Both.

The same! the same!

SLAUGHTER.

He came by stealth, and unlock'd my den,
And I have drunk the blood since then
Of thrice three hundred thousand men.

Both.

Who bade you do 't?

SLAUGHTER.

The same! the same!

Letters four do form his name.

He let me loose, and cried, Halloo !

To him alone the praise is due.

FAMINE.

Thanks, sisters, thanks! the men have bled,
Their wives and their children faint for bread.
I stood in a swampy field of battle;
With bones and skulls I made a rattle,
To frighten the wolf and carrion-crow
And the homeless dog-but they would not go.
So off I flew for how could I bear
To see them gorge their dainty fare?
I heard a groan and a peevish squall,
And through the chink of a cottage-wall-
Can you guess what I saw there?

Both.

Whisper it, sister! in our ear.

FAMINE.

A baby beat its dying mother:

I had starved the one and was starving the

other!

Who bade you do 't?

Both.

FAMINE.

The same! the same!

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 triumph'd o'er the setting sun!
And all the while the work was done,
On as I 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 swelter'd 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 hiss'd,
While, crash! fell in the roof, I wist,
On some of those old bed-rid nurses,
That deal in discontent and curses.

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, I'll gnaw the multitude,
Till the cup of rage o'erbrim :
They shall seize him and his brood-

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?
Ninety1 months he, by my troth!
Hath richly cater'd 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.

1 Ninety.] This puts us back to the breaking out of the French Revolution.

II. LOVE POEMS.

"Quas1 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.

LOVE.*

LL 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,

1 Quas, &c.] The quotation is worth conning over. * A fragment of The Ballad of the Dark Ladie. For others, see" Miscellaneous Poems and Fragments." First published in The Morning Post, in 1799, and afterwards in the second edition of Lyrical Ballads, in 1800.

When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruin'd 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!

She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listen'd to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing

The songs that make her grieve.

I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story—
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

The moonshine, &c.] The idea occurs in Coleridge's description of his ascent of the Brocken, written, like the poem, immediately upon his return from Germany :— "The moon above us blending with the evening light.". Gillman's Life of Coleridge.