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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 sweet shady walks, for the Gods and their Loves,
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,
CONTENTMENT; OR, IF YOU PLEASE, CON-
To Mrs. Barlow, on her pleasantly telling the author, that after writing against the superstition of the Scripture religion, he was setting up a religion capable of more bigotry and enthusiasm, and more dangerous to its votaries—that of making a religion of Love.
O could we always live and love,
And always be sincere,
I would not wish for heaven above,
LINES EXTEMPORE. July, 1808.
Quick as the lightning's vivid flash,
Mark ambition's ruthless king,
With crimson'd banners scath the globe; While trailing after conquest's wing,
Man's fest'ring wounds his demons probe.
Pall'd with streams of reeking gore,
That stain the proud imperial day;
He turns to view the western shore,
Where freedom holds her boundless sway.
'Tis here her sage triumphant sways,