Fruitless is the attempt,By dull obedience and by creeping toilObscure, to conquer the severe ascentOf high Parnassus. Nature's kindling breathMust fire the chosen genius; Nature's hand
Must string his nerves, and imp his eagle-wings,Impatient of the painful steep, to soarHigh as the summit, there to breathe at largeEthereal air, with bards and sages old,Immortal sons of praise.
* * * * *
Even so did Nature's handTo certain species of external thingsAttune the finer organs of the mind:So the glad impulse of congenial powers,Or of sweet sounds, or fair-proportioned form,The grace of motion, or the bloom of light,Thrills through imagination's tender frame,From nerve to nerve; all naked and aliveThey catch the spreading rays, till now the soulAt length discloses every tuneful spring,To that harmonious movement from withoutResponsive.
* * * * *
What then is taste, but these internal powersActive, and strong, and feelingly aliveTo each fine impulse? a discerning senseOf decent and sublime, with quick disgustFrom things deformed, or disarranged, or grossIn species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold,Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow;But God alone, when first his active handImprints the secret bias of the soul.He, mighty parent wise and just in all,Free as the vital breeze or light of heaven,Reveals the charms of nature. Ask the swainWho journey's homeward from a summer day'sLong labour, why, forgetful of his toilsAnd due repose, he loiters to beholdThe sunshine gleaming as through amber cloudsO'er all the western sky; full soon, I ween,His rude expression and untutored airs,Beyond the power of language, will unfoldThe form of beauty smiling at his heart—How lovely! how commanding!
* * * * *
Oh! blest of Heaven, whom not the languid songsOf Luxury, the siren! nor the bribesOf sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoilsOf pageant Honour, can seduce to leaveThose ever-blooming sweets which, from the storeOf Nature, fair Imagination cullsTo charm th' enlivened soul! What though not allOf mortal offspring can attain the heightsOf envied life, though only few possessPatrician treasures or imperial state;Yet Nature's care, to all her children just,With richer treasure and an ampler state,Endows at large whatever happy manWill deign to use them. His the city's pomp;The rural honours his. Whate'er adornsThe princely dome, the column and the arch,The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold,Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the SpringDistils her dews, and from the silken gemIts lucid leaves unfolds; for him the handOf Autumn tinges every fertile branchWith blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breezeFlies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibesThe setting sun's effulgence, not a strainFrom all the tenants of the warbling shadeAscends, but whence his bosom can partakeFresh pleasure unreproved. Nor thence partakesFresh pleasure only; for th' attentive mind,By this harmonious action on her powers,Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oftIn outward things to meditate the charmOf sacred order, soon she seeks at homeTo find a kindred order, to exertWithin herself this elegance of love,This fair-inspired delight; her tempered powersRefine at length, and every passion wearsA chaster, milder, more attractive mien.But if to ampler prospects, if to gazeOn Nature's form where, negligent of allThese lesser graces, she assumes the partOf that Eternal Majesty that weighedThe world's foundations, if to these the mindExalts her daring eye; then mightier farWill be the change, and nobler. Would the formsOf servile custom cramp her generous powers?Would sordid policies, the barbarous growthOf ignorance and rapine, bow her downTo tame pursuits, to indolence and fear?Lo! she appeals to Nature, to the windsAnd rolling waves, the sun's unwearied courseThe elements and seasons: all declareFor what th' Eternal Maker has ordainedThe powers of man: we feel within ourselvesHis energy divine: he tells the heartHe meant, he made us, to behold and loveWhat he beholds and loves, the general orbOf life and being; to be great like him,Beneficent and active. Thus the menWhom nature's works can charm, with God himselfHold converse; grow familiar, day by day,With his conceptions; act upon his plan;And form to his, the relish of their souls.
Ye green-robed Dryads, oft at dusky eveBy wondering shepherds seen, to forests brownTo unfrequented meads, and pathless wilds,Lead me from gardens decked with art's vain pomps.Can gilt alcoves, can marble-mimic godsParterres embroidered, obelisks, and urnsOf high relief; can the long, spreading lake,Or vista lessening to the sight; can Stow,With all her Attic fanes, such raptures raise,As the thrush-haunted copse, where lightly leapsThe fearful fawn the rustling leaves along,And the brisk squirrel sports from bough to bough,While from an hollow oak, whose naked rootsO'erhang a pensive rill, the busy beesHum drowsy lullabies? The bards of old,Fair Nature's friends, sought such retreats, to charmSweet Echo with their songs; oft too they metIn summer evenings, near sequestered bowers,Or mountain nymph, or Muse, and eager learntThe moral strains she taught to mend mankind.
