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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=512825" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnet VIII. To Mercy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=512825" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Not always should the tear's ambrosial dew<br>Roll its soft anguish down thy furrowed cheek!<br>Not always heaven-breathed tones of suppliance meek<br>Beseem thee, Mercy! Yon dark Scowler view,<br>Who with proud words of dear-loved Freedom came--<br>More blasting than the mildew from the south!<br>And kissed his country with Iscariot mouth;<br>(Ah! foul apostate from his Father's fame!)<br>Then fixed her on the cross of deep distress,<br>And at safe distance marks the thirsty lance<br>Pierce her big side! But oh! if some strange trance<br>The eye-lids of thy stern-browed Sister press,<br>Seize, Mercy! thou more terrible the brand,<br>And hurl her thunderbolts with fiercer hand!</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Samuel+Taylor+Coleridge">Samuel Taylor Coleridge</a></strong></div>

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