I will give the second number as deeming that it possesses mind:—
As late I roamed through Fancy’s shadowy vale,
With wetted cheek and in a mourner’s guise,
I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise:
He spake:—not sadder moans th’ autumnal gale—
“Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name,
Ere in an evil hour with altered voice
Thou badst Oppression’s hireling crew rejoice,
Blasting with wizard spell my laurell’d fame.
Yet never, Burke! thou drank’st Corruption’s bowl!
Thee stormy Pity and the cherish’d lure
Of Pomp and proud precipitance of soul
Urged on with wild’ring fires. Ah, spirit pure!
That Error’s mist had left thy purged eye;
So might I clasp thee with a Mother’s joy.”
ADDRESS TO A YOUNG JACKASS AND ITS TETHERED MOTHER.[94]
Poor little foal of an oppressed race!
I love the languid patience of thy face:
And oft with friendly hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged coat and pat thy head.
But what thy dulled spirit hath dismay’d,
That never thou dost sport upon the glade?
And (most unlike the nature of things young)
That still to earth thy moping head is hung?
Do thy prophetic tears anticipate,
Meek Child of Misery, thy future fate?
The starving meal and all the thousand aches
That “patient Merit of the Unworthy takes”?
Or is thy sad heart thrill’d with filial pain
To see thy wretched mother’s lengthened chain?
And truly, very piteous is her lot,
Chained to a log upon a narrow spot,
Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting green!
Poor Ass! thy master should have learnt to show
Pity best taught by fellowship of Woe!
For much I fear me that He lives like thee
Half-famish’d in a land of Luxury!
How askingly its steps towards me bend!
It seems to say, “And have I then one friend?”
Innocent foal! thou poor, despis’d forlorn!
I hail thee Brother, spite of the fool’s scorn!
And fain I’d take thee with me in the Dell
Of high-souled Pantisocracy to dwell;
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,
And Laughter tickle Plenty’s ribless side!
How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay.
Yea, and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,
Than Banti’s warbled airs, that soothe to rest
The tumult of a scoundrel Monarch’s breast!
How do you like it?
I took the liberty—Gracious God! pardon me for the aristocratic frigidity of that expression—I indulged my feelings by sending this among my Contemporary Sonnets:
Southey! Thy melodies steal o’er mine ear
Like far-off joyance, or the murmuring
Of wild bees in the sunny showers of Spring—
Sounds of such mingled import as may cheer
The lonely breast, yet rouse a mindful tear:
Waked by the song doth Hope-born Fancy fling
Rich showers of dewy fragrance from her wing,
Till sickly Passion’s drooping Myrtles sear
Blossom anew! But O! more thrill’d I prize
Thy sadder strains, that bid in Memory’s Dream
The faded forms of past Delight arise;
Then soft on Love’s pale cheek the tearful gleam
Of Pleasure smiles as faint yet beauteous lies
The imaged Rainbow on a willowy stream.
God love you and your mother and Edith and Sara and Mary and little Eliza, etc., etc., etc., etc., etc., and
S. T. Coleridge.