* * * * *
Rich in her weeping country's spoils, VersaillesMay boast a thousand fountains, that can castThe tortured waters to the distant heavens:Yet let me choose some pine-topped precipiceAbrupt and shaggy, whence a foamy stream,Like Anio, tumbling roars; or some bleak heath,Where straggling stands the mournful juniper,Or yew-tree scathed; while in clear prospect roundFrom the grove's bosom spires emerge, and smokeIn bluish wreaths ascends, ripe harvests wave,Low, lonely cottages, and ruined topsOf Gothic battlements appear, and streamsBeneath the sunbeams twinkle.
Happy the first of men, ere yet confinedTo smoky cities; who in sheltering groves,Warm caves, and deep-sunk valleys lived and loved,By cares unwounded; what the sun and showers,And genial earth untillaged, could produce,They gathered grateful, or the acorn brownOr blushing berry; by the liquid lapseOf murmuring waters called to slake their thirst,Or with fair nymphs their sun-brown limbs to bathe;With nymphs who fondly clasped their favourite youths,Unawed by shame, beneath the beechen shade,Nor wiles nor artificial coyness knew.Then doors and walls were not; the melting maidNor frown of parents feared, nor husband's threats;
Nor had cursed gold their tender hearts allured:Then beauty was not venal. Injured Love,Oh! whither, god of raptures, art thou fled?
* * * * *
What are the lays of artful Addison,Coldly correct, to Shakespeare's warblings wild?Whom on the winding Avon's willowed banksFair Fancy found, and bore the smiling babeTo a close cavern (still the shepherds showThe sacred place, whence with religious aweThey hear, returning from the field at eve,Strange whisperings of sweet music through the air).Here, as with honey gathered from the rock,She fed the little prattler, and with songsOft soothed his wandering ears; with deep delightOn her soft lap he sat, and caught the sounds.
Oft near some crowded city would I walk,Listening the far-off noises, rattling cars,Loud shouts of joy, sad shrieks of sorrow, knellsFull slowly tolling, instruments of trade,Striking my ears with one deep-swelling hum.Or wandering near the sea, attend the soundsOf hollow winds and ever-beating waves.Even when wild tempests swallow up the plains,And Boreas' blasts, big hail, and rains combineTo shake the groves and mountains, would I sit,Pensively musing on th' outrageous crimesThat wake Heaven's vengeance: at such solemn hours,Demons and goblins through the dark air shriek,While Hecat, with her black-browed sisters nine,Bides o'er the Earth, and scatters woes and death.Then, too, they say, in drear Egyptian wildsThe lion and the tiger prowl for preyWith roarings loud! The listening travellerStarts fear-struck, while the hollow echoing vaultsOf pyramids increase the deathful sounds.
But let me never fail in cloudless nights,When silent Cynthia in her silver carThrough the blue concave slides, when shine the hills,Twinkle the streams, and woods look tipped with gold,To seek some level mead, and there invoke
Old Midnight's sister, Contemplation sage,(Queen of the rugged brow and stern-fixt eye,)To lift my soul above this little earth,This folly-fettered world: to purge my ears,That I may hear the rolling planets' song,And tuneful turning spheres: if this be barredThe little fays, that dance in neighbouring dales,Sipping the night-dew, while they laugh and love,Shall charm me with aërial notes.—As thusI wander musing, lo, what awful formsYonder appear! sharp-eyed PhilosophyClad in dun robes, an eagle on his wrist,First meets my eye; next, virgin SolitudeSerene, who blushes at each gazer's sight;Then Wisdom's hoary head, with crutch in hand,Trembling, and bent with age; last Virtue's self,Smiling, in white arrayed, who with her leadsSweet Innocence, that prattles by her side,A naked boy!—Harassed with fear I stop,I gaze, when Virtue thus—'Whoe'er thou art,Mortal, by whom I deign to be beheldIn these my midnight walks; depart, and say,That henceforth I and my immortal trainForsake Britannia's isle; who fondly stoopsTo vice, her favourite paramour.' She spoke,And as she turned, her round and rosy neck,Her flowing train, and long ambrosial hair,Breathing rich odours, I enamoured view.
O who will bear me then to western climes,Since virtue leaves our wretched land, to fieldsYet unpolluted with Iberian swords,The isles of innocence, from mortal viewDeeply retired, beneath a plantain's shade,Where happiness and quiet sit enthroned.With simple Indian swains, that I may huntThe boar and tiger through savannahs wild,Through fragrant deserts and through citron groves?There fed on dates and herbs, would I despiseThe far-fetched cates of luxury, and hoardsOf narrow-hearted avarice; nor heedThe distant din of the tumultuous world.
Hail, thrice hail!Ye solitary seats, where Wisdom seeksBeauty and Good, th' unseparable pair,Sweet offspring of the sky, those emblems fairOf the celestial cause, whose tuneful wordFrom discord and from chaos raised this globeAnd all the wide effulgence of the day.From him begins this beam of gay delight,When aught harmonious strikes th' attentive mind;In him shall end; for he attuned the frameOf passive organs with internal sense,To feel an instantaneous glow of joy,When Beauty from her native seat of Heaven,Clothed in ethereal wildness, on our plainsDescends, ere Reason with her tardy eyeCan view the form divine; and through the worldThe heavenly boon to every being flows.
