ODE

The king of Norse in summer tyde,Puft up with power and micht,Landed in fair Scotland the yle,With mony a hardy knicht:The tydings to our gude Scots kingCame, as he sat at dyne,With noble chiefs in braif aray,Drinking the blude-reid wyne.

VI.

"To horse, to horse, my ryal liege,"Zour faes stand on the strand,"Full twenty thousand glittering spears"The king of Norse commands.Bring me my steed Mage dapple grey,Our gude king raise and cryd,A trustier beast in all the landA Scots king nevir seyd.

VII.

Go little page, tellhardyknute,That lives on hill so hie,To draw his sword, the dreid of faes,And haste and follow me.The little page flew swift as dartFlung by his master's arm,Cum down, cum down lordhardyknute,And rid zour king frae harm.

VIII.

Then reid, reid grow his dark-brown cheiks,Sae did his dark-brown brow;His luiks grew kene, as they were wont,In dangers great to do;He hes tane a horn as grene as glass,And gien five sounds sae shrill,That treis in grene wode schuke thereat,Sae loud rang ilka hill.

IX.

His sons in manly sport and glie,Had pass'd the summer's morn,Quhen lo! down in a grassy dale,They heard their fatheris horn.That horn, quod they, neir sounds in peace,We haif other sport to byde;And sune they heyd them up the hill,And sune were at his syde.

Late, late the zestrene I weind in peaceTo end my lengthen'd lyfe,My age micht weil excuse my armFrae manly feats of stryfe;But now thatnorsedois proudly boastFair Scotland to inthrall,Its neir be said ofhardyknuteHe feard to ficht or fall.

XI.

Robinof Rothsay, bend thy bow,Thy arrows shoute sae leil,Many a comely countenanceThey haif turnd to deidly pale:Bradethomastak ze but zour lance,Ze need nae weapons mair,Gif ze ficht weit as ze did anesGainst Westmorland's serfs heir.

XII.

Malcom, licht of fute as stagThat runs in forest wyld,Get me my thousands thrie of menWell bred to sword and schield:Bring me my horse and harnisineMy blade of metal cleir;If faes kend but the hand it bare,They sune had fled for feir.

XIII.

Farewell my dame sae peirless gude,And take her by the hand,Fairer to me in age zou seim,Than maids for bewtie fam'd:My zoungest son sall here remainTo guard these stately towirs,And shut the silver bolt that keipsSae fast zour painted bowirs.

XIV.

And first scho wet her comely cheiks,And then hir boddice grene,Hir silken cords of twirtle twist,Weil plett with silver schene;And apron set with mony a diceOf neidle-wark sae rare,Wove by nae hand, as ze may guess,Saif that offairlyfair.

XV.

And he has ridden owre muir and moss,Owre hills and mony a glen,Quhen he came to a wounded knicht,Making a heavy mane;Here maun I lye, here maun I die,By treacheries false gyles;Witless I was that eir gaif faithTo wicked womans smiles.

XVI.

Sir knicht, gin ze were in my bowir,To lean on silken seat,To ladyis kindly care zoud prove,Quha neir stend deidly hate;Hir self wald watch ze all the day,Hir maids a deid of nicht;Andfairlyfair zour heart wald cheir,As scho stands in zour sicht.

XVII.

Aryse zoung knicht, and mount zour steid,Full lowns the shynand day,Cheis frae my menzie quhom ze pleis,To leid ze on the way.With smyless luke, and visage wan,The wounded knicht reply'd,Kynd chiftain, zour intent pursue,For here I maun abyde.

XVIII.

To me nae after day nor nicht,Can eir be sweit or fair,But sune beneath sum draping tree,Cauld death sall end my care.With him nae pleiding micht prevail,Bravehardyknutein to gain,With fairest words and reason strong,Strave courteously in vain.

XIX.

