Tho' no bold flights to thee belong; And tho' thy lays with conscious fear, Shrink from Judgement's eye severe, Yet much I thank thee, Spirit of my song! For, lovely Muse! thy sweet employ 5 Exalts my soul, refines my breast, Gives each pure pleasure keener zest, And softens sorrow into pensive Joy. From thee I learn'd the wish to bless, From thee to commune with my heart; 10 From thee, dear Muse! the gayer part, To laugh with pity at the crowds that press Where Fashion flaunts her robes by Folly spun, Whose hues gay-varying wanton in the sun. 1789. FOOTNOTES: [9:1] First published in 1834. LINENOTES: Title] Sonnet I. To my Muse MS. O. DESTRUCTION OF THE BASTILE[10:1] I Heard'st thou yon universal cry, And dost thou linger still on Gallia's shore? Go, Tyranny! beneath some barbarous sky Thy terrors lost and ruin'd power deplore! What tho' through many a groaning age 5 Was felt thy keen suspicious rage, Yet Freedom rous'd by fierce Disdain Has wildly broke thy triple chain, And like the storm which Earth's deep entrails hide, At length has burst its way and spread the ruins wide. 10 * * * * * IV In sighs their sickly breath was spent; each gleam Of Hope had ceas'd the long long day to cheer; Or if delusive, in some flitting dream, It gave them to their friends and children dear-- Awaked by lordly Insult's sound 15 To all the doubled horrors round, Oft shrunk they from Oppression's band While Anguish rais'd the desperate hand For silent death; or lost the mind's controll, Thro' every burning vein would tides of Frenzy roll. 20 V But cease, ye pitying bosoms, cease to bleed! Such scenes no more demand the tear humane; I see, I see! glad Liberty succeed With every patriot virtue in her train! And mark yon peasant's raptur'd eyes; 25 Secure he views his harvests rise; No fetter vile the mind shall know, And Eloquence shall fearless glow. Yes! Liberty the soul of Life shall reign, Shall throb in every pulse, shall flow thro' every vein! 30 VI Shall France alone a Despot spurn? Shall she alone, O Freedom, boast thy care? Lo, round thy standard Belgia's heroes burn, Tho' Power's blood-stain'd streamers fire the air, And wider yet thy influence spread, 35 Nor e'er recline thy weary head, Till every land from pole to pole Shall boast one independent soul! And still, as erst, let favour'd Britain be First ever of the first and freest of the free! 40 ? 1789. FOOTNOTES: [10:1] First published in 1834. _Note._ The Bastile was destroyed July 14, 1789. LINENOTES: