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Last is the place de Greve where the guillotine was erected.

Yon is the Hotel de Ville with Fayette's red flag at the window ;
Calm stands fronting the scaffold, his confessor kneeling beside him,
Louis, his neckcloth off,-


Fie, fie, we will look at no more such.


Happy who dwells in the village afar from the mischief of faction,
Hears of the war but on club-nights over his pipe at the alehouse,
Safe in his thatch'd snug home grows old with the elms of his planting,
Rears by his honest toil a healthy and innocent offspring,

And in his own church-yard deposes the bones of his old age.



Should not you like tho' once in your life to travel to London?


Not if I thought some serjeant would chouse me to go with the army.
Happy who stays in his village nor strolls to the scene of temptation,
Pleas'd that his coffin should stand in as humble a room as his cradle.
Over the common on which he, a boy, first practis'd at trap-ball,
Daily he trudges delighted the well-known way to his task-work;
Strife is unknown to him save wrestling for breeches of buckskin,
Bowling for porter at nine-pins, shooting at marks on the May-pole,
And if he wins the tankard and sees it carried before him

Hoop'd with garlands and ribbands which she his favourite coil'd, while
Shouting the lads are proclaiming him loudly their May-king,
He would not change with the far-fam'd Bonaparte his fortune.


How you remember your winning the silver gift of the Rector!



That was the day I can tell you that earn'd you the love of your sweetheart;
Marry, my Brother, and soon! you were made for a husband. Louisa

Loves to go after the Methodists; you will be one of the godly!



I know you false, I know you vain,
Yet still I cannot break my chain;
Tho' with those lips so sweetly smiling,
Those eyes so bright, and so beguiling,
On every youth by turns you smile,
And every youth by turns beguile,
Yet still enchant, and still deceive me,
Do all things fatal fair, but LEAVE ME!

Still let me in those speaking eyes
Trace all your feelings as they rise,
Still from those lips like rosebuds swelling
That seem of soft delight the dwelling,
Catch tones of sweetness which the soul
In fetters ever new controul;

Nor let my starts of anguish grieve thee,

Tho' death to stay, 'twere DEATH TO LEAVE THEI.




On the 24th Stanza in her "Passage over Mount Gothard."

(And hail the Chapel! hail the Platform wild!
Where TELL directed the avenging Dart,

With well-strung arm, that first preserv'd his Child,
Then wing'd the arrow to the Tyrant's heart!)

Splendor's fondly-foster'd Child!

And did you hail the Platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell

Beneath the shaft of TELL?

O Lady, nurs'd in pomp and pleasure!
Whence learnt you that heroic measure?

Light as a dream your days their circlets ran,
From all, that teaches Brotherhood to man,
Far, far remov'd! from Want, from Hope, from Fear!
Enchanting music lull'd your infant ear,

Obeisant praises sooth'd your infant heart :

Emblazonments and old ancestral crests,

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