With many a demon, pale of hue,
Doom'd to drink the bitter dew
That drops from Macon's sooty tree,
Mid the dread grove of ebony.
Nor magic charms, nor fiends of hell,
The christian's holy courage quell.

Salem, in ancient majesty
Arise, and lift thee to the sky !
Soon on thy battlements divine
Shall wave the badge of Constantine.
Ye Barons, to the sun unfold
Our Cross with crimson wove and gold !"

TIE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR.

AN ODE.

Saladin, thou paynim king,
From Albion's isle revenge we bring !
On Acon's spiry citadel,
Though to the gale thy banners swell,
Pictured with the silver moon;
England shall end thy glory soon !
In vain, to break our firm array,
Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray :
Those sounds our rising fury fan :
English Richard in the van,
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.

Soon we kiss'd the sacred earth
That gave a murder'd Saviour birth ;
Then, with ardour fresh endued,
Thus the solemn song renewd.

“ Lo, the toilsome voyage past,
Heaven's favour'd hills appear at last !
Object of our holy vow,
We tread the Tyrian valleys now.
From Carmel's almond-shaded steep
We feel the cheering fragrance creep :
O’er Engaddi's shrubs of balm
Waves the date-empurpled palm.
See Lebanon's aspiring head
Wide his immortal umbrage spread !
Hail, Calvary, thou mountain hoar,
Wet with our Redeemer's gore !
Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn,
Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn ;
Your ravish'd honours to restore,
Fearless we climb this hostile shore !
And thou, the sepulchre of God!
By mocking pagans rudely trod,
Bereft of every awful rite,
And quench'd thy lamps that beam'd so bright;
For thee, from Britain's distant coast,
Lo, Richard leads his faithful host !
Aloft in his heroic hand,
Blazing, like the beacon's brand,
O'er the far-affrighted fields,
Resistless Kaliburn he wields.
Proud Saracen, pollute no more
The shrines by martyrs built of yore !
From each wild mountain's trackless crown
In vain thy gloomy castles frown :
Thy battering engines, huge and high,
In vain our steel-clad steeds defy ;
And, rolling in terrific state,
On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate.
When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp,
Amid the moonlight vapours damp,
Thy necromantic forms, in vain,
Haunt us on the tented plain :
We bid those spectre-shapes avaunt,
Ashtaroth, and Termagaunt !

STATELY the feast, and high the cheer:
Girt with many an armed peer,
And canopied with golden pall,
Amid Cilgarran's castle hall,
Sublime in formidable state,
And warlike splendour, Henry sate ;
Prepared to stain the briny flood
Of Shannon's lakes with rebel blood.

Illumining the vaulted roof :
A thousand torches flamed aloof :
From massy cups, with golden gleam
Sparkled the red metheglin's stream :
To grace the gorgeous festival,
Along the lofty window'd hall,
The storied tapestry was hung :
With minstrelsy the rafters rung
Of harps that with reflected light
From the proud gallery glitter'd bright:
While gifted bards, a rival throng,
(From distant Mona, nurse of song,
From Teivi, fringed with umbrage brown,
From Elvy's vale, and Cader's crown,
From many a shaggy precipice,
That shades Ierne's hoarse abyss,
And many a sunless solitude
Of Radnor's inmost mountains rude,)
To crown the banquet's solemn close,
Themes of British glory chose ;
And to the strings of various chime
Attemper'd thus the fabling rhyme.

« O’er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roar'd,
High the screaming sea-mew soard ;
On Tintaggel's topmost tower
Darksome fell the sleety shower ;
Round the rough castle shrilly sung
The whirling blast, and wildly flung
On each tall rampart's thundering side
The surges of the tumbling tide :
When Arthur ranged his red-cross ranks
On conscious Camlan's crimson's banks :
By Mordred's faithless guile decreed
Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed !
Yet in vain a paynim foe
Arm'd with fate the mighty blow;

