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The radiant range of shield and lance

We bid the spectre-shapes avaunt, Down Damascus' hills advance :

Ashtaroth, and Termagaunt !t From Sion's turrets as afar

With many a demon, pale of hue, Ye ken the march of Europe's war!

Doom'd to drink the bitter dew, Saladin, thou paynim king,

That drops from Macon's sooty tree, From Albion's isle revenge we bring !

'Mid the dread grove of ebony. On Acon's spiry citadel,

Nor magic charms, nor fiends of Hell, Though to the gule thy banners swell,

The Christian's holy courage quell. Pictur'd with the silver Moon ;

Salem, in ancient majesty England shall end thy glory soon!

Arise, and lift thee to the sky! In vain, to break our firm array, ,

Soon on thy battlements divine Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray:

Shall wave the badge of Constantine. Those sounds our rising fury fan :

Ye barons, to the Sun unfold English Richard in the van,

Our cross with crimson wove and gold !"
On to victory we go,
A vaunting infidel the foe."

Blondel led the tuneful band,
And swept the wire with glowing hand.
Cyprus, from her rocky mound,
And Crete, with piny verdure crown'd,
Far along the smiling main

Echoed the prophetic strain.

When now mature in classic knowledge,
Soon we kiss'd the sacred earth
That gave a murder'd Savior birth;

The joyful youth is sent to College,

His father comes, a vicar plain, Then with ardor fresh endu'd,

At Oxford bred-in Anna's reign, Thus the solemn song renew'd.

And thus, in form of humble suitor, “ Lo, the toilsome voyage past, Heaven's favor'd hills appear at last!

Bowing accosts a reverend tutor : Object of our holy vow,

“Sir, I'm a Glo'stershire divine, We tread the Tyrian valleys now.

And this my eldest son of nine; From Carmel's almond-shaded steep

My wife's ambition and my own We feel the cheering fragrance creep:

Was that this child should wear a gown: O'er Engaddi's shrubs of balm

I'll warrant that his good behavior Waves the date-empurpled palm :

Will justify your future favor; See Lebanon's aspiring head

And, for his parts, to tell the truth, Wide his immortal umbrage spread!

My son's a very forward youth ; Hail, Calvary, thou mountain hoar,

Has Horace all by heart-you'd wonderWet with our Redeemer's gore !

And mouths out Homer's Greek like thunder Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn,

If you'd examine—and admit him, Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn;

A scholarship would nicely fit him; Your ravish'd honors to restore,

That he succeeds 'tis ten to one; Fearless we climb this hostile shore!

Your vote and interest, sir !"-'Tis done. And thou, the sepulchre of God;

Our pupil's hopes, though twice defeated, By mocking Pagans rudely trod,

Are with a scholarship completed : Bereft of every awful rite,

A scholarship but half maintains, And quench'd thy lamps that beam'd so bright;

And college-rules are heavy chains : For thee, from Britain's distant coast,

In garret dark he smokes and puns, Lo, Richard leads his faithful host!

A prey to discipline and duns ; Aloft in his heroic hand,

And now, intent on new designs, Blazing like the beacon's brand,

Sighs for a fellowship-and fines. O'er the far-affrighied fields,

When nine full tedious winters past, Resistless Kaliburo* he wields.

That utmost wish is crown'd at last : Proud Saracen, pollute no more

But the rich prize no sooner got, The shrines by martyrs built of yore!

Again he quarrels with his lot: From each wild mountain's trackless crown

These fellowships are pretty things,

We live indeed like petty kings : In vain thy gloomy castles frown:

But who can bear to waste his whole age
Thy battering engines, huge and high,

Amid the dullness of a college,
In vain our steel-clad steeds defy;
And, rolling in terrific state,

Debarr'd the common joys of life,
On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate.

