The Mountain Nymph, Sweet Liberty.

Or Bid The Soul Of Orpheus Sing Such Notes As, Warbled To The String, Drew Iron Tears Down Pluto's Cheek.

On The Tawny Sands And Shelves Trip The Pert Fairies And The Dapper Elves.

Sweet Is The Breath Of Morn, Her Rising Sweet, With Charm Of Earliest Birds.

My Sentence Is For Open War.

Now Conscience Wakes Despair That Slumber'd,-wakes The Bitter Memory Of What He Was, What Is, And What Must Be Worse.