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August, 1802.

Fair Star of Evening, Splendor of the West,
Star of my Country! on the horizon's brink
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
On England's bosom; yet well pleas'd to rest,
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,

Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink,
Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest

In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, it is England; there it lies.
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory! I, with many a fear
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among Men who do not love her linger here.



August, 1802.

Is it a Reed that's shaken by the wind,

Or what is it that ye go forth to see?

Lords, Lawyers, Statesmen, Squires of low degree,

Men known, and men unknown, Sick, Lame, and Blind, Post forward all, like Creatures of one kind,

With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee

In France, before the new-born Majesty.
'Tis ever thus. Ye Men of prostrate mind!
A seemly reverence may be paid to power;
But that's a loyal virtue, never sown

In haste, nor springing with a transient shower:
When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown
What hardship had it been to wait an hour?

Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone!





On the Road leading to Ardres, August 7th, 1802.

Jones! when from Calais southward you

and I

Travell❜d on foot together; then this Way,
Which I am pacing now, was like the May
With festivals of new-born Liberty:

A homeless sound of joy was in the Sky;
The antiquated Earth, as one might say,

Beat like the heart of Man: songs, garlands, play,
Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh!

And now, sole register that these things were,
Two solitary greetings have I heard,

"Good morrow, Citizen!” a hollow word,
As if a dead Man spake it! Yet despair
I feel not happy am I as a Bird:

Fair seasons yet will come, and hopes as fair.


I griev❜d for Buonaparte, with a vain

And an unthinking grief! the vital blood

Of that Man's mind what can it be? What food

Fed his first hopes? What knowledge could He gain?

'Tis not in battles that from youth we train

The Governor who must be wise and good,

And temper with the sternness of the brain
Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk
Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk
Of the mind's business: these are the degrees
By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk
True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.

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