And that prime bliss-a loving wife! When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp,

0! what's a table richly spread, Amid the moonlight vapors damp,

Without a woman at its head ?
Thy necromantic forms, in vain,
Haunt us on the tented plain :

† Ashtaroth is mentioned by Milton as a general name

of the Syrian deities: Par. Lost, i. 42. And Termagaunt * Kaliburn is the sword of king Arthur; which, as the is the name given in the old romance to the god of the monkish historians say, caine into the possession of Rich. Saracens. See Percy's Relics, vol. i. p. 74. ard I., and was given by that monarch, in the Crusades, 1 The scholars of Trinity are superannuated, if they to Tancred king of Sicily, as a royal present of inestima. do not succeed to fellowships in nine years after their ble value, about the year 1190.

election to scholarships.

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“Why did I sell my college life,"
He cries, “ for benefice and wife?
Return, ye days, when endless pleasure
I found in reading, or in leisure !
When calm around the common room
I puff'd my daily pipe's perfume!
Rode for a stomach, and inspected,
At annual bottlings, corks selected :
And din'd untax'd, untroubled, under
The portrait of our pious founder!
When impositions were supplied
To light my pipe-or soothe my pride-
No cares were then for forward peas,
A yearly-longing wife to please ;
My thoughts no christ'ning dinners crost,
No children cried for butter'd toast ;
And ev'ry night I went to bed,
Without a modus in my head!"

Oh! trilling head, and fickle heart!
Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art;
A dupe to follies yet untried,
And sick of pleasures, scarce enjoy'd !
Each prize possess'd, thy transport ceases,
And in pursuit alone it pleases.



Would some snug benefice but fall,
Ye feasts, ye dinners! farewell all!
To offices I'd bid adieu,
Of dean, vice præs.—of bursar too;
Come joys, that rural quiet yields,
Come, tythes, and house, and fruitful fields!"

Too fond of freedom and of ease
A patron's vanity to please,
Long-time he watches, and by stealth,
Each frail incumbent's doubtful health ;
At length, and in his fortieth year,
A living drops—iwo hundred clear!
With breast elate beyond expression,
He hurries down to take possession,
With rapture views the sweet retreat-
“What a convenient house! how neat!
For fuel here's sufficient wood :
Pray God the cellars may be good!
The garden—that must be new-plannid
Shall these old-fashion'd yew-trees stand ?
O'er yonder vacant plot shall rise
The flow'ry shrub of thousand dyes :-
Yon wall, that feels the southern ray,
Shall blush with ruddy fruitage gay :
While thick beneath its aspect warm
D'er well-rang'd hives the bees shall swarm,
From which, ere long, of golden gleam
Metheglin's luscious juice shall stream:
This awkward hut, o'ergrown with ivy,,
We'll alter to a modern privy :
Up yon green slope, of hazels trim,
An avenue so cool and dim
Shall to an arbor at the end,
In spite of gout, entice a friend.
My predecessor lov'd devotion-
But of a garden had no notion.”

Continuing this fantastic farce on,
He now commences country parson.
To make his character entire,
He weds—a cousin of the 'squire,
Not over-weighty in the purse ;
But many doctors have done worse :
And though she boasts no charms divine,
Yet she can carve and make birch-wine.

Thus fixt, content he taps his barrel,
Exhorts his neighbors not to quarrel ;
Finds his church-wardens have discerning
Both in good liquor and good learning;
With tythes his barns replete he sees,
And chuckles o'er his surplice fees;
Studies to find out latent dues,
And regulates the state of pews;
Rides a sleek mare with purple housing,
To share the monthly club's carousing ;
of Oxford pranks facetious tells,
And—but on Sundays-hears no bells ;
Sends presents of his choicest fruit,
And prunes himself each sa pless shoot ;
Plants cauliflowers, and boasts to rear
The earliest melons of the year;
Thinks alteration charming work is,
Keeps Bantam cocks, and feeds his turkeys ;
Builds in his copse a fav'rite bench,
And stores the pond with carp and tench.-

But ah! too soon his thoughtless breast
By cares domestic is opprest;
And a third butcher's bill, and brewing,
Threaten inevitable ruin:
For children fresh expenses yet,
And Dicky now for school is fit.

