O Dagworth, France is sick! the very sky, Tho’ sunshine light it, seems to me as pale As the pale fainting man on his death-bed, Whose face is shewn by light of sickly taper! It makes me sad and sick at very heart, Thousands must fall to-day!
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The lineaments of Gratified Desire.
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Pale is the morning cloud in his visage
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instead of words harsh hissings
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As I was walking among the fires of hell, delighted with the enjoyments of Genius; which to Angels look like torment and insanity.
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