A wondrous boy shall Rinda bear,
Who ne'er shall comb his raven hair,
Nor wash his visage in the stream,
Nor see the sun's departing beam,
Till he on Hober's corse shall smile,
Flaming on the funeral pile.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me to repose.

ODIN.

Yet a while my call obey;
Prophetess, awake, and say

What virgins these, in speechless woe,
That bend to earth their solemn brow,
That their flaxen tresses tear,
And snowy veils, that float in air?
Tell me whence their sorrows rose;
Then I leave thee to repose.

PROPHETESS.

Ha! no traveller art thou, King of Men, I know thee now ! Mightiest of a mighty line

ODIN.

No boding maid of skill divine Art thou, nor prophetess of good, But mother of the giant brood!

PROPHETESS.

Hie thee hence, and boast at home
That never shall inquirer come
To break my iron sleep again,

Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain:
Never, till substantial Night
Has re-assum'd her ancient right;
Till, wrapt in flames, in ruin hurl'd,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

$75. The Triumphs of Owen. A Fragment.

OWEN's praise demands my song,
Owen swift, and Owen strong;
Fairest flow'r of Roderic's stem
Gwyneth's shield, and Britain's gem.
He nor heaps his brooded stores,
Nor on all profusely pours;
Lord of ev'ry regal art,
Lib'ral hand, and open heart.

Big with hosts of mighty name,,
Squadrons three against him came;
This the force of Eirin hiding,
Side by side as proudly riding,
On her shadow long and gay
Lochlin ploughs the wat'ry way;
There the Norman sails afar
Catch the winds, and join the war:
Black and huge along they sweep,
Burthens of the angry deep.

Dauntless on his native sands
The dragon-son of Mona stands;
In glitt'ring arms and glory drest,
High he rears his ruby crest.
There the thund'ring strokes begin,
There the press, and there the din;
Talymalfra's rocky shore
Echoing to the battle's roar.

GRAY.

Check'd by the torrent-tide of blood,
Backward Menaï rolls his flood;
While, heap'd his master's feed around,
Prostrate warriors gnaw the ground.
Where his glowing eye-balls turn,
Thousand banners round him burn;
Where he points his purple spear,
Hasty, hasty Rout is there;
Marking with indignant eye
Fear to stop, and shame to fly.
There Confusion, Terror's child;
Conflict fierce, and Ruin wild;
Agony, that pants for breath;
Despair, and honorable Death.

$76. Ode on the Installation of the Duke of Grafton. Irregular. GRAY.

"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 bow'rs

"Let painted Flatt'ry hide her serpent-train in "Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain, [flow'rs. "Dare the Muse's walk to stain,

"While bright-eyed Science watches round:
"Hence away, 'tis holy ground!"
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 ev'ry unborn age, and undiscover'd
Rapt in celestial transport they;
Yet hither oft a glance from high
They send of tender sympathy,

[clime.

To bless the place where on their op'ning soul First the genuine ardor stole.

"Twas Milton struck the deep-ton'd 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.

"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."

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.
(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:
"What is grandeur? what is pow'r?
"Heavier toil, superior pain.
"What the bright reward we gain?
"The grateful memory of the good.
"Sweet is the breath of vernal show'r,
"The bee's collected treasures sweet,
"Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet
"The still small voice of gratitude."
Foremost, and leaning froin her golden cloud,
The venerable Margaret see!

"Welcome, my noble son, (she cries aloud,) "To this thy kindred train, and me: "Pleas'd in thy lineaments we trace "A Tudor's fire, a Beaufort's grace.

Thy lib'ral heart, thy judging eye, "The flow'r unheeded shall descry. "And bid it round heaven's altar shed "The fragrance of its blushing head: "Shall raise from earth the latent gem "To glitter on the diadem.

66

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

"No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings; "Nor dares with courtly tongue refin'd

66

66

"With watchful eye and dauntless mien

If e'er thy pitying heart was mov'd,
As ancient stories tell,
And for th' Athenian maid who lov'd
Thou sought'st a wondrous spell;

Oh deign once more t'exert thy pow'r!
Haply some herb or tree,
Sov'reign as juice of western flow'r,
Conceals a balm for me.

I ask no kind return of love,

No tempting charm to please;
Far from the heart those gifts remove
That sighs for peace and ease:

Nor peace nor ease the heart can know,
Which, like the needle truc,
Turns at the touch of joy or woe,
But, turning, trembles too.

