Thou wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be,
Last of the Romans, though thy memory claim
Extract from Poetical Essay
Millions to fight compell'd, to fight or die
In mangled heaps on War's red altar lie . . .
'Ah! quit me not yet, for the wind whistles shrill,
Its blast wanders mournfully over the hill,
The thunder’s wild voice rattles madly above,
Oh! did you observe the Black Canon pass,
And did you observe his frown?
He goeth to say the midnight mass,
Ariel to Miranda:-- Take
This slave of music, for the sake
Of him who is the slave of thee;
And teach it all the harmony
Hark! the owlet flaps her wing,
In the pathless dell beneath,
Hark! night ravens loudly sing,
Tidings of despair and death.--
As from an ancestral oak
Two empty ravens sound their clarion,
Yell by yell, and croak by croak,
BY MICHING MALLECHO, Esq.
Is it a party in a parlour,
Crammed just as they on earth were crammed,
Some sipping punch-some sipping tea;
It lieth, gazing on the midnight sky,
Upon the cloudy mountain-peak supine;
Dear home, thou scene of earliest hopes and joys,
The least of which wronged Memory ever makes
Bitterer than all thine unremembered tears.