* * * * *
Nor less admire those things, which viewed apartUncouth appear, or horrid; ridges blackOf shagged rocks, which hang tremendous o'erSome barren heath; the congregated cloudsWhich spread their sable skirts, and wait the windTo burst th' embosomed storm; a leafless wood,A mouldering ruin, lightning-blasted fields;Nay, e'en the seat where Desolation reignsIn brownest horror; by familiar thoughtConnected to this universal frame,With equal beauty charms the tasteful soulAs the gold landscapes of the happy islesCrowned with Hesperian fruit: for Nature formedOne plan entire, and made each separate sceneCo-operate with the general of allIn that harmonious contrast.
* * * * *
From these sweet meditations on the charmsOf things external, on the genuine formsWhich blossom in creation, on the sceneWhere mimic art with emulative hueUsurps the throne of Nature unreproved,On the just concord of mellifluent sounds;The soul, and all the intellectual trainOf fond desires, gay hopes, or threatening fears,Through this habitual intercourse of senseIs harmonized within, till all is fairAnd perfect; till each moral power perceivesIts own resemblance, with fraternal joy,In every form complete, and smiling feelsBeauty and Good the same.
Written in the beginning of the year 1746
How sleep the brave who sink to restBy all their country's wishes blest!When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,Returns to deck their hallowed mould,She there shall dress a sweeter sodThan Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,By forms unseen their dirge is sung;There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,To bless the turf that wraps their clay;And Freedom shall awhile repair,To dwell a weeping hermit there!
If aught of oaten stop or pastoral songMay hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,Like thy own solemn springsThy springs and dying gales,
O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sunSits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,With brede ethereal wove,O'erhang his wavy bed:
Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat,With short, shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing;Or where the beetle windsHis small but sullen horn.
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:Now teach me, maid composed,To breathe some softened strain,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,May not unseemly with its stillness suit,As, musing slow, I hailThy genial loved return!
For when thy folding-star, arising, showsHis paly circlet, at his warning lampThe fragrant Hours, and elvesWho slept in flowers the day,
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,The pensive Pleasures sweet,Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lakeCheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pileOr upland fallows greyReflect its last cool gleam.
But when chill blustering winds or driving rainForbid my willing feet, be mine the hutThat from the mountain's sideViews wilds, and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires,And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er allThy dewy fingers drawThe gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve;While Summer loves to sportBeneath thy lingering light;
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,Affrights thy shrinking train,And rudely rends thy robes;
So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed,Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipped Health,Thy gentlest influence own,And hymn, thy favourite name!
As once—-if not with light regardI read aright that gifted bard(Him whose school above the restHis loveliest Elfin Queen has blest)—One, only one, unrivalled fairMight hope the magic girdle wear,At solemn tourney hung on high,The wish of each love-darting eye;Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied,As if, in air unseen, some hovering hand,Some chaste and angel friend to virgin fame,With whispered spell had burst the starting band,
It left unblest her loathed, dishonoured side;Happier, hopeless fair, if neverHer baffled hand, with vain endeavour,Had touched that fatal zone to her denied!Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name,To whom, prepared and bathed in heaven,The cest of amplest power is given,To few the godlike gift assignsTo gird their blest, prophetic loins,And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmixed her flame!
The band, as fairy legends say,Was wove on that creating dayWhen He who called with thought to birthYon tented sky, this laughing earth,And dressed with springs and forests tall,And poured the main engirting all,Long by the loved enthusiast wood,Himself in some diviner mood,Retiring, sate with her alone,And placed her on his sapphire throne,The whiles, the vaulted shrine around,Seraphic wires were heard to sound,Now sublimest triumph swelling,Now on love and mercy dwelling;And she, from out the veiling cloud,Breathed her magic notes aloud,And thou, thou rich-haired Youth of Morn,And all thy subject life, was born!The dangerous passions kept aloof,Far from the sainted growing woof:But near it sate ecstatic Wonder,Listening the deep applauding thunder;And Truth, in sunny vest arrayed,By whose the tarsel's eyes were made;All the shadowy tribes of mind,In braided dance, their murmurs joined,And all the bright uncounted powersWho feed on heaven's ambrosial flowers.Where is the bard whose soul can nowIts high presuming hopes avow?Where he who thinks, with rapture blind,This hallowed work for him designed?
High on some cliff, to heaven up-piled,Of rude access, of prospect wild,Where, tangled round the jealous steep,Strange shades o'erbrow the valleys deep.And holy genii guard the rock,Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock,While on its rich ambitious headAn Eden, like his own, lies spread,
I view that oak, the fancied glades among,By which as Milton lay, his evening ear,From many a cloud that dropped ethereal dew,Nigh sphered in heaven, its native strains could hear,On which that ancient trump he reached was hung:Thither oft, his glory greeting,From Waller's myrtle shades retreating,With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue,My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue;In vain—such bliss to one aloneOf all the sons of soul was known,And Heaven and Fancy, kindred powers,Have now o'erturned th' inspiring bowers,Or curtained close such scene from every future view.