Beneath this stony roof reclin'd,
I soothe to peace my pensive mind ;
And while, to shade my lowly cave
Embowering elms their umbrage wave;
And while the maple dish is mine,
The beechen cup, unslain'd with wine ;
I scorn the gay licentious crowd,
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.
Within my limits lone and still,
The blackbird pipes in artless trill;
Fast by my couch, congenial guest,
The wren has wove her mossy nest;
From busy scenes, and brighter skies,
To lurk with innocence, she flies :
Here hopes in safe repose to dwell,
Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.
At morn I take my custom'd round,
To mark how buds yon shrubby mound,
And every opening primrose count,
That trimly paints my blooming mount:
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy solitude,
I teach in winding wreaths to stray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.

At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossed book,
Portray'd with many a holy deed
Of martyrs, crown'd with heavenly meed
Then as my taper waxes dim,
Chant, ere I sleep, my measur'd hymn;
And at the close, the gleams bebold
Of parting wings bedropt with gold.
While such pure joys my bliss creato,
Who but would smile al guilty state?


Who but would wish his holy lot
In calm Oblivion's humble grot ?
Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take my staff, and amice grey ;*
And to the world's tumultuous stage
Prefer the blameless hermitage ?






The hinds how blest, who ne'er beguil'd To quit their ham 's hawthorn wild; Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main, For splendid care, and guilty gain!

When morning's twilight-tinctur'd beam Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, They rove abroad in ether blue, To dip the scythe in fragrant dew; The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell, That nodding shades a craggy dell.

'Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear, Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear: On green untrodden banks they view The hyacinth's neglected hue : In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds, They spy the squirrel's airy bounds, And startle from her ashen spray, Across the glen, the screaming jay: Each native charm their steps explore Of Solitude's sequester'd store.

For them the Moon with cloudless ray Mounts, to illume their homeward way: Their weary spirits to relieve, The meadow's incense breathe at eve. No riot mars the simple fare, That o'er a glimmering hearth they share: But when the curfew's measur'd roar Duly, the darkening valleys o'er, Has echoed from the distant town, They wish no beds of cygnet-down, No trophied canopies, to close Their drooping eyes in quick repose.

Their little sons, who spread the bloom Of health around the clay-built room, Or through the primros'd coppice stray, Or gambol in the new-mown hay; Or quaintly braid the cowslip twine, Or drive afield the tardy kine; Or hasten from the sultry hill To loiter at the shady rill; Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest, To rob the raven's ancient nest.

Their humble porch with honied flow'rs The curling woodbine's shade embow'rs : From the small garden's thymy mound Their bees in busy swarms resound : Nor fell Disease, before his time, Hastes to consume life's golden prime : But when their temples long have wore The silver crown of tresses hoar; As studious still calm peace to keep, Beneath a flowery turf they sleep.

An mourn, thou lov'd retreat! No more
Shall classic steps thy scenes explore !
When morn's pale rays but faintly peep
O'er yonder oak-crown'd airy steep.
Who now shall climb its brows to view
The length of landscape, ever new,
Where Summer flings, in careless pride,
Her varied vesture far and wide ?
Who mark, beneath, each village-charm,
Or grange, or elm-encircled farm :
The flinty dove-cole's crowded roof,
Watch'd by the kite that sails aloof:
The tufted pines, whose umbrage tall
Darkens the long-deserted hall:
The veteran beech, that on the plain
Collects at eve the playful train :
The cot that smokes with early fire,
The low-roofd fane's embosom'd spire ?

Who now shall indolently stray
Through the deep forest's tangled way;
Pleas'd at his custom'd task to find
The well-known hoary-tressed hind,
That toils with feeble hands to glean
Of wither'd boughs his pittance mean?
Who 'mid thy nooks of hazel sit,
Lost in some melancholy fit;
And listening to the raven's croak,
The distant fail, the falling oak?
Who, through the sun-shine and the shower
Descry the rainbow-painted tower ?
Who, wandering at return of May,
Catch the first cuckoo's vernal lay?
Who musing waste the summer hour,
Where high o'er-arching trees embower
The grassy lane, so rarely pac'd,
With azure flow'rets idly grac'd ?
Unnotic'd now, at twilight's dawn
Returning reapers cross the lawn;
Nor fond attention loves to note
The wether's bell from folds remole :
While, own'd by no poetic eye,
Thy pensive evenings shade the sky!

