(Their tears, their little triumphs o'er, Their human passions now no more, Save Charity, that glows beyond the tomb.) All that on Granta's fruitful plain

Rich streams of regal bounty pour'd,

And bade these awful fanes and turrets rise, To hail their Fitzroy's festal morning come; And thus they speak in soft accord

The liquid language of the skies :

V.

"What is grandeur, what is power?
Heavier toil, superior pain.
What the bright reward we gain?
The grateful memory of the good.

Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,

The bee's collected treasures sweet,

Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet The still small voice of gratitude."

VI.

Foremost and leaning from her golden cloud The venerable Margret see!

"Welcome, my noble son, (she cries aloud)

To this, thy kindred train, and me : Pleased in thy lineaments we trace

A Tudor's fire, a Beaufort's grace. Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye, The flower unheeded shall descry, And bid it round heav'n's altars shed The fragrance of its blushing head: Shall raise from earth the latent gem, To glitter on the diadem.

VII.

"Lo! Granta waits to lead her blooming band: Not obvious, not obstrusive, she

No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings;
Nor dares with courtly tongue refined
Profane thy inborn royalty of mind:

She reveres herself and thee.

With modest pride to grace thy youthful brow
The laureate wreath, that Cecil wore, she brings,
And to thy just, thy gentle hand
Submits the fasces of her sway,

While spirits blest above and men below
Join with glad voice the loud symphonious lay.

VIII.

"Through the wild waves as they roar,
With watchful eye and dauntless mien,
Thy steady course of honour keep,
Nor fear the rocks nor seek the shore :

The star of Brunswick smiles serene,
And gilds the horrors of the deep."

ODE VIII.

THE FATAL SISTERS.

FROM THE NORSE TONGUE.

Now the Storm begins to lower, (Haste, the loom of Hell prepare,) Iron-sleet of arrowy shower

Hurtles in the darken'd air.

Glitt'ring lances are the loom,

Where the dusky warp we strain, Weaving many a soldier's doom, Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane.

See the grisly texture grow,

(Tis of human entrails made,) And the weights, that play below, Each a gasping warrior's head.

Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore,

Shoot the trembling cords along : Swords, that once a monarch bore, Keep the tissue close and strong.

Mista, black terrific maid,

Sangrida, and Hilda see,

Join the wayward work to aid:

'Tis the woof of victory.

Ere the ruddy sun be set,

Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, Blade with clattering buckler meet, Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.

(Weave the crimson web of war) Let us go, and let us fly,

Where our friends the conflict share,Where they triumph, where they die.

As the paths of fate we tread,

Wading through th' ensanguined field: Gondula, and Geira, spread

O'er the youthful king your shield.

We the reins to slaughter give,

Ours to kill, and ours to spare:

Spite of danger he shall live.

(Weave the crimson web of war.)

They, whom once the desert-beach
Pent within its bleak domain,
Soon their ample sway shall stretch
O'er the plenty of the plain.

Low the dauntless Earl is laid,

Gored with many a gaping wound :

Fate demands a nobler head:

Soon a king shall bite the ground.

Long his loss shall Eirin weep,
Ne'er again his likeness see;
Long her strains in sorrow steep,
Strains of Immortality!

Horror covers all the heath,

Clouds of carnage blot the sun. Sisters, weave the web of death! Sisters, cease! the work is done!

Hail the task, and hail the hands!
Songs of joy and triumph sing!
Joy to the victorious bands;

Triumph to the younger king.

Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, Learn the tenor of our song. Scotland, through each winding vale Far and wide the notes prolong.

Sisters, hence with spurs of speed:

Each her thundering falchion wield ;

Each bestride her sable steed.

Hurry, hurry to the field!