History

Thou chronicle of crimes ! I read no more;
For I am one who willingly would love
His fellow-kind. O gentle Poesy,
Receive me from the court's polluted scenes.
From dungeon horrors, from the fields of war,
Receive me to your haunts, — that I may nurse
My nature's better feelings ; for my soul
Sickens at man's misdeeds !

I spake, when lo !
There stood before me, in her majesty,
Clio, the strong-eyed Muse. Upon her brow
Sate a calm anger. Go, young man, she cried,
Sigh among myrtle bowers, and let thy soul
Effuse itself in strains so sorrowful sweet,
That love-sick Maids may weep upon thy page,
Soothed with delicious sorrow. Oh shame! shame!
Was it for this I waken'd thy young mind ?
Was it for this I made thy swelling heart
Throb at the deeds of Greece, and thy boy's eye
So kindle when that glorious Spartan died ?
Boy ! boy ! deceive me not ! — What if the tale
Of murder'd millions strike a chilling pang ;
What if Tiberius in his island stews.
And Philip at his beads, alike inspire
Strong anger and contempt ; hast thou not risen
With nobler feelings, — with a deeper love
For freedom ? Yes ; if righteously thy soul
Loathes the black history of human crimes
And human misery, let that spirit fill
Thy song, and it shall teach thee, boy ! to raise
Strains such as Cato might have deign'd to hear,
As Sidney in his hall of bliss may love.