For lo! the Bard who rapture found
In every rural sight or sound;
Whose genius warm, and judgment chaste.
No charm of genuine nature pass'd;
Who felt the Musc's purest fires,
Far from thy favor'd haunt retires;
Who peopled all thy vocal bowers
With shadowy shapes, and airy powers.

Behold, a dread repose resumes,
As erst, thy sad sequester'd glooms!
From the deep dell, where shaggy roots
Fringe the rough brink with wreathed shoots,
Th' unwilling genius flies forlorn,
His primrose chaplet rudely torn.
With hollow shriek the nymphs forsake
The pathless copse and hedge-row brake :
Where the deli'd mountains headlong side
Its chalky entrails opens wide,
On the green summit, ambush'd high,
No longer Echo loves to lie.
No pearl-crown'd naids with wily look,
Rise beckoning from the reedy brook.

• Grey clothing, from the Latin verb amicio, to clothe.

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Around the glow-worm's glimmering bank, Beneath yon ruin'd abbey's moss-grown piles No Fairies run in fiery rank;

Oft let me sit, at twilight hour of eve, Nor brush, half-seen, in airy tread,

Where through some western window the pale Moon The violet's unprinted head.

Pours her long-level'd rule of streaming light; But Fancy, from the thickets brown,

While sullen sacred silence reigns around, The glades that wear a conscious frown, Save the lone screech-owl's note, who builds his bow's The forest oaks, that, pale and lone,

Amid the mould'ring caverns dark and damp, Nod to the blast with hoarser tone,

Or the calm breeze, that rustles in the leaves Rough glens, and sullen water-falls,

Of flaunting ivy, that with mantle green
Her bright ideal offspring calls.

Invests some wasted tow'r. Or let me tread
So by some sage enchanter's spell,

Its neighb'ring walk of pines, where mus'd of old (As old Arabian fablers tell,)

'The cloister'd brothers: through the gloomy void Amid the solitary wild,

That far extends beneath their ample arch Luxuriant gardens gaily smil'd:

Is on I pace, religious horror wraps From sapphire rocks the fountains stream'd, My soul in dread repose.

But when the world With golden fruit the branches beam'd; is clad in Midnight's raven-color'd robe, Fair forms, in every wondrous wood,

'Mid hollow charnel let me watch the flame Or lightly tripp'd, or solemn stood ;

of taper dim, shedding a livid glare And oft, retreating from the view,

O'er the wan heaps; while airy voices talk Betray'd, at distance, beauties new:

Along the glimm’ring walls; or ghostly shape, While gleaming o'er the crisped bowers At distance seen, invites with beck'ning hand Rich spires arose, and sparkling towers. My lonesome steps, through the far-winding vaults If bound on service new to go,

Nor undelightful is the solemn noon The master of the magic show

Of night, when haply wakeful from my couch His transitory charm withdrew,

I start: lo! all is motionless around !
Away th' illusive landscape flew :

Roars not the rushing wind; the sons of men
Dun clouds obscur'd the groves of gold, And every beast, in mute oblivion lie;
Blue lightning smote the blooming mould: All nature's hush'd in silence and in sleep.
In visionary glory rear'd,

O then how fearful is it to reflect,
The gorgeous casile disappear'd;

That through the still globe's awful solitude, And a bare heath's unfruitful plain

No being wakes but me! till stealing sleep
Usurp'd the wizard's proud domain.

My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews.
Nor then let dreams, of wanton folly born,
My senses lead through flow'ry paths of joy ;
But let the sacred genius of the night
Such mystic visions send, as Spenser saw,
When through bewild'ring Fancy's magic maze,

To the fell house of Busyrane, he led

Th' unshaken Britomart; or Milton knew,

When in abstracted thought he first conceiv'd
Præcipe lugubres

All Heav'n in tumult, and the seraphim
Cantus, Melpomene!-

Come tow'ring, arm'd in adamant and gold.

