numbers that in silence lie, And learn by study what it is to die; For sure your heart, if any heart you own, Conceits that man expires without a groan; That he who lives receives from you a grace, Or death is nothing but a change of place: That peace is dull, that joy from sorrow springs, And war the most desirable of things.
Else why these scenes that wound the feeling mind, This spot of death-this cockpit of mankind! Why sobs the widow in perpetual pain?
Why cries the orphan?" Oh! my father's slain!
And nods with manly grief?" My son is dead!"
Oh! could I paint the passion that I feel,
I'd send destruction and relieve mankind.
Since then no hopes to civilize remain,
One prayer is left, which dreads no proud reply,
TO SIR ROBERT SMITH.
As I will not attempt to rival your witty description of Love, (in which you say, "Love is like paper, with a fool it is wit, with a wit it is folly," &c.) I will retreat to sentiment, and try if I can match you there: and that I may start with a fair chance, I will begin with your own question,
WHAT IS LOVE?
'Tis that delightful transport we can feel,
When happy Love pours magic o'er the soul,
When Contemplation spreads her rainbow wings,
O yes, there are, but of a different kind,
When Love's a tyrant, and the soul a slave,
And what was once its dread, becomes relief.
What are the iron chains that hands have wrought?
Nor play with torture—or a tortured mind.
.Mr. Paine, while in prison in Paris, corresponded with a lady, under the signature of "The Castle in the Air," while she addressed her letters from "The Little Corner of the World." For reasons which he knew not, their intercourse was suddenly suspended, and for some time he believed his fair friend to be in obscurity and distress. Many years afterwards, however, he met her unexpectedly at Paris, in affluent circumstances, and married to Sir Robert Smith. The following is a copy of one of these poetical effusions.
THE CASTLE IN THE AIR,
THE LITTLE CORNER OF THE WORLD
In the region of clouds, where the whirlwinds arise,
The turrets reflected the blue from the skies,
The rainbow sometimes, in its beautiful state,
And the figures that fancy in clouds can create,
I had grottoes, and fountains, and orange tree groves, I had all that enchantment has told;
I had sweet shady walks, for the Gods and their Loves, I had mountains of coral and gold.
But a storm that I felt not, had risen and roll'd,
And when I look'd out in the morning, behold
It pass'd over rivers, and vallies, and groves,
I thought of my friends, of their fates, of their loves,
At length it came over a beautiful scene,
That nature in silence had made;
The place was but small, but 'twas sweetly serene,
I gazed and I envied with painful goodwill,
Like a lark from the sky it came fluttering down,
When who should I meet in this charming retreat,
Delighted to find you in honor and ease,
I felt no more sorrow, nor pain;
But the wind coming fair, I ascended the breeze,