Page:Poems on Various Subjects - Coleridge (1796).djvu/58

 Then wak'd the patriot fire And swept with wilder hand th' Alcœan lyre: Red from the Tyrants' wound I shook the lance, And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!

In ghastly horror lie th' Oppressors low, And my heart akes, tho' struck the blow. With wearied thought once more I seek the shade, Where peaceful Virtue weaves the braid. And ô! if, whose holy glances roll, The eloquent messengers of the pure soul; If more winning, and a gentler , Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen Shaping celestial forms in vacant air; If these demand th' empassion'd Poet's care— If, and soften'd , and refin'd, The blameless features of a lovely mind;