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,While yet in early Greece she sung,The Passions oft, to hear her shell,Thronged around her magic cell,Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,Possessed beyond the Muse's painting;By turns they felt the glowing mindDisturbed, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,From the supporting myrtles roundThey snatched her instruments of sound;And, as they oft had heard apartSweet lessons of her forceful art,Each (for madness ruled the hour)Would prove his own expressive power.
First Fear in hand, its skill to try,Amid the chords bewildered laid,And back recoiled, he knew not why,Even at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rushed: his eyes, on fire,In lightnings owned his secret stings;In one rude clash he struck the lyre,And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woeful measures wan DespairLow, sullen sounds his grief beguiled;A solemn, strange, and mingled air—'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,What was thy delightful measure?Still it whispered promised pleasure,And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!Still would her touch the strain prolong;And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,She called on Echo still, through all the song;And where her sweetest theme she chose,A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.
And longer had she sung—but with a frownRevenge impatient rose;He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down,And with a withering lookThe war-denouncing trumpet took,And blew a blast so loud and dread,Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe.
And ever and anon he beatThe doubling drum with furious heat;And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,Dejected Pity, at his side,Her soul-subduing voice applied,Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien,While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed,Sad proof of thy distressful state;Of differing themes the veering—song was mixed,And now It courted Love, now raving called on Hate.
With eyes upraised, as one inspired,Pale Melancholy sate retired,And from her wild sequestered seat,In notes by distance made more sweet,Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul;And, dashing soft from rocks around,Bubbling runnels joined the sound:Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,Round an holy calm diffusing,Love of peace and lonely musing,In hollow murmurs died away,
But O how altered was its sprightlier tone,When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,Her how across her shoulder flung,Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known!The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen,Peeping from forth their alleys green;Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:He, with viny crown advancing,First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,Amidst the festal-sounding shades,To some unwearied minstrel dancing,While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,And he, amidst his frolic play,As if he would the charming air repay,Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
O Music! sphere-descended maid!Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!Why, goddess, why, to us denied,Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?As in that loved Athenian bowerYou learned an all-commanding power,Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared,Can well recall what then it heard.Where is thy native simple heart,Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?Arise as in that elder time,Warm energic, chaste, sublime!Thy wonders, in that godlike age,Fill thy recording sister's page:'Tis said, and I believe the tale,Thy humblest reed could more prevail,Had more of strength, diviner rage,Than all which charms this laggard age,E'en all at once together found,Cecilia's mingled world of sound.O bid our vain endeavours cease:Revive the just designs of Greece;Return in all thy simple state;Confirm the tales her sons relate!
H——, thou return'st from Thames, whose naiads longHave seen thee lingering, with a fond delay,'Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day,Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.Go, not, unmindful of that cordial youthWhom, long-endeared, thou leav'st by Levant's side;Together let us wish him lasting truth,And joy untainted, with his destined bride.Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boastMy short-lived bliss, forget my social name;But think, far off, how on the Southern coastI met thy friendship with an equal flame!Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, whose every valeShall prompt the poet, and his song demand:To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail;Thou need'st but take the pencil to thy hand,And paint what all believe who own thy genial land.
There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill;'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet,Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meetBeneath each birken shade on mead or hill.There each trim lass that skims the milky storeTo the swart tribes their creamy bowl allots;By night they sip it round the cottage door,While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.There every herd, by sad experience, knowsHow, winged with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly;When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes,Or, stretched on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie.Such airy beings awe th' untutored swain:Nor thou, though learn'd, his homelier thoughts neglect;Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain:These are the themes of simple, sure effect,That add new conquests to her boundless reign,And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding strain.
Even yet preserved, how often may'st thou hear,Where to the pole the boreal mountains run,Taught by the father to his listening son,Strange lays, whose power had charmed a Spenser's ear.At every pause, before thy mind possessed,Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around,With uncouth lyres, in many-coloured vest,Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crowned:Whether thou bid'st the well-taught hind repeatThe choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave,When every shrieking maid her bosom beat,And strewed with choicest herbs his scented grave;Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel,Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms,When, at the bugle's call, with fire and steel,The sturdy clans poured forth their bony swarms,And hostile brothers met to prove each other's arms.
'Tis thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells,In Skye's lone isle the gifted wizard seer,Lodged in the wintry cave with [Fate's fell spear;]Or in the depth of Uist's dark forests dwells:How they whose sight such dreary dreams engross,With their own visions oft astonished droop,When o'er the watery strath of quaggy mossThey see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop;Or if in sports, or on the festive green,Their [destined] glance some fated youth descry,Who, now perhaps in lusty vigour seenAnd rosy health, shall soon lamented die.For them the viewless forms of air obey,Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair.They know what spirit brews the stormful day,And, heartless, oft like moody madness stareTo see the phantom train their secret work prepare.
