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I won't humanely crush thy bowels out,
Lest thou shouldst eat the flies;
For there is One who might
One day roast me.
Thou art welcome to a Rhymer sore perplext,
The subject of his verse;
Perhaps might comment worse.
Do thou thy work pursue,
As I will mine.
Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the ways
Of Satan, Sire of lies;
His toils, as thou for flies.
But where is He whose broom
The earth shall clean ?
Spider! of old thy flimsy webs were thought –
And 'twas a likeness true
To emblem laws in which the weak are caught,
But which the strong break through;
I'll warrant thee thou’lt drain
His life-blood dry.
And is not thy weak work like human schemes
And care on earth employed ? Such are young hopes and Love's delightful
dreams So easily destroyed; So does the Statesman, whilst the Avengers sleep, Self-deemed secure, his wiles in secret lay;
Soon shall destruction sweep
His work away.
Thou busy laborer! one resemblance more
May yet the verse prolong;
Whom thou hast helped in song.
Thy bowels thou dost spin,
I spin my brains.
THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM.
The rage of Babylon is roused,
The king puts forth his strength;
And Judah bends the bow,
Her walls are firm, her gates are strong,
Her youth gird on the sword;
High are her chiefs in hope,
But who is he whose voice of woe
Is heard amid the streets ;
Whose ominous voice proclaims Her strength and arms and promised succors vain?
His meagre cheek is pale and sunk;
Wild is his hollow eye,
Yet awful is its glance;
PROPHET of God! in vain thy lips
Proclaim the wae to come;
In vain thy warning voice Summons her rulers timely to repent.
The Ethiop changes not his skin:
Impious and reckless still,
The rulers spurn thy voice;
For now around Jerusalem
The countless foes appear;
Far as the eye can reach
Why is the warrior's cheek so pale?
Why droops the gallant youth,
Who late, in pride of heart,
'Tis not for terror that his eye
Swells with the struggling woe:
Oh! he could bear his ills,
His parents do not ask for food;
But they are weak with want:
His wife has given her babes
The consummating hour is come ;
Alas for Solyma!
How is she desolate,
And thou, thou miserable king!
Where is thy trusted flock,
Thy flock so beautiful ; Thy Father's throne, the temple of thy God?
Repentance brings not back the past;
It will not call again
Thy murdered sons to life,
Thou wretched, childless, blind old man !
Heavy thy punishment;
Dreadful thy present woes ;
THE DEATH OF WALLACE.
Joy, joy in London now! He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to death; At length the traitor meets the traitor's doom ;
Joy, joy in London now !
He on a sledge is drawn, His strong right arm unweaponed and in chains, And garlanded around his helmless head
The laurel wreath of scorn.
They throng to view him now
And faltered out a prayer.