Part 4 (1/2)

A FOREST FOR THE KING'S HAWKS

Say, what is Ma-jest-y without externals?

Is Burke's a.n.a.lysis not right--”A Jest”?

Ah, but a jest, at which the poor, oft pressed To their last heart-drop, laugh not, like court journals.

The King needs coin, and, where he sowed no kernels, Wants the whole forest for his hawks to nest And breed in, and became an annual pest; In this the farmers show that they discern ills.

Hark! blares the tyrant's horn and, in a thrice, The Tories gather. Eagerly they band, For is the King not greater than the land?

And rows with royalty, a rabble's vice?

Besides, what creeping tribes at his command, And Spies and Hessians at a ferret's price!

TO ARMS SHOUTS FREEDOM

To Arms! shouts Freedom to her sons. Behold!

How, like Job's war-horse, they gulp down the ground To battle! What care they how foes surround?

Oh, joy to Celts, nigh half the true and bold!

There, with the roar of all their wrongs uprolled From ancient depths, they dash with billow-bound Up rock and summit, and through cave and mound, Spurning both Tyrants' steel and Treason's gold.

No tide are they to ebb in heart and spirit.

If dashed back, they return with all the force Of six dark sea's momentum on its course For vengeance on the vile, who disinherit The human-being--shut off every source Of happiness, or let but Serf's draw near it!

BRITISH SOLDIERY

The wounded Sidney, who despite his thirst, Gave water to his comrade, s.h.i.+nes, a lamp In the Cimerian dark of Britain's camp.

Even the Raleigh, who so finely versed, Preferred to such a light, the flame accursed Of sword and torch, to please a royal vamp.

Is British triumph in its world-wide tramp The h.e.l.l, still ”lower than lowest”--Milton's worst?

Lord Christ! is British soldiery the swine, In whose gross forms the fiends, exercised, flew?

Oh! watch them through the ages, they pursue The n.o.ble and devour all things Divine.

Look! they ill.u.s.trate horrors, which prove true The h.e.l.l, which Milton's glimpse could not outline.

AMPHIBIOUS BARRY

Look! Freedom glares and pallid as a ghost, Except for gashes on her brow and breast, And faint from hunger, sits awhile to rest.