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Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys;

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And worse than all, and most to be deplored,

As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat

With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding. heart,

Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast.25 Then what is man? And what man seeing this,

And having human feelings, does not blush

And hang his head, to think himself a man?

I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,

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And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth

That sinews bought and sold have ever earned.

No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
Just estimation prized above all price,
I had much rather be myself the slave
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on
him.

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From BOOK V

There shame to manhood, and opprobri

ous more

To France than all her losses and defeats Old or of later date, by sea or land, 381 Her house of bondage worse than that of old

Which God avenged on Pharaoh-the Bastile!

Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts,

Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair, 385 That monarchs have supplied from age to age

With music such as suits their sovereign

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ON THE RECEIPT OF MY
MOTHER'S PICTURE

Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed

With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,

The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"

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The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalise, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim

To quench it) here shines on me still the

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Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bidst me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long,

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By expectation every day beguiled,

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Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,

Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 45 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;

And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped

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In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped,

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A thousand other themes less deeply traced.

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;

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Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks be-
stowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;

All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no

fall, 65 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes

That humor interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 70
Such honors to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little
noticed here.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,

When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,

The violet, the pink, and jassamine,

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I pricked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while,

Would softly speak, and stroke my head and smile),

Could those few pleasant days again

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And day by day some current's thwarting And since thou ownest that praise, I spare force

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thee mine.

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To have renewed the joys that once were mine,

Without the sin of violating thine:

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He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld;

And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repelled;

And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried "Adieu!"

At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more:
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him; but the page

Of narrative sincere,

That tells his name, his worth, his age,
Is wet with Anson's tear:
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.

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