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On yonder cliffs, a grissly band,
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
"When Severn shall re-echo with affright
"The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roofs that
"Shrieks of an agonizing King!
Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,
"Low on his funeral couch he lies!
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
"The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born?
"Gone to salute the rising morn.
"Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, "While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
"In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;
"Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm ;
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwinds sway,
"That, hushed in grim repose expects his evening
"Edward lo! to sudden fate
"Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.
"Half of thy heart we consecrate.
"The web is wove, The work is done.
"Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn,
"Leave me unblest, unpitied, here to mourn :
"But Oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?
"Visions of Glory, spare my aching sight!
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
"No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.
“All hail, ye genuine Kings, Britannia's issue, hail!
"Girt with many a baron bold
"Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
"And gorgeous dames and statesmen old,
"In bearded majesty, appear
"Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line;
"What strings symphonious tremble in the air!
"Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
"Bright rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,
"Waves in the eye of heaven her many coloured
"The verse adorn again
"Fierce war, and faithful love,
"And truth severe, by fairy fiction dress'd
"In buskin'd measures move
"Pale grief and pleasing pain,
“With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
"A voice, as from the cherub choir
"Gales from blooming Eden bear ;
"And distant warbling lessen on my ear,
“That lost in long futurity expire.
"Fond impious man! think'st thou yon sanguine
“Raised by thy breath has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,
"The different dooms, our fates assign, "Be thine Despair and sceptred care;
"To triumph and to die, are mine.
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height, Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.
"AMES," ON THE BRITISH TREATY.
On this theme my emotions are unutterable. If I could find words for them, if my powers bore any proportion to my zeal, I would swell my voice to such a note of remonstrance, it should reach every log house beyond the mountains. I would say to the inhabitants, wake from your false security. Your cruel dangers, your more cruel apprehensions, are soon to be renewed: the wounds yet unhealed, are to be again torn open. In the day time, your path through woods will be ambushed. The darkness of midnight will glitter with the blaze of your dwellings. You are a father-the blood of shall fatten your corn fields. You are a mother-the war whoop shall wake the sleep of your cradle. Who will accuse me of wandering out of the subject? Who will that I say exaggerate the tendencies of our measures? Will any one answer by a sneer, that all this is idle preaching?
Would any one deny that we are bound, and I hope to good purpose, by the most solemn sanctions of duty for the vote we give? Are Despots alone to be reproached for unfeeling indifference to the tears and blood of their subjects? Are republicans unresponsible? Have the principles on which you ground the reproach of cabinets and of Kings no practical influence, no binding force? Are they merely themes of idle declamation, introduced to decorate the morality of a newspaper essay, or to furnish pretty topics of harangue from the windows of that state house? trust it is neither too presumptious nor too late to ask, can you put the dearest interest of society at risk, without guilt, and without remorse? By rejecting the posts, we light the savage fires, we bind the victims. This day we undertake to render account to the widows and orphans whom our decision will make, to the wretches, that will be roasted at the stake, to our country, and I do not deem it too serious to say, to our conscience and to God. We are answerable; and if duty be any thing more than a word of imposture, if conscience be not a bugbear, we are preparing to make ourselves as wretched as our country. There is no mistake in this case, there can be none. Experience has already been the prophet of events, and the cries of our future victims have already reached us. The Western inhabitants are not a silent and uncomplaining sacrifice. The voice of humanity issues from the