Syne he has gane far hynd attowre,Lordchattansland sae wyde,That lord a worthy wicht was ay,Quhen faes his courage seyd:Of Pictish race by mothers syde,Quhen Picts ruld Caledon,Lordchattanclaimd the princely maid,Quhen he saift Pictish crown.

XX.

Now with his serfs and stalwart train,He reicht a rysing heicht,Quhair braid encampit on the dale,Norss menzie lay in sicht;Zonder my valiant sons and serfs,Our raging revers wait,On the unconquerit Scottish swaird,To try with us thair fate.

XXI.

Mak orisons to him that saiftOur sauls upon the rude,Syne braifly schaw zour veins ar filldWith Caledonian blude.Then furth he drew his trusty glaive,Quhyle thousands all arround,Drawn frae their sheaths glanst in the sun,And loud the bougills sound.

XXII.

To join his king adoun the hillIn hast his merch he made,Quhyle, playand pibrochs, minstralls meitAfore him stately strade;Thryse welcome, valziant stoup of weir,Thy nations scheild and pryde;Thy king nae reason has to feirQuhen thou art by his syde.

XXIII.

Quhen bows were bent and darts were thrawn,For thrang scarce could they flie,The darts clove arrows as they met,The arrows dart the trie.Lang did they rage and ficht full ferss,With little skaith to man,But bludy, bludy was the field,Or that lang day was done.

XXIV.

The king of Scots that findle bruik'dThe war that luikd like play,Drew his braid sword, and brake his bow,Sen bows seimt but delay:Quoth noblerothsay, myne I'll keip,I wate its bleid a skore.Hast up my merry men, cryd the king,As he rade on before.

XXV.

The king of Norse he socht to find,With him to mense the faucht,But on his forehead there did lichtA sharp unsonsie shaft;As he his hand put up to findThe wound, an arrow kene,O waefou chance! there pinnd his handIn midst betwene his ene.

XXVI.

Revenge, revenge, crydrothsaysheir,Your mail-coat sall nocht bydeThe strength and sharpness of my dart;Then sent it through his syde:Another arrow weil he markd,It persit his neck in twa,His hands then quat the silver reins,His law as eard did fa.

XXVII.

Sair bleids my liege, sair, sair he bleids.Again with micht he drewAnd gesture dreid his sturdy bow,Fast the braid arrow flew:Wae to the knicht he ettled at,Lament now queneelgreid,Hie dames to wail zour darlings fall,His zouth and comely meid.

XXVIII.

Take aff, take aff his costly jupe(Of gold weil was it twynd,Knit lyke the fowlers net throuch quhilkHis steilly harness shynd)Takenorse, that gift frae me, and bidHim venge the blude it beirs;Say, if he face my bended bow,He sure nae weapon fears.

XXIX.

Proudnorsewith giant body tall,Braid shoulder and arms strong,Cryd, quhair ishardyknutesae famd,And feird at Britains throne?Tho Britons tremble at his name,I sune sall make him wail,That eir my sword was made sae sharp,Sae saft his coat of mail.

XXX.

That brag his stout heart coud na byde.It lent him zouthfou micht:I'mhardyknutethis day, he cryd,To Scotlands king I hecht,To lay thee low at horses hufe,My word I mean to keip.Syne with the first strake eir he strake,He garrd his body bleid.

XXXI.

Norseene like gray gosehawks staird wyld,He sicht with shame and spyte;Disgracd is now my far-famd armThat left thee power to stryke:Then gaif his head a blaw sae fell,It made him doun to stoup,As law as he to ladies usit,In courtly gyse to lout.

XXXII.

Full sune he reis'd his bent body,His bow he marvelld sair,Sen blaws till then on him but darrdAs touch offairlyfair:Norseferliet too as sair as heTo se his stately luke,Sae sune as eir he strake a fae,Sae sune his lyfe he tuke.

XXXIII.