[To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray,Oft have they seen Fate give the fatal blow!The seer, in Skye, shrieked as the blood did flow,When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay!As Boreas threw his young Aurora forth,In the first year of the first George's reign,And battles raged in welkin of the North,They mourned in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain!And as, of late, they joyed in Preston's fight,Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crowned,They raved, divining, through their second sight,Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drowned!Illustrious William! Britain's guardian name!One William saved us from a tyrant's stroke;He, for a sceptre, gained heroic fame;But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke,To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke!
These, too, thou'lt sing! for well thy magic MuseCan to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar!Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more!Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne'er lose;Let not dank Will mislead you to the heath:Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake,He glows, to draw you downward to your death,In his bewitched, low, marshy willow brake!]What though far off, from some dark dell espied,His glimmering mazes cheer th' excursive sight,Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside,Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light;For, watchful, lurking 'mid th' unrustling reed,At those mirk hours the wily monster lies,And listens oft to hear the passing steed,And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes,If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise.
Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest indeed!Whom, late bewildered in the dank, dark fen,Far from his flocks and smoking hamlet then,To that sad spot [where hums the sedgy weed:]On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood,Shall never look with Pity's kind concern,But instant, furious, raise the whelming floodO'er its drowned bank, forbidding all return.Or, if he meditate his wished escapeTo some dim hill that seems uprising near,To his faint eye the grim and grisly shape,In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear.Meantime, the watery surge shall round him rise,Poured sudden forth from every swelling source.What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs?His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force,And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse.
For him, in vain, his anxious wife shall wait,Or wander forth to meet him on his way;For him, in vain, at to-fall of the day,His babes shall linger at th' unclosing gate.Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if nightHer travelled limbs in broken slumbers steep,With dropping willows dressed, his mournful spriteShall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep:Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand,Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek,And with his blue-swoln face before her stand,And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak:'Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursueAt dawn or dusk, industrious as before;Nor e'er of me one hapless thought renew,While I lie weltering on the oziered shore,Drowned by the kelpie's wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more!'
Unbounded is thy range; with varied styleThy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which springFrom their rude rocks, extend her skirting wingRound the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isleTo that hoar pile which still its ruin shows:In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found,Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows,And culls them, wondering, from the hallowed ground!Or thither, where, beneath the showery West,The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid:Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest;No slaves revere them, and no wars invade:Yet frequent now, at midnight's solemn hour,The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold,And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power,In pageant robes, and wreathed with sheeny gold,And on their twilight tombs aërial council hold.
But oh, o'er all, forget not Kilda's race,On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides,Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides.Go, just as they, their blameless manners trace!Then to my ear transmit some gentle songOf those whose lives are yet sincere and plain,Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along,And all their prospect but the wintry main.With sparing temperance, at the needful time,They drain the sainted spring, or, hunger-pressed,Along th' Atlantic rock undreading climb,And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest.Thus blest in primal innocence they live,Sufficed and happy with that frugal fareWhich tasteful toil and hourly danger give.Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare;Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!
Nor need'st thou blush, that such false themes engageThy gentle mind, of fairer stores possessed;For not alone they touch the village breast,But filled in elder time th' historic page.There Shakespeare's self, with every garland crowned,—[Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen!]—In musing hour, his wayward Sisters found,And with their terrors dressed the magic scene.From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design,Before the Scot afflicted and aghast,The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated lineThrough the dark cave in gleamy pageant passed.Proceed, nor quit the tales which, simply told,Could once so well my answering bosom pierce;Proceed! in forceful sounds and colours bold,The native legends of thy land rehearse;To such adapt thy lyre and suit thy powerful verse.
In scenes like these, which, daring to departFrom sober truth, are still to nature true,And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view,Th' heroic muse employed her Tasso's art!How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke,Its gushing blood the gaping cypress poured;When each live plant with mortal accents spoke,And the wild blast upheaved the vanished sword!How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind,To hear his harp, by British Fairfax strung,—Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mindBelieved the magic wonders which he sung!Hence at each sound imagination glows;[The MS. lacks a line here.]Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows;Melting it flows, pure, numerous, strong, and clear,And fills th' impassioned heart, and wins th' harmonious ear.
All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail,Ye [splendid] friths and lakes which, far away,Are by smooth Annan fill'd, or pastoral Tay,Or Don's romantic springs; at distance, hail!The time shall come when I, perhaps, may treadYour lowly glens, o'erhung with spreading broom,Or o'er your stretching heaths by fancy led[Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom:]Then will I dress once more the faded bower.Where Jonson sat in Drummond's [classic] shade,Or crop from Teviot's dale each [lyric flower]And mourn on Yarrow's banks [where Willy's laid!]Meantime, ye Powers that on the plains which boreThe cordial youth, on Lothian's plains, attend,Where'er he dwell, on hill or lowly muir,To him I lose your kind protection lend,And, touched with love like mine, preserve my absent friend!
