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IV

Hearest thou the festival din
Of Death and Destruction and Sin,

And Wealth crying, Havoc! within ? 'Tis the Bacchanal triumph that makes truth

dumb, -
Thine Epithalamium.

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Ay, marry thy ghastly wife !
Let Fear and Disquiet and Strife

Spread thy couch in the chamber of Life ; Marry Ruin, thou Tyrant! and Hell be thy

guide
To the bed of the bride!

SONG

TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND

I

Men of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?

iv. 1 festival, Harvard MS., Frederickson MS., Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || festal, Medwin, 1832.

iv. 4 that, Frederickson MS. || which, Harvard MS., Medwin, 1832.

v. 2 Disquiet, Frederickson MS, Harvard MS., Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || Disgust, Medwin, 1832. v. 4 Hell, Frederickson MS. || God, Harvard MS., Medwin, 1832.

5 the bride, Harvard MS., Frederickson MS., Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || thy, Harvard MS. cancelled, Medwin, 1832.

Song: To the Men of England. Published by Mrs. Shelley,

Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?

II

Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat — nay,

drink your blood ?

III

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil ?

IV

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm ?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?

V

The seed ye sow, another reaps ;
The wealth ye find, another keeps ;
The robes ye weave, another wears ;
The arms ye forge, another bears.

VI

Sow seed, — but let no tyrant reap ;
Find wealth, — let no impostor heap;
Weave robes,

let not the idle wear; Forge arms, - in your defence to bear.

VII

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells;
In halls ye deck, another dwells.
Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see
The steel ye tempered glance on ye.

VIII

With plough and spade, and hoe and loom,
Trace your grave, and build your tomb,
And weave your winding-sheet, till fair
England be your sepulchre.

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As from an ancestral oak

Two empty ravens sound their clarion,
Yell by yell, and croak by croak,
When they scent the noonday smoke

Of fresh human carrion :

II

As two gibbering night-birds flit

From their bowers of deadly yew Through the night to frighten it, When the moon is in a fit,

And the stars are none, or few : To S[idmou]th and C[astlerea]gh. Harvard MS. || Similes, N. d win, 1832. Similes, Mrs. Shelley, 18391. Similes. For Two Political Characters of 1819, Mrs. Shelley, 18392. Published by Medwin, The Athenæum, August 25, 1832. ii. 2 yew, Medwin, 1832 || hue, Medwin, 1833.

4 moon, Rossetti || morn, Medwin, 1832.

III

As a shark and dog-fish wait,

Under an Atlantic isle,
For the negro-ship, whose freight
Is the theme of their debate,

Wrinkling their red gills the while -

IV

Are ye, two vultures sick for battle,

Two scorpions under one wet stone, Two bloodless wolves whose dry throats rattle, Two crows perched on the murrained cattle,

Two vipers tangled into one.

ENGLAND IN 1819

An old, mad, blind, despised and dying king ; Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow Through public scorn - mud from a muddy

spring; Rulers, who neither see, nor feel, nor know, But leech-like to their fainting country cling, Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow; A people starved and stabbed in the untilled

field;

An army which liberticide and prey
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield;
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay:
Religion Christless, Godless - a book sealed;
A Senate — Time's worst statute unrepealed,

England in 1819. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 13391.
9 make, Rossetti.

Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may Burst to illumine our tempestuous day.

NATIONAL ANTHEM

I

God prosper, speed, and save,
God raise from England's grave

Her murdered Queen!
Pave with swift victory
The steps of Liberty,
Whom Britons own to be

Immortal Queen.

II

See, she comes throned on high,
On swift Eternity,

God save the Queen !
Millions on millions wait
Firm, rapid, and elate,
On her majestic state!

God save the Queen !

III

She is thine own pure soul
Moulding the mighty whole, -

God save the Queen!
She is thine own deep love
Rained down from heaven above, —
Wherever she rest or move,

God save our Queen !
National Anthem, Mrs. Shelley, 18392 || God save the Queen,
Rossetti. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 18392.

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