Her conscious tail her joy declared : Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Through richest purple, to the view Betray'd a golden gleam. The hapless Nymph with wonder saw : With many an ardent wish She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prizeWhat female heart can gold despise? What Cat 's averse to Fish? Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Malignant Fate sat by and smiled- Eight times emerging from the flood No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived Not all that tempts your wandering eyes Nor all that glisters, gold! T. Gray CXXI TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY IMELY blossom, Infant fair, TIM Fondling of a happy pair, Every morn and every night Like the linnet in the nest :- And thou shalt in thy daughter see, A. Philips W CXXII RULE BRITANNIA HEN Britain first at Heaven's command Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of her land, And guardian angels sung the strain : Rule Britannia! Britannia rule the waves ! Britons never shall be slaves. The nations not so blest as thee Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak. Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; The Muses, still with Freedom found, J. Thomson 'R CXXIII THE BARD Pindaric Ode UIN seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait! To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!' --- Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array :Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; 'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance. On a rock, whose haughty brow With haggard eyes the Poet stood; Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air) To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main: Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries— No more I weep; They do not sleep; On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, I see them sit; They linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. |