 
  


 (1788-1824)   ,   .   ,   ,     .       .       .     ,    . ,      ,       .       .





 

 





     ,   .        .  22  1788   .     .   .    ,    .     ,     .          .  1798 .   .          .          .     1801 .           .        .

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 1809.     .   , , , .

27  1812 .       ,    .        -.       ,  .       14  .           .

 1814 .  ,       .   1816 . ,      .     .     .    ,   , ,     -.       .

    ,   ,     ,     .   ,    19  1824 .       ,    -.




 


     

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Oh well done Lord En! and better Lord Rr!

Britannia must prosper with councils like yours;

Hawkesbury, help you to guide her,

Whose remedy only must kill ere it cures:

Those villains, the Weavers, are all grown refractory,

Asking some succour for Charity's sake 

So hang them in clusters round each Manufactory,

That will at once put an end to mistake.



The rascals, perhaps, may betake them to robbing,

The dogs to be sure have got nothing to eat 

So if we can hang them for breaking a bobbin,

'Twill save all the Government's money and meat:

Men are more easily made than machinery 

Stockings fetch better prices than lives 

Gibbets on Sherwood will heighten the scenery,

Showing how Commerce, how Liberty thrives!



Justice is now in pursuit of the wretches,

Grenadiers, Volunteers, Bow-street Police,

Twenty-two Regiments, a score of Jack Ketches,

Three of the Quorum and two of the Peace;

Some Lords, to be sure, would have summoned the Judges,

To take their opinion, but that they ne'er shall,

For LIVERPOOL such a concession begrudges,

So now they're condemned by no Judges at all.



Some folks for certain have thought it was shocking,

When Famine appeals, and when Poverty groans,

That life should be valued at less than a stocking,

And breaking of frames lead to breaking of bones.

If it should prove so, I trust, by this token,

(And who will refuse to partake in the hope?)

That the frames of the fools

may be first to be broken,

Who, when asked for a remedy, sent down a rope.

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Lines written in an album, at Malta   . .

As o'er cold sepulchral stone

Some name arrests the passer-by:

Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,

May mine attract the pensive eye!



And when by thee that name is read,

Perchance in some succeeding year,

Reflect on me as on the dead,

And think my heart is burried here.

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Sonnet on Chillon

ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind!

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,

For there thy habitation is the heart

The heart which love of thee alone can bind;

And when thy sons to fetters are consignd

To fetters, and the damp vaults dayless gloom,

Their country conquers with their martyrdom,

And Freedoms fame finds wings on every wind.

Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,1

And thy sad floor an altarfor twas trod,

Until his very steps have left a trace1

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,

By Bonnivard!May none those marks efface!1

For they appeal from tyranny to God.

  

   

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My Epitaph

Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove,

To keep my Lamp in strongly strove;

But Romanelli was so stout,

He beat all three, and blew it out.

***




 


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And wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again:

Yet if they grieve thee, say not so 

I would not give that bosom pain.



My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,

My blood runs coldly through my breast;

And when I perish, thou alone

Wilt sigh above my place of rest.



And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace

Doth through my cloud of anguish shine:

And for a while my sorrows cease,

To know thy heart hath felt for mine.



Oh lady! blessd be that tear 

It falls for one who cannot weep;

Such precious drops are doubly dear

To those whose eyes no tear may steep.



Sweet lady! once my heart was warm

With every feeling soft as thine;

But Beautys self hath ceased to charm

A wretch created to repine.



Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again:

Yet if they grieve thee, say not so 

I would not give that bosom pain.

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