Beneath yon ruined abbey's moss-grown pilesOft let me sit, at twilight hour of eve,Where through some western window the pale moonPours her long-levelled rule of streaming light,While sullen, sacred silence reigns around,Save the lone screech-owl's note, who builds his bowerAmid the mouldering caverns dark and damp,Or the calm breeze that rustles in the leavesOf flaunting ivy, that with mantle greenInvests some wasted tower. Or let me treadIts neighbouring walk of pines, where mused of oldThe cloistered brothers: through the gloomy voidThat far extends beneath their ample archAs on I pace, religious horror wrapsMy soul in dread repose. But when the worldIs clad in midnight's raven-coloured robe,'Mid hollow charnel let me watch the flameOf taper dim, shedding a livid glareO'er the wan heaps, while airy voices talkAlong the glimmering walls, or ghostly shape,At distance seen, invites with beckoning hand,My lonesome steps through the far-winding vaults.Nor undelightful is the solemn noonOf night, when, haply wakeful, from my couchI start: lo, all is motionless around!Roars not the rushing wind; the sons of menAnd every beast in mute oblivion lie;All nature's hushed in silence and in sleep:O then how fearful is it to reflectThat through the still globe's awful solitudeNo being wakes but me! till stealing sleepMy drooping temples bathes in opiate dews.Nor then let dreams, of wanton folly born,My senses lead through flowery paths of joy:But let the sacred genius of the nightSuch mystic visions send as Spenser sawWhen through bewildering Fancy's magic maze,To the fell house of Busyrane, he ledTh' unshaken Britomart; or Milton knew,When in abstracted thought he first conceivedAll Heaven in tumult, and the seraphimCome towering, armed in adamant and gold.
* * * * *
Through Pope's soft song though all the Graces breathe,And happiest art adorn his Attic page,Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow,As, at the root of mossy trunk reclined,In magic Spenser's wildly-warbled songI see deserted Una wander wideThrough wasteful solitudes and lurid heaths,Weary, forlorn, than when the fated fairUpon the bosom bright of silver ThamesLaunches in all the lustre of brocade,Amid the splendours of the laughing sun:The gay description palls upon the sense,And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss.
* * * * *
The tapered choir, at the late hour of prayer,Oft let me tread, while to th' according voiceThe many-sounding organ peals on highThe clear slow-dittied chant or varied hymn,Till all my soul is bathed in ecstasiesAnd lapped in Paradise. Or let me sitFar in sequestered aisles of the deep dome;There lonesome listen to the sacred sounds,Which, as they lengthen through the Gothic vaults,In hollow murmurs reach my ravished ear.Nor when the lamps, expiring, yield to night,And solitude returns, would I forsakeThe solemn mansion, but attentive markThe due clock swinging slow with sweepy sway,Measuring Time's flight with momentary sound.
From THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR
O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roared,High the screaming sea-mew soared;On Tintagel's topmost towerDarksome fell the sleety shower;Round the rough castle shrilly sungThe whirling blast, and wildly flungOn each tall rampart's thundering sideThe surges of the tumbling tide:When Arthur ranged his red-cross ranksOn conscious Camlan's crimsoned banks:By Mordred's faithless guile decreedBeneath a Saxon spear to bleed!Yet in vain a paynim foeArmed with fate the mighty blow;For when he fell, an Elfin QueenAll in secret, and unseen,O'er the fainting hero threwHer mantle of ambrosial blue;And bade her spirits bear him far,In Merlin's agate-axled car,To her green isle's enamelled steepFar in the navel of the deep.O'er his wounds she sprinkled dewFrom flowers that in Arabia grew:On a rich enchanted bedShe pillowed 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, renewed 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 fanned,Owns the monarch's high command:Thence to Britain shall return(If right prophetic rolls I learn),Born 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.
Deem not devoid of elegance the sage,By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguiled,Of painful pedantry the poring child,Who turns, of these proud domes, th' historic page,Now sunk by Time, and Henry's fiercer rage.Think'st thou the warbling Muses never smiledOn his lone hours? Ingenuous views engageHis thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely styled,Intent. While cloistered Piety displaysHer mouldering roll, the piercing eye exploresNew manners, and the pomp of elder days,Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores.Nor rough nor barren are the winding waysOf hoar antiquity, but strown with flowers.
Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle!Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore,To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore,Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile,T' entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile:Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore,Taught 'mid thy massy maze their mystic lore:Or Danish chiefs, enriched with savage spoil,To Victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine,Reared the rude heap: or, in thy hallowed round,Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line;Or here those kings in solemn state were crowned:Studious to trace thy wondrous origin,We muse on many an ancient tale renowned.