For when he fell, an elfin queen,
All in secret, and unseen,
O’er the fainting hero threw
Her mantle of ambrosial blue ;
And bade her spirits bear him far,
In Merlin's agate-axled car,
To her green isle's enamelld steep,
Far in the navel of the deep.
O’er his wounds she sprinkled dew
From flowers that in Arabia grew :
On a rich inchanted bed
She pillow'd his majestic head;
O'er his brow, with whispers bland,
Thrice she waved an opiate wand;
And to soft music's airy sound,
Her magic curtains closed around.
There, renew'd the vital spring,
Again he reigns a mighty king ;
And many a fair and fragrant clime,
Blooming in immortal prime,
By gales of Eden ever fann'd,
Owns the monarch's high command :
Thence to Britain shall return,
(If right prophetic rolls I learn,)
Borne on victory's spreading plume,
His ancient sceptre to resume ;
Once more, in old heroic pride,
His barbed courser to bestride;
His knightly table to restore,
And brave the tournaments of yore."

They ceased : when on the tuneful stage
Advanced a bard, of aspect sage ;
His silver tresses, thin besprent,
To age a graceful reverence lent ;
His beard, all white as spangles frore
That clothe Plinlimmon's forests hoar,
Down to his harp descending flow'd ;
With Time's faint rose his features glow'd ;
His eyes diffused a soften'd fire,
And thus he waked the warbling wire.

“ Listen, Henry, to my rede! Not from fairy realms I lead Bright-robed Tradition, to relate In forged colours Arthur's fate ; Though much of old romantic lore On the high theme I keep in store : But boastful Fiction should be dumb, Where Truth the strain might best become. If thine ear may still be won With songs of Uther's glorious son, Henry, I a tale unfold, Never yet in rhyme enrollid, Nor sung nor harp'd in hall or bower ; Which in my youth's full early flower, A minstrel, sprung of Cornish line, Who spoke of kings from old Locrine, Taught me to chant, one vernal dawn, Deep in a cliff-encircled lawn, What time the glistening vapours fled From cloud-envelop'd Clyder's head; And on its sides the torrents gray Shone to the morning's orient ray.

“ When Arthur bow'd his haughty crest,
No princess, veil'd in azure vest,
Snatch'd him, by Merlin's potent spell,
In groves of golden bliss to dwell ;
Where, crown'd with wreaths of misletoe,
Slaughter'd kings in glory go :
But when he fell, with winged speed,
His champions, on a milk-white steed,
From the battle's hurricane,
Bore him to Joseph's tower'd fane,
In the fair vale of Avalon* :
There, with chanted orison,
And the long blaze of tapers clear,
The stolèd fathers met the bier ;
Through the dim aisles in order dread
Of martial woe, the chief they led,
And deep entomb'd in holy ground,
Before the altar's solemn bound.
Around no dusky banners wave,
No mouldering trophies mark the grave :
Away the ruthless Dane has torn
Each trace that Time's slow touch had worn ;
And long, o'er the neglected stone,
Oblivion's veil its shade has thrown :
The faded tomb, with honour due,
"Tis thine, 0 Henry, to renew !
Thither, when Conquest has restored
Yon recreant isle, and sheath'd the sword,
When peace with palm has crown'd thy brows,
Haste thee, to pay thy pilgrim vows.
There, observant of my lore,
The pavement's hallow'd depth explore ;
And thrice a fathom underneath
Dive into the vaults of death.
There shall thine eye, with wild amaze,
On his gigantic stature gaze ;
There shalt thou find the monarch laid,
All in warrior-weeds array'd ;
Wearing in death his helmet-crown,
And weapons huge of old renown.
Martial prince, 'tis thine to save
From dark oblivion Arthur's grave!
So may thy ships securely stem
The western frith : thy diadem
Shine victorious in the van,
Nor heed the slings of Ulster's clan :
Thy Norman pikemen win their way
Up the dun rocks of Harald's bayt:
And from the steeps of rough Kildare
Thy prancing hoofs the falcon scare :
So may thy bow's unerring yew
Its shafts in Roderick's heart imbrue."

Amid the pealing symphony
The spiced goblets mantled high ;
With passions new the song impressid
The listening king's impatient breast :

(* Glastonbury Abbey, said to be founded by Joseph of Arimathea, in a spot anciently called the island, or valley of Avalonia.]

