John Thelwall, imprisoned in the Tower

Sara Coleridge, pinching Thelwall’s cheek,
Plants a kiss.
John, you’re thin,
Here, I’ve cheese and apples.
They squat in a hollow
Where Holford’s twin streams
Spill busily over the falls.

Coleridge clasping his friend, whispers—
John, they’re hunting you in Stowey,
Poole heard gossip at the Globe.
Word is you’re a Frenchie, a Jacobin spy.
John Chester, stumbling behind, shivers,
Imagining Thelwall in the Tower,
Manacled, caged for treason.

Gentle Thelwall,
Mesmerised by the foaming waters,
Dreams of a Quantock cottage, a field,
A few placid cows.
Here a citizen could forget treason.
Coleridge, skipping down Holford Glen, calls—
Wordsworth says you can’t stay,
You’ll risk us all, my friend,
Our poems, our reputations, our freedom.
Sara, tearful, clasps Thelwall close.
John Chester, shaken, thinks only
Of gaolers, scurrying rats, and a cell.