Ah! what a weary race my feet have run,Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned,And thought my way was all through fairy ground,Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun,Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun!While pensive Memory traces back the round,Which fills the varied interval between;Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pureNo more return, to cheer my evening road!Yet still one joy remains: that not obscureNor useless, all my vacant days have flowed,From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature;Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestowed.
Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,That crown the watery glade,Where grateful Science still adoresHer Henry's holy shade;And ye, that from the stately browOf Windsor's heights th' expanse belowOf grove, of lawn, of mead survey,Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers amongWanders the hoary Thames alongHis silver-winding way.
Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!Ah, fields beloved in vain!Where once my careless childhood strayed,A stranger yet to pain!I feel the gales that from ye blow,A momentary bliss bestow,As waving fresh their gladsome wing,My weary soul they seem to soothe,And, redolent of joy and youth,To breathe a second spring.
Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seenFull many a sprightly raceDisporting on thy margent greenThe paths of pleasure trace,Who foremost now delight to cleaveWith pliant arm thy glassy wave?The captive linnet which enthrall?What idle progeny succeedTo chase the rolling circle's speed,Or urge the flying ball?
While some on earnest business bentTheir murmuring labours ply'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraintTo sweeten liberty:Some bold adventurers disdainThe limits of their little reign,And unknown regions dare descry:Still as they run they look behind,They hear a voice in every wind,And snatch a fearful joy.
Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,Less pleasing when possessed;The tear forgot as soon as shed,The sunshine of the breast:Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,Wild wit, invention ever-new,And lively cheer of vigour born;The thoughtless day, the easy night,The spirits pure, the slumbers light,That fly th' approach of morn.
Alas! regardless of their doom,The little victims play;No sense have they of ills to come,Nor care beyond to-day:Yet see how all around 'em waitThe ministers of human fate,And black Misfortune's baleful train!Ah, shew them where in ambush standTo seize their prey the murderous band!Ah, tell them, they are men!
These shall the fury Passions tear,The vultures of the mind,Disdainful, Anger, pallid Fear,And Shame that skulks behind;Or pining Love shall waste their youth,Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,That inly gnaws the secret heart,And Envy wan, and faded Care,Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,And Sorrow's piercing dart.
Ambition this shall tempt to rise,Then whirl the wretch from high,To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,And grinning Infamy.The stings of Falsehood those shall try,And hard Unkindness' altered eye,That mocks the tear it forced to flow;And keen Remorse with blood defiled,And moody Madness laughing wildAmid severest woe.
Lo, in the vale of years beneathA grisly troop are seen,The painful family of Death,More hideous than their Queen:This racks the joints, this fires the veins,That every labouring sinew strains,Those in the deeper vitals rage:Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,That numbs the soul with icy hand,And slow-consuming Age.
To each his sufferings; all are men,Condemned alike to groan,The tender for another's pain;The unfeeling for his own.Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,Since sorrow never comes too late,And happiness too swiftly flies?Thought would destroy their paradise.No more; where ignorance is bliss,'Tis folly to be wise.
Daughter of Jove, relentless power,Thou tamer of the human breast,Whose iron scourge and torturing hourThe bad affright, afflict the best!Bound in thy adamantine chain,The proud are taught to taste of pain,And purple tyrants vainly groanWith pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.
When first thy sire to send on earthVirtue, his darling child, designed,To thee he gave the heavenly birth,And bade to form her infant mind.Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid loreWith patience many a year she bore;What sorrow was thou bad'st her know,And from her own she learned to melt at other's woe.
Scared at thy frown terrific, flySelf-pleasing Folly's idle brood,Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,And leave us leisure to be good:Light they disperse, and with them goThe summer friend, the flattering foe;By vain Prosperity received,To her they TOW their truth, and are again believed.
Wisdom in sable garb arrayed,Immersed in rapturous thought profound,And Melancholy, silent maidWith leaden eye, that loves the ground,Still on thy solemn steps attend;Warm Charity, the genial friend,With Justice, to herself severe,And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear,
Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head,Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand!Hot in thy Gorgon terrors clad,Nor circled with the vengeful band(As by the impious thou art seen),With thundering voice and threatening mien,With screaming Horror's funeral cry,Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty:
Thy form benign, O goddess, wear,Thy milder influence impart;Thy philosophic train be thereTo soften, not to wound, my heart;The generous spark extinct revive,Teach me to love and to forgive,Exact nay own defects to scan,What others are to feel, and know myself a man.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds,Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled towerThe moping owl does to the moon complainOf such, as wandering near her secret bower,Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,Each in his narrow cell forever laid,The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,Or busy housewife ply her evening care:No children run to lisp their sire's return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,Await alike th' inevitable hour.The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bustBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laidSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample pageRich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breastThe little tyrant of his fields withstood;Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood,
Th' applause of listening senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,And read their history in a nation's eyes,Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed aloneTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confined;Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,Or heap the shrine of Luxury and PrideWith incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,Their sober wishes never learned to stray;Along the cool sequestered vale of lifeThey kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet even these bones from insult to protect,Some frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their names, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse,The place of fame and elegy supply:And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonoured deadDost in these lines their artless tale relate,If chance, by lonely contemplation led,Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawnBrushing with hasty steps the dews awayTo meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
'There at the foot of yonder nodding beechThat wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,His listless length at noontide would he stretch,And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
'One morn I missed him on the customed hill,Along the heath, and near his favourite treeAnother came; nor yet beside the rill,Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
'The next with dirges due in sad arraySlow through the church-way path we saw him borne,Approach and read (for thou canst read) the layGraved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'
_Here rests his head upon the lap of earthA youth to fortune and to fame unknown;Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,And Melancholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;Heaven did a recompense as largely send:He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear,He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)—The bosom of his Father and his God._
Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,And give to rapture all thy trembling strings!From Helicon's harmonious springsA thousand rills their mazy progress take;The laughing flowers that round them blowDrink life and fragrance as they flow.Now the rich stream of music winds alongDeep, majestic, smooth, and strong,Through verdant vales and Ceres' golden reign:Now rolling down the steep amain,Headlong, impetuous, see it pour;The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.
