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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,
And gloomy subjects suit the howling morn;
Close by my fire, with door and window fast,
And safely shelter'd from the driving blast,
To gayer thoughts I bid a day's adieu,
To spend a scene of solitude with you.

So oft has black revenge engross'd the care
Of all the leisure hours man finds to spare;
So oft has guilt, in all her thousand dens,
Call'd for the vengeance of chastising pens;
That while I fain would ease my heart on you,
No thought is left untuld, no passion new.

From flight to flight the mental path appears,
Worn with the steps of near six thousand years,
And fill'd throughout with every scene of pain,
From George the murderer down .o murderous Cain.
Alike in cruelty, alike in hate,

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!
Why hangs the sire his paralytic head,

And nods with manly grief?" My son is dead!"
Why drops the tear from off the sister's cheek,
And sweetly tells the misery she would speak?
Or why, in sorrow sunk, does pensive John
To all the neighbors tell, "Poor master's gone!"

Oh! could I paint the passion that I feel,
Or point a horror that would wound like steel,
To thy unfeeling, unrelenting mind,

I'd send destruction and relieve mankind.
You that are husbands, fathers, brothers, all
The tender names which kindred learn to call;
Yet like an image carved in massy stone,
You bear the shape, but sentiment have none;
Allied by dust and figure, not with mind,
You only herd, but live not with mankind.

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Since then no hopes to civilize remain,
And mild Philosophy has preached in vain,

One prayer is left, which dreads no proud reply,
That he who made you breathe will make

you die.

TO SIR ROBERT SMITH.

Paris, 1800.

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,
Which painters cannot paint, nor words reveal,
Nor any art we know of-can conceal.
Canst thou describe the sunbeams to the blind,
Or make him feel a shadow with his mind?
So neither can we by description show
This first of all felicities below.

When happy Love pours magic o'er the soul,
And all our thoughts in sweet delirium roll;

When Contemplation spreads her rainbow wings,
And every flutter some new rapture brings;
How sweetly then our moments glide away,
And dreams repeat the raptures of the day:
We live in ecstacy, to all things kind,
For Love can teach a moral to the mind.
But are there not some other marks that prove,
What is this wonder of the soul, call'd Love?

O yes, there are, but of a different kind,
The dreadful horrors of a dismal mind.
Some jealous fury throws her poison'd dart,
And rends in pieces the distracted heart.

When Love's a tyrant, and the soul a slave,
No hopes remain to thought, but in the grave;
In that dark den, it sees an end to grief,

And what was once its dread, becomes relief.

What are the iron chains that hands have wrought?
The hardest chains to break are those of thought,
Think well of this, ye lovers, and be kind,

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.

FROM

THE CASTLE IN THE AIR,

ΤΟ

THE LITTLE CORNER OF THE WORLD

In the region of clouds, where the whirlwinds arise,
My Castle of Fancy was built;

The turrets reflected the blue from the skies,
And the windows with sunbeams were gilt.

SIB

The rainbow sometimes, in its beautiful state,
Enamell'd the mansion around;

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And the figures that fancy in clouds can create,
Supplied me with gardens and ground.

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,
While wrapp'd in a slumber I lay;

And when I look'd out in the morning, behold
My Castle was carried
away.

It pass'd over rivers, and vallies, and groves,
The world it was all in my view;

I thought of my friends, of their fates, of their loves,
And often, full often of you.

At length it came over a beautiful scene,

That nature in silence had made;

The place was but small, but 'twas sweetly serene,
And chequer'd with sunshine and shade.

I gazed and I envied with painful goodwill,
And grew tired of my seat in the air;
When all of a sudden my Castle stood still,
As if some attraction was there.

Like a lark from the sky it came fluttering down,
And placed me exactly in view,

When who should I meet in this charming retreat,
This corner of calmness, but You.

Delighted to find you in honor and ease,

I felt no more sorrow, nor pain;

But the wind coming fair, I ascended the breeze,
And went back with my Castle again.

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