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And yet a strange and horrid curse

Clung upon Peter, night and day;
Month after month the thing grew worse,
And deadlier than in this my verse,
I can find strength to say.

Peter was dull-he was at first

Dull-O, so dull—so very dull ! Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed, Still with this dulness was he cursed, Dull-beyond all conception-dull.

No one could read his books—no mortal,
But a few natural friends, would hear him;
The parson came not near his portal;
His state was like that of the immortal

Described by Swift-no man could bear him.

His sister, wife, and children yawned,
With a long, slow, and drear ennui,

All human patience far beyond;

Their hopes of Heaven each would have pawned, Anywhere else to be.

But in his verse, and in his prose,
The essence of his dulness was
Concentred and compressed so close,
Twould have made Guatimozin dose
On his red gridiron of brass.

A printer's boy, folding those pages,

Fell slumberously upon one side;

Like those famed seven who slept three ages: To wakeful frenzy's vigil rages,

As opiates, were the same applied.

Even the Reviewers who were hired
To do the work of his reviewing,
With adamantine nerves, grew tired;
Gaping and torpid they retired,

To dream of what they should be doing.

And worse and worse, the drowsy curse
Yawned in him, till it grew a pest,

A wide contagious atmosphere

Creeping like cold through all things near,
A power to infect and to infest.

His servant-maids and dogs grew dull;
His kitten, late a sportive elf,
The woods and lakes, so beautiful,
Of dim stupidity were full;

All grew dull as Peter's self.

The earth under his feet-the springs
Which lived within it a quick life,
The air, the winds of many wings
That fan it with new murmurings,

Were dead to their harmonious strife.

The birds and beasts within the wood,
The insects, and each creeping thing,
Were now a silent multitude;

Love's work was left unwrought-no brood
Near Peter's house took wing.

And every neighbouring cottager
Stupidly yawned upon the other.
No jack-ass brayed; no little cur
Cocked up his ears ;-no man would stir
To save a dying mother.

Yes! all from that charmed district went
But some half-idiot and half-knave,

Who rather than pay any rent,
Would live with marvellous content
Over his father's grave.

No bailiff dared within that space,
For fear of the dull charm, to enter;

A man would bear upon his face,
For fifteen months in any case,
The yawn of such a venture.

Seven miles above-below-around-
This pest of dulness holds its sway;

A ghastly life without a sound;
To Peter's soul the spell is bound-
How should it ever pass away?

LINES

WRITTEN DURING THE CASTLEREAGH ADMINISTRATION.

CORPSES are cold in the tomb,

Stones on the pavement are dumb;
Abortions are dead in the womb,

And their mothers look pale-like the white shore
Of Albion, free no more.

Her sons are as stones in the way;
They are masses of senseless clay;
They are trodden and move not away;
The abortion, with which she travaileth,
Is Liberty-smitten to death.

Then trample and dance, thou oppressor;
For thy victim is no redressor;

Thou art sole lord and possessor

Of her corpses, and clods, and abortions-they pave Thy path to the grave.

Hearest thou the festival din

Of death and destruction, and sin,
And wealth, crying Havoc! within?

Tis the Bacchanal triumph, which makes truth dumb,

Thine Epithalamium.

Ay, marry thy ghastly wife!

Let fear, and disquiet, and strife

Spread thy couch in the chamber of life; Marry Ruin, thou tyrant! and God be thy guide To the bed of the bride.

SONG

TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND.

MEN of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?

Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat-nay, drink your blood!

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm ?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?

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