Oh sovereign of the willing soul,Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,Enchanting shell! the sullen CaresAnd frantic Passions hear thy soft control.On Thracia's hills the Lord of WarHas curbed the fury of his carAnd dropped his thirsty lance at thy command.Perching on the sceptred handOf Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered kingWith ruffled plumes and flagging wing;Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lieThe terror of his beak and lightnings of his eye.
Thee the voice, the dance, obey,Tempered to thy warbled lay.O'er Idalia's velvet-greenThe rosy-crownèd Loves are seen,On Cytherea's day,With antic Sports and blue-eyed PleasuresFrisking light in frolic measures:Now pursuing, now retreating,Now in circling troops they meet;To brisk notes in cadence beatingGlance their many-twinkling feet.
Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare:Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay;With arms sublime, that float upon the air,In gliding state she wins her easy way;O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom moveThe bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
Man's feeble race what ills await:Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!The fond complaint, my song, disprove,And justify the laws of Jove.Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?Night, and all her sickly dews,Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry,He gives to range the dreary sky;Till down the eastern cliffs afarHyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war,
In climes beyond the solar road,Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,The Muse has broke the twilight-gloomTo cheer the shivering native's dull abode.And oft, beneath the odorous shadeOf Chili's boundless forests laid,She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,In loose numbers wildly sweet,Their feather-cinctured chiefs and dusky loves.Her track, where'er the goddess roves,Glory pursue, and generous Shame,Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.
Woods that wave o'er Delphi's steep,Isles that crown th' Aegean deep,Fields that cool Ilissus laves,Or where Maeander's amber wavesIn lingering labyrinths creep,How do your tuneful echoes languish,Mute but to the voice of Anguish?Where each old poetic mountainInspiration breathed around,Every shade and hallowed fountainMurmured deep a solemn sound;Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hourLeft their Parnassus for the Latian plains:Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,And coward Vice that revels in her chains.When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,They sought, O Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.
Far from the sun and summer-gale,In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid,What time, where lucid Avon strayed,To him the mighty mother did unveilHer awful face: the dauntless childStretched forth his little arms, and smiled.'This pencil take,' she said, 'whose colours clearRichly paint the vernal year.Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy!This can unlock the gates of Joy;Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.'
Nor second he that rode sublimeUpon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,The secrets of th' abyss to spy.He passed the flaming bounds of Place and Time:The living throne, the sapphire blaze,Where angels tremble while they gaze,He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,Closed his eyes in endless night.Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous carWide o'er the fields of glory bearTwo coursers of ethereal race,With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace!III. 3
Hark! his hands the lyre explore:Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,Scatters from her pictured urnThoughts that breathe and words that burn.But, ah, 'tis heard no more!O lyre divine, what daring spiritWakes thee now? Though he inheritNor the pride nor ample pinionThat the Theban Eagle bear,Sailing with supreme dominionThrough the azure deep of air,Yet oft before his infant eyes would runSuch forms as glitter in the Muse's ray,With orient hues unborrowed of the sun:Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant wayBeyond the limits of a vulgar fate,Beneath the good how far—but far above the great.
'Ruin seize thee, ruthless king!Confusion on thy banners wait;Though fanned by conquest's crimson wing,They mock the air with idle state.Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,Nor even thy virtues, tyrant, shall availTo save thy secret soul from nightly fears,From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'Such were the sounds that o'er the crested prideOf the first Edward scattered wild dismay,As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy sideHe wound with toilsome march his long array.Stout Gloucester stood aghast in speechless trance;'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance.
On a rock, whose haughty browFrowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood.Robed in the sable garb of woe,With haggard eyes the poet stood(Loose his heard and hoary hairStreamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air),And with a master's hand and prophet's fireStruck the deep sorrows of his lyre:'Hark how each giant oak and desert caveSighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!O'er thee, oh king! their hundred arms they wave,Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe,Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,To high-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewellyn's lay.