Quair lyke a fyre to hether set,Bauldthomasdid advance,A sturdy fae with luke enragdUp towards him did prance;He spurd his steid throw thickest ranksThe hardy zouth to quellQuha stude unmusit at his approachHis furie to repel.

XXXIV.

That schort brown shaft sae meanly trimd,Lukis lyke poor Scotlands geir,But dreidfull seims the rusty point!And loud he leuch in jeir.Aft Britains blude has dimd its shyneThis poynt cut short their vaunt;Syne piercd the boisteris bairded cheik,Nae tyme he tuke to taunt.

XXXV.

Schort quhyle he in his sadill swang,His stirrip was nae stay,Sae feible hang his unbent knee,Sure taken he was fey:Swith on the hardened clay he fell,Richt far was heard the thud,Butthomasluikt not as he lay,All waltering in his blude.

XXXVI.

With cairles gesture mynd ummuvitOn raid he north the plain,His seim in thrang of fiercest stryfe,Quhen winner ay the same;Nor zit his heart dames dimpelit cheik,Coud meise saft luve to bruik,Till vengefulannreturnd his scorn,Then languid grew his luke.

XXXVII.

In thrawis of death, with wallowit cheikAll panting on the plain,The fainting corps of warriors lay,Neir to aryse again;Neir to return to native land,Nae mair with blythsome sounds,To boist the glories of the day,And schaw their shyning wounds.

XXXXVIII.

On Norways coast the widowit dameMay wash the rock with teirs,May lang luke owre the schiples seisBefoir hir mate appeirs.Ceise,emma, ceise to hope in vain,Thy lord lyis in the clay,The valziant Scots nae revers tholeTo carry lyfe away.

XXXIX.

There on a lie quhair stands a crossSet up for monument,Thousands full fierce that summers dayFilld kene waris black intent.Let Scots quhyle Scots, praisehardyknuteLetnorsethe name ay dreid,Ay how he faucht, aft how he spaird,Sal latest ages reid.

XL.

Loud and chill blew the westlin wind,Sair beat the heavy showir,Mirk grew the nicht, eirhardyknuteWan neir his stately towir;His towir that usd with torches bleiseTo shyne sae far at nicht,Seimd now as black as mourning weid,Nae marvel sair he sichd.

XLI.

Thairs nae licht in my lady's bowir,Thairs nae licht in my hall;Nae blink shynes round myfairlyfair,Nor ward stands on my wall.Quhat bodes it?robert,thomassay,Nae answer fits their dreid.Stand back, my sons, I'll be zour gyde,But by they past with speid.

XLII.

As fast I haif sped owre Scotlands faes,There ceist his brag of weir,Sair schamit to mynd ocht but his dame,And maidenfairlyfair.Black feir he felt, but quhat to feirHe wist not zit with dreid;Sair schuke his body, sair his limbs,And all the warrior fleid.

ON LYRIC POETRY.

BY DR. AKENSIDE.

