II. 3.

"Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare;

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray,

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,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But oh! what solemn scenes, on Snowdon's height
Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.
All-hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!

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;
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play!
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear!
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.

Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings.

"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,
Gales from blooming Eden bear;

And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
That lost in long futurity expire.

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)
Comus, and his midnight-crew,
And Ignorance with looks profound,
And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue,
Mad Sedition's cry profane,

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
First the genuine ardour stole.

'Twas Milton struck the deep-toned shell.
And, as the choral warblings round him swell,
Meek Newton's self bends from his state sublime,
And nods his hoary head, and listens to the rhyme.

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
In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly,
With Freedom by my side, and soft-eyed Melancholy."

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,
The rival of her crown and of her woes,

And either Henry there,

The murder'd saint, and the majestic lord,
That broke the bonds of Rome.