(t The bay of Dublin. Harald, or Harsager, the Fair. haired King of Norway, is said to have conquered Ireland, and to have founded Dublin.]

SS

Dishonest flames my bosom never fire ;
The bad I pity, and the good admire ;
Fond of the Muse, to her devote my days,
And scribble—not for pudding, but for praise.

These careless lines, if any virgin hears,
Perhaps, in pity to my joyless years,
She may consent a generous tiame to own;
And I no longer sigh the nights alone.
But should the fair, affected, vain, or nice,
Scream with the fears inspired by frogs or mice;
Cry,“ Save us, heaven ! a spectre, not a man !"
Her hartshorn snatch or interpose her fan :
If I my tender overture repeat ;
Oh! may my vows her kind reception meet !
May she new graces on my form bestow,
And with tall honours dignify my brow !

ODE TO AURORA, ON MELISSA'S BIRTH-DAY.

While in my matchless graces wrapt I stand, And touch each feature with a trembling hand ; Deign, lovely self ! with art and nature's pride, To mix the colours, and the pencil guide.

Self is the grand pursuit of half mankind ; How vast a crowd by self, like me, are blind ! By self the fop in magic colours shown, Though scorn’d by every eye, delights his own : When age and wrinkles seize the conqu’ring maid, Self, not the glass, reflects the flattering shade. Then, wonder-working self! begin the lay ; Thy charms to others as to me display,

Straight is my person, but of little size; Lean are my cheeks, and hollow are my eyes : My youthful down is, like my talents, rare ; Politely distant stands each single hair. My voice too rough to charm a lady's ear ; So smooth a child may listen without fear ; Not form'd in cadence soft and warbling lays, To soothe the fair through pleasure's wanton ways. My form so fine, so regular, so new, My port so manly, and so fresh my hue ; Oft, as I meet the crowd, they laughing say, “ See, see Memento Mori cross the way.” The ravish'a Proserpine at last, we know, Grew fondly jealous of her sable beau ; But, thanks to nature ! none from me need fly; One heart the devil could wound-s0 cannot I.

Yet, though my person fearless may be seen, There is some danger in my graceful mien : For, as some vessel toss'd by wind and tide, Bounds o'er the waves and rocks from side to In just vibration thus I always move : [side ; This who can view and not be forced to love!

Hail ! charming self ! by whose propitious aid My form in all its glory stands display'd : Be present still ; with inspiration kind, Let the same faithful colours paint the mind.

Like all mankind, with vanity I'm bless'd, Conscious of wit I never yet possess'd. To strong desires my heart an easy prey, Oft feels their force, but never owns their sway. This hour, perhaps, as death I hate my foe ; The next, I wonder why I should do so. Though poor, the rich I view with careless eye ; Scorn a vain oath, and hate a serious lie. I ne'er for satire torture common sense ; Nor show my wit at God's nor man's expense. Harmless I live, unknowing and unknown ; Wish well to all, and yet do good to none. Unmerited contempt I hate to bear ; Yet on my faults, like others, am severe.

Of time and nature eldest born, Emerge, thou rosy-finger'd morn, Emerge, in purest dress array'd, And chase from Heaven night's envious shade That I once more may, pleased, survey, And hail Melissa's natal day. Of time and nature eldest born, Emerge, thou rosy-finger'd morn ; In order at the eastern gate The Hours to draw thy chariot wait ; Whilst zephyr, on his balmy wings, Mild nature's fragrant tribute brings, With odours sweet to strew thy way, And grace the bland revolving day. But as thou lead'st the radiant sphere, That gilds its birth, and marks the year, And as his stronger glories rise, Diffused around th' expanded skies, Till clothed with beams serenely bright, All Heaven's vast concave flames with light; So, when, through life's protracted day, Melissa still pursues her way, Her virtues with thy splendour vie, Increasing to the mental eye : Though less conspicuous, not less dear, Long may they Bion's prospect cheer ; So shall his heart no more repine, Bless’d with her rays, though robb’d of thine. [* Blacklock's poetry sleeps secure in undisturbed mediocrity, and Blacklock himself is best remembered from Johnson's reverential look and the influence a letter of his had upon the fate and fortunes of Burns.]