Once more I join the Thespian quire,And taste th' inspiring fount again:O parent of the Græcian lyre,Admit me to thy secret strain.——And lo! with ease my step invadesThe pathless vale and opening shades,Till now I spy her verdant seat;And now at large I drink the sound,While these her offspring, list'ning round,By turns her melody repeat.I seeanacreonsmile and sing:His silver tresses breathe perfume;His cheek displays a second springOf roses taught by wine to bloom.Away, deceitful cares, away!And let me listen to his lay!While flow'ry dreams my soul employ;While turtle-wing'd the laughing hoursLead hand in hand the festal pow'rs,Lead Youth and Love, and harmless Joy.Broke from the fetters of his native land,Devoting shame and vengeance to her lords,With louder impulse, and a threat'ning hand,The[22]Lesbian patriot smites the sounding chords:Ye wretches, ye perfidious train,Ye curst of Gods and free-born men,Ye murd'rers of the laws,Tho' now you glory in your lust,Tho' now you tread the feeble neck in dust,Yet time and righteousjovewill judge your dreadful cause.But lo, tosappho'smournful airsDescends the radiant queen of love;She smiles, and asks what fonder caresHer suppliant's plaintive measures move:Why is my faithful maid distrest?Who,sappho, wounds thy tender breast?Say, flies he?——Soon he shall pursue:Shuns he thy gifts?——He too shall give:Slights he thy sorrows?——He shall grieve,And bend him to thy haughtiest vow.But, Omelpomene, for whomAwakes thy golden shell again?What mortal breath shall e'er presumeTo echo that unbounded strain?Majestic, in the frown of years,Behold, the[23]Man of Thebes appears:For some there are, whose mighty frameThe hand ofjoveat birth endow'dWith hopes that mock the gazing crowd;As eagles drink the noontide flame.While the dim raven beats his weary wings,And clamours far below.——Propitious Muse,While I so late unlock thy hallow'd springs,And breathe whate'er thy ancient airs infuse,To polish Albion's warlike earThis long-lost melody to hear,Thy sweetest arts imploy;As when the winds from shore to shore,Thro' Greece thy lyre's persuasive language bore,Till towns, and isles, and seas return'd the vocal joy.But oft amid the Græcian throng,The loose-rob'd forms of wild desireWith lawless notes intun'd thy song,To shameful steps dissolv'd thy quire.O fair, O chaste, be still with meFrom such profaner discord free:While I frequent thy tuneful shade,No frantic shouts of Thracian dames,No satyrs fierce with savage flamesThy pleasing accents shall invade.Queen of the lyre, in thy retreatThe fairest flow'rs of Pindus glow;The vine aspires to crown thy seat,And myrtles round thy laurel grow.Thy strings attune their varied strain,To ev'ry pleasure, every pain,Which mortal tribes were born to prove,And strait our passions rise or fall,As at the wind's imperious callThe ocean swells, the billows move.When midnight listens o'er the slumb'ring earth,Let me, O Muse, thy solemn whispers hear:When morning sends her fragrant breezes forth,With airy murmurs touch my op'ning ear.And ever watchful at thy side,Let wisdom's awful suffrage guideThe tenour of thy lay:To her of old byjovewas giv'nTo judge the various deeds of earth and heav'n;'Twas thine by gentle arts to win us to her sway.Oft as from stricter hours resign'dI quit the maze where science toils,Do thou refresh my yielding mindWith all thy gay, delusive spoils.But, O indulgent, come not nighThe busy steps, the jealous eyeOf gainful care, and wealthy age,Whose barren souls thy joys disdain,And hold as foes to reason's reignWhome'er thy lovely haunts engage.With me, when mirth's consenting bandAround fair friendship's genial boardInvite the heart-awakening hand,With me salute the Teian chord.Or if invok'd at softer hours,O seek with me the happy bow'rsThat heardione'sgentle tongue;To beauty link'd with virtue's train,To love devoid of jealous pain,There let the Sapphic lute be strung.But when from envy and from death to claimA hero bleeding for his native land;Or when to nourish freedom's vestal flame,I hear my genius utter his command,Nor Theban voice, nor Lesbian lyreFrom thee, O Muse, do I require,While my prophetic mind,Conscious of pow'rs she never knew,Astonish'd grasps at things beyond her view,Nor by another's fate hath felt her own confin'd.

I seeanacreonsmile and sing:His silver tresses breathe perfume;His cheek displays a second springOf roses taught by wine to bloom.Away, deceitful cares, away!And let me listen to his lay!While flow'ry dreams my soul employ;While turtle-wing'd the laughing hoursLead hand in hand the festal pow'rs,Lead Youth and Love, and harmless Joy.

