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Letters four do form his name.
He let me loose, and cried, Halloo !
To him alone the praise is due.

FIRE.

Sisters! I from Ireland came !
Hedge and corn-fields all on flame,
I triumphed o'er the setting sun !
And all the while the work was done,
On as strode with my huge strides,
I flung back my head and I held my

sides,
It was so rare a piece of fun
To see the sweltered cattle run
With uncouth gallop through the night,
Scared by the red and noisy light!
By the light of his own blazing cot
Was many a naked Rebel shot:
The house-stream met the flame and hissed,
While crash ! fell in the roof, I wist,
On some of those old bed-rid nurses,
That deal in discontent and curses.

Воотн. .

Who bade

you

do't ?

FIRE.

The same! The same! Letters four do form his name.

He let me loose, and cried Halloo !
To him alone the praise is due.

ALL.

He let us loose, and cried Halloo ! How shall we yield him honour due ?

FAMINE.
Wisdom comes with lack of food.

I'll
gnaw

the multitude, Till the

cup

of
rage

o'erbrim :
They shall seize him and his brood-

I'll gnaw,

SLAUGHTER.

They shall tear him limb from limb!

FIRE.

O thankless beldames and untrue !
And is this all that you can do
For him, who did so much for you?
Ninety months he, by my troth !
Hath richly catered for you both;
And in an hour would you repay
An eight years' work ?-Away! away!
I alone am faithful! I
Cling to him everlastingly.

1796.

II. LOVE POEMS.

Quas humilis tenero stylus olim effudit in ævo.
Perlegis hic lacrymas, et quod pharetratus acutâ
Ille puer puero fecit mihi cuspide vulnus,
Omnia paulatim consumit longior ætas,
Vivendoque simul morimur, rapimurque manendo.
Ipse mihi collatus enim non ille videbor :
Frons alia est, moresque alii, nova mentis imago,
Voxque aliud sonat-
Pectore nunc gelido calidos miseremur amantes,
Jamque arsisse pudet. Veteres tranquilla tumultus
Mens horret relegensque alium putat ista locutum.'

PETRARCH.

1

LOVE.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,

Beside the ruined tower.

The Moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,

My own dear Genevieve !

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