Let others love soft Summer's evening smiles, MOTHER of musings, Contemplation sage,

As list’ning to the distant water-fall,
Whose grotto stands upon the topmost rock They mark the blushes of the streaky west;
Or Teneriffe ; 'mid the tempestuous night, I choose the pale December's foggy glooms.
On which, in calmest meditation held,

Then, when the sullen shades of ev’ning close, Thou hearst with howling winds the beating rain Where through the room a blindly glimm'ring g'eam And drifting hail descend; or if the skies The dying embers scatter, far remote (roof Unclouded shine, and through the blue serene From Mirth's mad shouts, that through th'illumin'd Pale Cynthia rolls her silver-axled car,

Resound with festive echo, let me sit, Whence gazing stedfast on the spangled vault Blest with the lowly cricket's drowsy dirge. Raptur'd thou sitt'st, while murmurs indistinct Then let my thought contemplative explore Of distant billows soothe thy pensive ear

This fleeting state of things, the vain delights, With hoarse and hollow sounds ; secure, self-blest, The fruitless toils, that still our search elude, There oft thou listen'st to the wild uproar

As through the wilderness of life we rove. of fleets encount'ring, that in whispers low This sober hour of silence will unmask Ascend the rocky summit, where thou dwell'st False Folly's smile, that like the dazzling spells Remote from man conversing with the spheres! Of wily Comus cheat the unweeting eye O lead me, qucen sublime, to solemn gloons With blear illusion, and persuade to drink Congenial with my soul ; to cheerless shadles, That charmed cup, which Reason's mintage fair To ruin'd seats, to twilight cells and bow'rs, Unmoulds, and stamps the monster on the man. Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to muse, Eager we taste, but in the luscious draught Her fav’rite midnight haunts. The laughing scenes Forget the poisonous dregs that lurk beneath or purple Spring, where all the wanton train Few know that elegance of soul refin'd, Of Smiles and Graces seem to lead the dance Whose soft sensation feels a quicker joy In sportive round, while from their hand they show'r From Melancholy's scenes, than the dull pride Ambrosial blooms and flow'rs, no longer charm; or tasteless splendor and magnificence Tempé, no more I court thy balmy breeze, Can e'er afford. Thus Eloise, whose mind Adieu, green vales! ye broider'd meads, adieu! Had languish'd to the pangs of melting love


More genuine transports found, as on some tomb Ye youths of Albion's beauty-blooming isle,
Reclin'd, she watch'd the tapers of the dead; Whose brows have worn the wreath of luckless love
Or through the pillar'd aisles, amid pale shrines Is there a pleasure like the pensive mood,
Of imag‘d saints, and intermingled graves, Whose magie wont to soothe your sofien'd souls?
Mus'd a veil'd votaress; than Flavia feels, O tell how rapturous the joy, to melt
As through the mazes of the festive ball,

To Melody's assuasive voice ; to bend
Proud of her conquering charms, and beauty's blaze, Th' uncertain step along the midnight mead,
She floats amid the silken sons of dress,

Aud pour your sorrows to the pitying Moon,
And shines the fairest of th' assembled fair. By many a slow trill from the bird of woe

When azure noontide cheers the dædal globe, of interrupted ; in embow'ring woods And the blest regent of the golden day

By darksome brook to muse, and there forget Rejoices in his bright meridian tower,

The solemn dullness of the tedious world, How oft my wishes ask the night's re!urn, While Fancy grasps the visionary fair: That best befriends the melancholy mind!

And now no more th'abstracted ear attends Hail, sacred Night! thou too shalt share my song! The water's murm'ring lapse, th' entranced eye Sister of ebon-sceptred Hecale, hail !

Pierces no longer through th' extended rows Whether in congregated clouds thou wrapp'st of thick-rang'd trees; till haply from the depth Thy viewless chariot, or with silver crown The woodman's stroke, or distant tinkling team, Thy beaming head encirclest, ever hail!