Far as distress the soul can wound,
'Tis pain in each degree:

Tis bliss but to a certain bound;
Beyond, is agony.

Take, then, this treacherous sense of mine,
Which dooms me still to smart;
Which pleasure can to pain refine,
To pains new pangs impart.

Oh haste to shed the sacred balm!
My shatter'd nerves new-string;
And for my guest, serenely calm,
The nymph Indifference bring.

At her approach, see Hope, see Fear,
See Expectation fly;
And Disappointment in the rear,

That blasts the promis'd joy.

The tear which pity taught to flow
The eye
shall then disowu;

The heart that melts for others' woe
Shall then scarce feel its own.

The wounds which now each moment bleed,
Each moment then shall close;
And tranquil days shall still succeed
To nights of calm repose.

O fairy elf! but grant me this,
This one kind comfort send;
And so may never-fading bliss
Thy flow'ry paths attend!

So may the glow-worm's glimm'ring light
Thy tiny footsteps lead

To some new region of delight,
Unknown to mortal tread:

And be thy acorn goblet fill'd

With heaven's ambrosial dew;

From sweetest, freshest flow'rs distill'd,
That shed fresh sweets for you!

And what of life remains for me
I'll pass in sober ease;
Half-pleas'd, contented will I be,
Content but half to please,

§ 78. The Fairy's Answer to Mr. Greville's Prayer for Indifference.

By the Countess of C——.
WITHOUT preamble, to my friend
These hasty lines I'm bid to send,
Or give, if I am able:
I dare not hesitate to say,

Though I have trembled all the day—

It looks so like a fable.

Last night's adventure is my theme;
And should it strike you as a dream,
Yet soon its high import

Must make you own the matter such,
So delicate, it were too much

To be compos'd in sport.

The moon did shine serenely bright,
And ev'ry star did deck the night,
While Zephyr fann'd the trees;
No more assail'd my mind's repose,

Save that yon stream, which murmuring flows,
Did echo to the breeze.

Enrapt in solemn thoughts I sate,
Revolving o'er the turns of fate,
Yet void of hope or fear;
When, lo! behold an airy throng,
With lightest steps, and jocund song,
Surpris'd my eye and ear.

A form superior to the rest
His little voice to me address'd,
And gently thus began:

"I've heard strange things from one of you, Pray tell me if you think 'tis true; "Explain it if you can.

"Such incense has perfum'd my throne! "Such eloquence my heart has won!

"I think I guess the hand: "I know her wit and beauty too, "But why she sends a pray'r so new, "I cannot understand.

"To light some flames, and some revive, "To keep some others just alive,

"Full oft I am implor'd;

"But, with peculiar pow'r to please, "To supplicate for nought but ease! ""Tis odd, upon my word!

"Tell her, with fruitless care I've sought; "And tho' my realms, with wonder fraught, "In remedies abound,

"No grain of cold indifference "Was ever yet allied to sense

"In all my fairy round. "The regions of the sky I'd trace, "I'd ransack ev'ry earthly place,

"Each leaf, each herb, each flow'r, "To mitigate the pangs of fear, "Dispel the clouds of black despair, "Or lull the restless hour. "I would be generous as I'm just; "But I obey, as others must,

"Those laws which fate has made.

My tiny kingdom how defend,
"And what might be the horrid end,
Should man my state invade?

""T would put your mind into a rage,
"And such unequal war to wage
"Suits not my regal duty!

"I dare not change a first decree:
"She's doom'd to please, nor can be free:
"Such is the lot of Beauty!"

This said, he darted o'er the plain,
And after follow'd all his train;

No glimpse of him I find:
But sure I am, the little sprite
These words, before he took his flight,
Imprinted on my mind.

§ 79. The Beggar's Petition. ANON. PITY the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,

your store!

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;
Oh give relief, and Heaven will bless
These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been a channel to a flood of tears.
Yon house erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my
For Plenty there a residence has found,
And Grandeur a magnificent abode.
Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial drove me from the door
To seek a shelter in an humbler shed.

road:

Oh take me to your hospitable dome!
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb!
For I am poor, and miserably old.
Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be repress'd.
Heaven sends misfortunes; why should we re-

pine?

Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see;
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of Sorrow and of Misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot;
Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn;
But, ah! oppression forc'd me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lur'd by a villain from her native home,
Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care!
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me!