Could check the free spring-tide of Mind, that re sounds, Even now, at his feet, like the sea at Canute's. But, no, 'tis in vain-the grand impulse is givenMan knows his high Charter, and knowing will claim; And if ruin must follow where fetters are riven, Be theirs, who have forg'd them, the guilt and the shame. "If the slave will be silent!"-vain Soldier, be ware There is a dead silence the wrong'd may assume, When the feeling, sent back from the lips in despair, But clings round the heart with a deadlier gloom ; When the blush, that long burn'd on the suppliant's cheek, Gives place to the' avenger's pale, resolute hue; And the tongue, that once threaten'd, disdaining to speak, Consigns to the arm the high office—to do. If men, in that silence, should think of the hour, To the despot on land and the foe on the flood: : That hour, when a Voice had come forth from the west, To the slave bringing hopes, to the tyrant alarms; And a lesson, long look'd for, was taught the op prest, That kings are as dust before freemen in arms! If, awfuller still, the mute slave should recall That dream of his boyhood, when Freedom's sweet day At length seem'd to break through a long night of thrall, And Union and Hope went abroad in its ray ;— If Fancy should tell him, that Day-spring of Good, Though swiftly its light died away from his Though darkly it set in a nation's best blood, If-if, I say-breathings like these should come o'er The chords of remembrance, and thrill, as they come, Then, perhaps—ay, perhaps—but I dare not say more; Thou hast will'd that thy slaves should be mute I am dumb. WRITE ON, WRITE ON. A BALLAD. Air." Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear." WRITE on, write on, ye Barons dear, One letter more, N-wc-stle, pen, To match Lord K-ny-n's two, And more than Ireland's host of men, One brace of Peers will do. Write on, write on, &c. Sure, never, since the precious use Of pen and ink began, Did letters, writ by fools, produce Such signal good to man. While intellect, 'mong high and low, Give me the Dukes and Lords, who go, Write on, write on, &c. Ev'n now I feel the coming light- My Lord M-ntc-sh-l, too, to write, By geese (we read in history), Old Rome was sav'd from ill; And now, to quills of geese, we see Old Rome indebted still. Write on, write on, &c. Write, write, ye Peers, nor stoop to style, Nor beat for sense about Things, little worth a Noble's while, You're better far without. Oh ne'er, since asses spoke of yore, For, write but four such letters more, And Freedom's cause is won! |