II. 3. "Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Lance to lance and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head! Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread; The bristled boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. III. I. "Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) Half of thy heart we consecrate. 66 (The web is wove. The work is done.) 'Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn : In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, But oh! what solemn scenes, on Snowdon's height Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! III. 2. "Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old, In bearded majesty appear. In the midst a form divine ! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line; What strings symphonious tremble in the air, Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, "The verse adorn again III. 3. Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice, as of the cherub-choir, And distant warblings lessen on my ear, Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: With joy I see The different doom our Fates assign. Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care; To triumph, and to die, are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. N ODE VII. FOR MUSIC. IRREGULAR. I. "HENCE, avaunt, ('tis holy ground) Servitude that hugs her chain, Nor in these consecrated bowers Let painted Flatt'ry hide her serpent-train in flowers. Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain Dare the Muse's walk to stain, While bright-eyed Science watches round: Hence, away, 'tis holy ground! II. From yonder realms of empyrean day Bursts on my ear th' indignant lay: There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine, The few, whom Genius gave to shine Through every unborn age, and undiscovered clime. Rapt in celestial transport they; Yet hither oft a glance from high They send of tender sympathy To bless the place, where on their opening soul 'Twas Milton struck the deep-toned shell. III. "Ye brown o'er-arching groves, That Contemplation loves, Where willowy Camus lingers with delight! Oft at the blush of dawn I trod your level lawn, Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia silver-bright IV. But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth With solemn steps and slow, High potentates, and dames of royal birth, And mitred fathers in long order go: Great Edward, with the lilies on his brow From haughty Gallia torn, And sad Chatillon, on her bridal morn That wept her bleeding love, and princely Clare, And Anjou's heroine, and the paler Rose, And either Henry there, The murder'd saint, and the majestic lord, |