Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Not to be Mistaken, "To S. T. C." Morning Chronicle (27 December 1794).

How the warm soul with indignation glows;—
How VIRTUE mingles horror with delight,
When thy nerv'd Lines seize on thy Country's Foes,
And drag the lurking Felons into light!

Scarce SYMPATHY restrains to read thy page,
But, with a Godlike vengeance more than mann'd,
Would wrest the fervid lightning from thy hand—
And hurl it at the Monsters of the age.

HYPCOCRISY! oh, why on Zembla's coast
Where NATURE, chill'd, in dreary horror lies,
Didst thou not fix thy seat — content to boast
Thy sov'reign empire o'er eternal ice?

Why to this Isle thy steps accursed turn,
And pour ambitious Self and private good
Into those veins, thro' which the gen'rous blood,
In tides of joy to all, once us'd to burn?

But, oh, my Friend! thou know'st my secret soul:—
With Thee I rage — with Thee I pour the tear
On helpless MISERY, and thirst to roll
On damn'd OPPRESSION, all its Victims bear.

Then haste thee quickly from thy dark retreat—
And once again congenial fervour meet!