Broke from the fetters of his native land,Devoting shame and vengeance to her lords,With louder impulse, and a threat'ning hand,The[22]Lesbian patriot smites the sounding chords:Ye wretches, ye perfidious train,Ye curst of Gods and free-born men,Ye murd'rers of the laws,Tho' now you glory in your lust,Tho' now you tread the feeble neck in dust,Yet time and righteousjovewill judge your dreadful cause.

But lo, tosappho'smournful airsDescends the radiant queen of love;She smiles, and asks what fonder caresHer suppliant's plaintive measures move:Why is my faithful maid distrest?Who,sappho, wounds thy tender breast?Say, flies he?——Soon he shall pursue:Shuns he thy gifts?——He too shall give:Slights he thy sorrows?——He shall grieve,And bend him to thy haughtiest vow.

But, Omelpomene, for whomAwakes thy golden shell again?What mortal breath shall e'er presumeTo echo that unbounded strain?Majestic, in the frown of years,Behold, the[23]Man of Thebes appears:For some there are, whose mighty frameThe hand ofjoveat birth endow'dWith hopes that mock the gazing crowd;As eagles drink the noontide flame.

While the dim raven beats his weary wings,And clamours far below.——Propitious Muse,While I so late unlock thy hallow'd springs,And breathe whate'er thy ancient airs infuse,To polish Albion's warlike earThis long-lost melody to hear,Thy sweetest arts imploy;As when the winds from shore to shore,Thro' Greece thy lyre's persuasive language bore,Till towns, and isles, and seas return'd the vocal joy.

But oft amid the Græcian throng,The loose-rob'd forms of wild desireWith lawless notes intun'd thy song,To shameful steps dissolv'd thy quire.O fair, O chaste, be still with meFrom such profaner discord free:While I frequent thy tuneful shade,No frantic shouts of Thracian dames,No satyrs fierce with savage flamesThy pleasing accents shall invade.Queen of the lyre, in thy retreatThe fairest flow'rs of Pindus glow;The vine aspires to crown thy seat,And myrtles round thy laurel grow.Thy strings attune their varied strain,To ev'ry pleasure, every pain,Which mortal tribes were born to prove,And strait our passions rise or fall,As at the wind's imperious callThe ocean swells, the billows move.

When midnight listens o'er the slumb'ring earth,Let me, O Muse, thy solemn whispers hear:When morning sends her fragrant breezes forth,With airy murmurs touch my op'ning ear.And ever watchful at thy side,Let wisdom's awful suffrage guideThe tenour of thy lay:To her of old byjovewas giv'nTo judge the various deeds of earth and heav'n;'Twas thine by gentle arts to win us to her sway.

Oft as from stricter hours resign'dI quit the maze where science toils,Do thou refresh my yielding mindWith all thy gay, delusive spoils.But, O indulgent, come not nighThe busy steps, the jealous eyeOf gainful care, and wealthy age,Whose barren souls thy joys disdain,And hold as foes to reason's reignWhome'er thy lovely haunts engage.

With me, when mirth's consenting bandAround fair friendship's genial boardInvite the heart-awakening hand,With me salute the Teian chord.Or if invok'd at softer hours,O seek with me the happy bow'rsThat heardione'sgentle tongue;To beauty link'd with virtue's train,To love devoid of jealous pain,There let the Sapphic lute be strung.But when from envy and from death to claimA hero bleeding for his native land;Or when to nourish freedom's vestal flame,I hear my genius utter his command,Nor Theban voice, nor Lesbian lyreFrom thee, O Muse, do I require,While my prophetic mind,Conscious of pow'rs she never knew,Astonish'd grasps at things beyond her view,Nor by another's fate hath felt her own confin'd.

FOOTNOTES:[22]Alcæusof Mitylene, the capital of Lesbos, who fled from his native city to escape the oppression of those who had inslav'd it, and wrote against them in his exile those noble invectives which are so much applauded by the ancient critics.[23]Pindar.

[22]Alcæusof Mitylene, the capital of Lesbos, who fled from his native city to escape the oppression of those who had inslav'd it, and wrote against them in his exile those noble invectives which are so much applauded by the ancient critics.

