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More blooming than the spring, and sweeter far, 70 Than asphodels or roses infant sweets.

Oh! I could dwell forever on his praise,
Yet think eternity was scarce enough

To tell the mighty theme; here in my breast
His image dwells, but one dear thought of him,
75 When fancy paints his Person to my eye,
As he was wont in tenderness dissolv'd,
Sighing his vows, or kneeling at my feet,
Wipes off all mem'ry of my wretchedness.
VARDANES. I know this brav'ry is affected, yet
80 It gives me joy, to think my rival only
Can in imagination taste thy beauties.
Let him, 'twill ease him in his solitude,
And gild the horrors of his prison-house,
Till death shall -

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EVANTHE.

Ha! what was that? till death-ye Gods!

Ah, now I feel distress's tort'ring pang -
Thou canst not villain — darst not think his death-
O mis'ry! -

VARDANES. Naught but your kindness saves him, 90 Yet bless me with your love, and he is safe;

But the same frown which kills my growing hopes,
Gives him to death.

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN

A Mysterious Voice

(From Wieland, Chap. IX)

I returned to the closet, and once more put my hand upon the lock. Oh, may my ears lose their sensibility ere they be again assailed by a shriek so terrible! Not merely my understanding was subdued by the sound; it acted on my 5 nerves like an edge of steel. It appeared to cut asunder the fibres of my brain and rack every joint with agony.

The cry, loud and piercing as it was, was nevertheless human. No articulation was ever more distinct. The breath which accompanied it did not fan my hair, yet did every circumstance combine to persuade me that the lips 10 which uttered it touched my very shoulder.

"Hold! hold!" were the words of this tremendous prohibition, in whose tone the whole soul seemed to be wrapped up, and every energy converted into eagerness and terror.

Shuddering, I dashed myself against the wall, and, by 15 the same involuntary impulse, turned my face backward to examine the mysterious monitor. The moonlight streamed into each window, and every corner of the room was conspicuous, and yet I beheld nothing!

The interval was too brief to be artificially measured, be- 20 tween the utterance of these words and my scrutiny directed to the quarter whence they came. Yet, if a human being had been there, could he fail to have been visible? Which of my senses was the prey of a fatal illusion? The shock which the sound produced was still felt in every part of my 25 frame. The sound, therefore, could not but be a genuine commotion. But that I had heard it was not more true than that the being who uttered it was stationed at my right ear; yet my attendant was invisible.

I cannot describe the state of my thoughts at that 30 moment. Surprise had mastered my faculties. My frame shook, and the vital current was congealed. I was conscious only to the vehemence of my sensations. This condition could not be lasting. Like a tide, which suddenly mounts to an overwhelming height and then gradually subsides, my 35 confusion slowly gave place to order, and my tumults to a calm. I was able to deliberate and move. I resumed my feet, and advanced into the midst of the room. Upward, and behind, and on each side, I threw penetrating glances. I was not satisfied with one examination. He that hitherto 40

refused to be seen might change his purpose, and on the next survey be clearly distinguishable.

I

Solitude imposes least restraint upon the fancy. Dark is less fertile of images than the feeble lustre of the moon. 45 was alone, and the walls were checkered by shadowy forms. As the moon passed behind a cloud and emerged, these shadows seemed to be endowed with life, and to move. The apartment was open to the breeze, and the curtain was occasionally blown from its ordinary position. This motion 50 was not unaccompanied with sound. I failed not to snatch a look and to listen when this motion and this sound occurred. My belief that my monitor was posted near was strong, and instantly converted these appearances to tokens of his presence; and yet I could discern nothing.

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PHILIP FRENEAU

A Political Litany

Libera nos, Domine - Deliver us, O Lord,
Not only from British dependence, but also,

From a junto that labor for absolute power,

Whose schemes disappointed have made them look sour;
From the lords of the council, who fight against freedom
Who still follow on where delusion shall lead 'em.

From groups at Saint James's who slight our Petitions,
And fools that are waiting for further submissions;
From a nation whose manners are rough and abrupt,
From scoundrels and rascals whom gold can corrupt.

From pirates sent out by command of the king
To murder and plunder, but never to swing;
From Wallace, and Graves, and Vipors, and Roses,
Whom, if Heaven pleases, we'll give bloody noses.

From the valiant Dunmore, with his crew of banditti

Who plunder Virginians at Williamsburg city,
From hot-headed Montague, mighty to swear,

The little fat man with his pretty white hair.

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From bishops in Britain, who butchers are grown,
From slaves that would die for a smile from the throne,
From assemblies that vote against Congress' proceedings
(Who now see the fruit of their stupid misleadings).

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From Tryon, the mighty, who flies from our city,

And swelled with importance, disdains the committee

(But since he is pleased to proclaim us his foes, What the devil care we where the devil he goes).

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From the caitiff, Lord North, who would bind us in chains,

From our noble King Log, with his toothful of brains,
Who dreams, and is certain (when taking a nap),

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He has conquered our lands as they lay on his map.

From a kingdom that bullies, and hectors, and swears,
I send up to Heaven my wishes and prayers

That we, disunited, may freemen be still,
And Britain go on- - to be damn'd if she will.

Eutaw Springs

At Eutaw Springs the valiant died;
Their limbs with dust are covered o'er

Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
How many heroes are no more!

If in this wreck of ruin, they

Can yet be thought to claim a tear,
O smite your gentle breast, and say

The friends of freedom slumber here!

Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain,
If goodness rules thy generous breast,
Sigh for the wasted rural reign;

Sigh for the shepherds, sunk to rest!

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Stranger, their humble graves adorn;
You too may fall, and ask a tear;
'Tis not the beauty of the morn

That proves the evening shall be clear.

They saw their injured country's woe;

The flaming town, the wasted field;
Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;
They took the spear-but left the shield.

Led by thy conquering genius, Greene,
The Britons they compelled to fly;
None distant viewed the fatal plain,
None grieved, in such a cause to die
But, like the Parthian, famed of old,
Who, flying, still their arrows threw,
These routed Britons, full as bold,
Retreated, and retreating slew.

Now rest in peace, our patriot band;
Though far from nature's limits thrown,

We trust they find a happier land,
A brighter sunshine of their own.

The Wild Honey Suckle

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:

No roving foot shall crush thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;

Thus quietly thy summer goes,
Thy days declining to repose.

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