Or heifers rustling through the brake, alarms What though beneath thy gloom the sorceress-strain, Th'illuded sense, and mars the golden dream. Far in obscured haunt of Lapland moors,

These are delights that absence drear has made With rhymes uncouth the bloody caldron bless; Familiar to my soul, e'er since the form Though Murder wan beneath thy shrouding shade of young Sapphira, beauteous as the Spring, Summons her slow-ey'd vot'ries to devise

When from her vi'let-woven couch awak'd Of secret slaughter, while by one blue lamp By frolic Zephyr's hand, her tender cheek In hideous conference sits the list'ning band, Graceful she lists, and blushing from her bow's And start at each low wind, or wakeful sound: Issues to clothe in gladsome-glistering green What though thy stay the pilgrim curseth oft, The genial globe, first met my dazzled sight: As all benighted in Arabian wastes

These are delights unknown to minds profane, He hears the wilderness around him howl

And which alone the pensive soul can taste. With roaming monsters, while on his hoar head The la perd choir, at the late hour of pray'r, The black-descending tempest ceaseless beats ; Oft let me tread. while to th' according voice Yet more delightful to my pensive mind

The many-sounding organ peals on high, Is thy return, than blooming Morn's approach, The clear slow-ditried chant, or varied hymn. Ev'n than, in youthful pride of opening May, Till all my soul is bathed in ecstasies, When from the portals of the saffron east

And lapp'd in paradise. Or let me sit
She sheds fresh roses, and ambrosial dews. Far in sequester'd aisles of the deep dome,
Yet not ungrateful is the Morn's approach, There lonesome listen to the sacred sounds,
When dropping wet she comes, and clad in clouds, Which, as they lengthen through the Gothic vaults.
While through the damp air scowls the lowering In hollow murmurs reach my ravish'd ear.

Nor when the lamps expiring yield to night,
Blackening the landscape's face, that grove and hill And solitude returns, would I forsake
In formless vapors undistinguish'd swim:

The solemn mansion, but attentive mark
Th' afflicted songsters of the sadden'd groves The due clock swinging slow with sweepy sway,
Hail not the sullen gloom : the waving elms Measuring time's flight with momentary sound.
That, hoar through time and rang'd in thick array, Nor let me fail to cultivate my mind
Inclose with stately row some rural hall,

With the soft thrillings of the tragic Muse,
Are mute, nor echo with the clamors hoarse Divine Melpomene, sweet Pity's nurse,
Of rooks rejoicing on their airy boughs;

Queen of the stately step, and flowing pall. While to the shed the dripping poultry crowd, Now let Monimia mourn with streaming eyes A mournful train : secure the village-hind

Her joys incestuous, and polluted love;
Hangs o'er the crackling blaze, nor tempts the storm; Now let soft Juliet in the gaping tomb
Fix'd in th' unfinish'd furrow rests the plow : Print the last kiss on her true Romeo's lips,
Rings not the high wood with enliven'd shouts His lips yet reeking from the deadly draught :
Of early hunter: all is silence drear;

Or Jaffier kneel for one forgiving look
And deepest sadness wraps the face of things. Nor seldom let the Moor on Desdemone
Through Pope's soft song though all the Graces Pour the misguided threats of jealous rage.

By soft degrees the manly torrent steals
And happiest art adorn his Attic page;

From my swoln eyes; and at a brother's woe
Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow, My big heart melts in sympathizing tears.
As at the root of mossy trunk reclin'd,

What are the splendors of the gaudy court, In magic Spenser's wildly-warbled song

Its tinsel trappings, and its pageant pomps ?
I see deserted Una wander wide

To me far happier seems the banish'd lord,
Through wasteful solitudes, and lurid heaths, Amid Siberia's unrejoicing wilds,
Weary, forlorn ; than when the fated fair

Who pines all lonesome, in the chambers hoar Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames

Of some high castle shut, whose windows diin Launches in all the lustre of brocade,

In distant ken discover trackless plains, Amid the splendors of the laughing Sun.

Where Winter ever whirls his icy car! The gay description palls upon the sense, While still repeated objects of his view, And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss. The gloomy battlements, and ivied spires,

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