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A fair budding branch from the gardens above,
Where millions with millions agree,
And the plant she named Liberty Tree.
The celestial exotic struck deep in the ground,
Like a native it flourish'd and bore:
To seek out this peaceable shore.
For freemen like brothers agree;
And their temple was Liberty Tree.
Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old,
Their bread in contentment they ate,
The cares of the grand and the great.
And supported her power on the sea:
For the honour of Liberty Tree.
But hear, O ye swains (tis a tale most profane),
How all the tyrannical powers,
To cut down this guardian of ours.
Thro the land let the sound of it flee:
In defence of our Liberty Tree.
VERSES TO A FRIEND, A ITER A LONG CONVERSATION ON WAR.
Th* r*lu pours dowu, the city loots forlorn,
So oft has black revenge engross'd the care
From flight to flight the mental path appears,
Go, men of blood! true likeness of the first, And strew your blasted heads with homely dust: In ashes sit—in wretched sackcloth weep, And with unpitied sorrows cease to sleep. Go haunt the tombs, and single out the place Where earth itself shall suffer a disgrace. Go spell the letters on some mouldering urn, And ask if he who sleeps there can return. Go count the numbers that in silence lie, And learn by study what it is to die; For sure your heart, if any heart you ownfc Conceits that man expires without a groan; That he who lives receives from you a grace, Or death is nothing but a change of place: That peace is dull, that joy from sorrow springs, And war the most desirable of things. Else why these scenes that wound the feeling mind, This sport of death—this cockpit of mankind! Why sobs the widow in perpetual pain? Why cries the orphan,—" Oh! my father's slain!" Why hangs the sire his paralytic head, And nods with manly grief—" My son is dead!" Why drops the tear from off the sister's cheek, And sweetly tells the misery she would speak i Or why, in sorrow sunk, does pensive John To all the neighbours tell, " Poor master's gone?"
Oh ! could I paint the passion that I feel, Or point a horror that would wound like steel,
To each unfeeling, unrelenting mind,
Since then no hopes to civilize remain,
Tie morning after asking Mr. Paine over nigit tie question
WHAT IS LOVE?
Tis that delightful transport we can feel,
So neither can we by description show
When happy Love pours magic o'er the soul,
And all our thoughts in sweet delirium roll;
When Contemplation spreads her rainbow wings,
And every flutter some new rapture brings:
How sweetly then our moments glide away,
And dreams repeat the raptures of the day;
We live in ecstacy to all things kind,
For Love can teach a moral to the mind.
But are there not some other marks that prove,
What is this wonder of the soul, call'd Love?
O yes, there are, but of a different kind,
When Love's a tyrant, and the soul a slave,
What are the iron chains that hands have wrought?