[23]Pindar.

FINIS.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTESEighteenth-century idiosyncrasies of spelling, punctuation and capitalisation have been retained.In the Scottish poems "Prologue to Sir David Lyndesay's Dream" and "Hardyknute", the letter "z" has been used by the original editor to represent the letter "ȝ" or "yogh".The variants "aereal" and "aerial", "All-powerful" and "All-pow'rful", "far-famd" and "far-fam'd", "noontide" and "noon-tide", "Phebus", "Phæbus", "Phœbus" and "Phoebus", "upland" and "up-land", "woodman" and "wood-man" appear in this text.The poem "A Love-Elegy, by Mr. Hammond" begins on page 57, not 47 (as given in the Table of Contents). The incorrect page number has been retained in the Table of Contents, but a link has been made to the correct page.On p. 4 quotation marks are missing after "Queen!" but the text has been left unchanged.On p. 69 there should perhaps be closing quotation marks after "print the ground" and "his father and his God" but the text has been left unchanged.On p. 79 the stanza numbering goes from XXI to XXIII in mid-page.On p. 107 there should perhaps be closing quotation marks after "be but good!" but the text has been left unchanged.On p. 115 the line "Is this, he cries, the trumpet's warlike sound?" has been left unchanged, although quotation marks appear to be missing before and after "he cries".On p. 134 closing quotation marks appear to be missing after "commands" but the text has been left unchanged.On p. 144 stanza number XXXVIII is incorrectly given as XXXXVIII.The following amendments have been made:p. 7: missing hyphen inserted in "Flower-de-lyce";p. 16: "reluctant crouds" amended to "reluctant clouds";p. 64: repeated "shall" deleted in "My sympathizing verse shall flow";p. 95: extra comma removed after "swain";p. 100: "votaties" amended to "votaries";p. 109: after "ESQ" comma changed to full stop;p. 114: "mounts" changed to "mount".

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Eighteenth-century idiosyncrasies of spelling, punctuation and capitalisation have been retained.

In the Scottish poems "Prologue to Sir David Lyndesay's Dream" and "Hardyknute", the letter "z" has been used by the original editor to represent the letter "ȝ" or "yogh".

The variants "aereal" and "aerial", "All-powerful" and "All-pow'rful", "far-famd" and "far-fam'd", "noontide" and "noon-tide", "Phebus", "Phæbus", "Phœbus" and "Phoebus", "upland" and "up-land", "woodman" and "wood-man" appear in this text.

The poem "A Love-Elegy, by Mr. Hammond" begins on page 57, not 47 (as given in the Table of Contents). The incorrect page number has been retained in the Table of Contents, but a link has been made to the correct page.

On p. 4 quotation marks are missing after "Queen!" but the text has been left unchanged.

On p. 69 there should perhaps be closing quotation marks after "print the ground" and "his father and his God" but the text has been left unchanged.

On p. 79 the stanza numbering goes from XXI to XXIII in mid-page.

On p. 107 there should perhaps be closing quotation marks after "be but good!" but the text has been left unchanged.

On p. 115 the line "Is this, he cries, the trumpet's warlike sound?" has been left unchanged, although quotation marks appear to be missing before and after "he cries".

On p. 134 closing quotation marks appear to be missing after "commands" but the text has been left unchanged.

On p. 144 stanza number XXXVIII is incorrectly given as XXXXVIII.

The following amendments have been made:

p. 7: missing hyphen inserted in "Flower-de-lyce";

p. 16: "reluctant crouds" amended to "reluctant clouds";

p. 64: repeated "shall" deleted in "My sympathizing verse shall flow";

p. 95: extra comma removed after "swain";

p. 100: "votaties" amended to "votaries";

p. 109: after "ESQ" comma changed to full stop;

p. 114: "mounts" changed to "mount".

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