67:1 
Specimens of his Poetry, 
Plant the light infantry within the wood. 
See! they intend a serfiV / Bring my horse, 
Charge from the right.—They fly 1 enter the 
gates. 
Huzza! huzza! ’tis won ! the day’s my 
own ! 
6th Maniac. 
Exhibiting the suhtilty and cunning said to be 
ohset’ved in the insane. 
Ha ! now his back is turn’d where is the 
cup ? 
And where have I conceal’d the murd’ring 
drug .? 
Ah opportunity like this once lost 
Is lost for ever !—hark ! he hums a tune - 
’Tis his own knell ! —there, precious poi¬ 
son !—there,— 
Mix with his wine;—and, when he drinks, 
unhinge 
His springs of life, that I may laugh.—Me- 
thinks 
Enough is mix’d.—Come, drink again, my 
Jove 5 
It freezes keen,—-the howling blast is bleak, 
Hark ! how it roars !—nay, nay, don’t re¬ 
fuse it, 
’Twill cheer thy heart :—that’s well:—deli¬ 
cious draught,— 
I thank thee.—See iiow pale he turns:—he 
falls ! 
Ydngeance is mine !—he writhes!—ha ! ha ! 
ha ! ho! 
P uin, how I love thee !—he gasps his last ! 
’Tis done,—my soul rejoice he dies ! he 
dies ! 
Now for my hated self.—What!—not & 
drop ! 
Drain’d to the very dregs.-Now, this is 
churlish : 
But, hold,—no matter j—there’s a way yet 
left 
To bid the world farewel .—Against these 
walls 
^Twill not be hard to dash these brains out; 
—thus ! 
HaJ—my hated keeper here !—what, is’t a 
dream ? 
Oh murder’d hope 1 Oh curse ! soft, let me 
hide 
Beneath the straw ;—he’ll pass, and think 
1 sleep. 
The dying HORSE. 
These lines are not the effect of imagination, 
indulged in private, but were actually 
written by the side of the animal describ¬ 
ed, whom I discovered, in one of my soli¬ 
tary rambles near Hampstead, in the last 
struggling agonies of death. August, 
1808.—;. B. 
Hsav’n! what enormous strength does Death 
possess! 
How muscular the giant’s arm roast be 
To grasp that strong-bon’d horse, and, spite 
of all 
His furious efforts, fix him to the earth! 
Yet, hold, he rises 1—no,—the struggle’s 
vain ; 
His strength avails him not. Beneath the 
gripe 
Of the remorseless monster, stretch’d at 
length 
He lies, with neck extended; head hard 
press’d 
Upon the very turf where late he fed. 
His writhing fibres speak his inward paiii! 
His smoking nostrils speak his inward fire! 
Oil, how he glares !—and, hark ! methinks 
I hear 
His bubbling blood, which seems to burst 
the veins. 
Amazement ! Horror! what a desp’ratc 
plunge ! 
See, where his iron’d hoof has dash’d a so<i 
With the velocity of lightning. Ah’— 
He rises,-—triumphs yes, the victory’s his ! 
No,—the wrestler, Deatli, again has thrown 
him 1 
And, oh ! with what a murd’ring dreadful 
fall ! 
—Soft ;—he is quiet. Yet, whence came 
that groan ? 
Was’t from his chest, or from the throat of 
Death 
Exulting in his conquest ? I know not. 
But, if ’twas his, it surely was his last; 
For, see, he scarcely stirs j soft! Does he 
breathe ? 
Ah, no I he breathes no more, ’Tis very 
strange ! 
How still he’s now;—how firey hot,—how 
cold? 
How terrible,—how lifeless! all within 
A few brief moments !—my reason staggers I 
Philosophy, thou poor enlighten’d dotard, 
Who canst assign for every thing a cause. 
Here take thy stand beside me, and explain 
This hidden mystery. Bring with thee 
The headstrong atheist, who laughs at heav’a^ 
And impiously ascribes events to chance^ 
To help to solve this wonderjulenigma ! 
First, tell me, ye proud haughty reas’ners, 
Where the vast strength tliis creature late 
possess’d 
H as fled to t How the bright sparkling fire. 
Which flash’d but now from these dim ray- 
iess eyes. 
Has been extinguish’d }—‘Oh! he's dead,^ 
you say. 
I know it wellbut, how, and by what 
means ? 
Was it the arm of chance which struck him 
down. 
In height of vigor and in pride of strength, 
To stiffen in the blast? Come, come, tell 
me ; 
Nay, shake not thus the beads that arc 
enrich’d 
With eighty years of wisdom, glean’d from 
books, 
From nights of study, and the magazines 
Of knowledge, which your predecessors left. 
W’hai ! 
