No more I weep. They do not sleep.

On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,

I see them sit, they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land:

With me in dreadful harmony they join,

Revere his consort's faith, his father's + fame,
And spare the meek usurper's holy head.
Above, below, the rose § of snow,

Twin'd with her blushing foe we spread:
The bristled boar || in infant gore

66 6 Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,

Low on his funeral couch he lies! §
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the sable warrior || fled?

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm, that in the noon-tide beam were born;
Gone to salute the rising Morn.

Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening-

prey.

« Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare:

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray ¶,

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destin'd course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius **, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murther fed,

Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom,

Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

III.

"Edward, lo! to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)
Half of thy heart we consecrate. ¶
(The web is wove. The work is done.)'
Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Arthur ** we bewail. [hail!
All-hail, ye genuine kings ++; Britannia's issue,

"Girt with many a baron bold

Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old,
In bearded majesty, appear.

In the midst a form divine!

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line;
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play;
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin ‡‡, hear;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd
wings.

Margaret of Anjou, a woman of heroic spirit, who struggled hard to save her husband and her

crown.

+ Henry the Fifth.

Henry the Sixth, very near being canonized. The line of Lancaster had no right of inheritance to the crown.

§ The white and red roses, devices of York and Lancaster.

The silver-boar was the badge of Richard the Third; whence he was usually known in his own time by the name of The Boar.

Eleanor of Castile died a few years after the

her affection for her lord is well known.

The mo

Triumphs of Edward the Third in France. Death of that king, abandoned by his children, and even robbed in his last moments by his courtiers and his mistress.

Edward the Black Prince, dead some time before his father.

Ruinous civil wars of York and Lancaster. ** Henry the Sixth, George Duke of Clarence, Edward the Fifth, Richard Duke of York, &c. believed to be murdered secretly in the Tower of London. The oldest part of that structure is vulgarly attributed to Julius Cæsar.

her, are still to be seen at Northampton, Geddington, Waltham, and other places.

** It was the common belief of the Welsh nation, that King Arthur was still alive in Fairy-land, and should return again to reign over Britain.

++ Both Merlin and Taliessin had prophesied, that the Welsh should regain their sovereignty over this island; which seemed to be accomplished in the house of Tudor.

# Taliessin, chief of the bards, flourished in the sixth century. His works are still preserved, and his memory held in high veneration among his countrymen.

The succession of poets after Milton's time. $ The Valkyriur were female divinities, servants of Odin (or Woden) in the Gothic mythology. Their name signifies choosers of the slain. They were mounted on swift horses, with drawn swords in their hands; and in the throng of battle selected such as were destined to slaughter, and conducted them to Valkalla, the hall of Odin, or paradise of the brave; where they attended the banquet, and served the departed heroes with horns of mead and ale.

Mista, black terrific maid, Sangrida, and Hilda, see, Join the wayward work to aid : 'Tis the woof of victory.

Ere the ruddy Sun be set,

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

(Weave the crimson web of war,)
Let us go, and let us fly,
Where our friends the conflict share,
Where they triumph, where they die.

As the paths of Fate we tread,
Wading through th' ensanguin'd field;
Gondula, and Geira, spread

O'er the youthful king your shield.

We the reins to Slaughter give,
Ours to kill, and ours to spare:
Spite of danger he shall live:

(Weave the crimson web of war.)

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

Low the dauntless Earl is laid,

Gor'd with many a gaping wound:

Fate demands a nobler head;

Soon a king shall bite the ground.

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

Horrour covers all the heath,

Clouds of carnage blot the Sun. Sisters, weave the web of death; Sisters, cease, the work is done.

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

Triumph to the younger king.

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

Sisters, hence, with spurs of speed;

Each her thundering falchion wield; Each bestride her sable steed: Hurry, hurry to the field.

THE DESCENT OF ODIN.

AN ODE.

[From the same.]

IN BARTHOLINUS, DE CAUSIS CONTEMNENDÆ MORTIS; HAFNIÆ, 1689, QUARTO.

Upreis Odinn allda gauir, &c.

UPROSE the King of Men with speed,
And saddled straight his coal-black steed;
Down the yawning steep he rode,
That leads to Hela's drear abode.
Him the Dog of Darkness spied,
His shaggy throat he open'd wide,
While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd,
Foam and human gore distill'd;
Hoarse he bays with hideous din,
Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin ;
And long pursues, with fruitless yell,
The father of the powerful spell.
Onward still his way he takes,

(The groaning Earth beneath him shakes,)
Till full before his fearless eyes
The portals nine of Hell arise.

Right against the eastern gate,
By the moss-grown pile he sate;
Where long of yore to sleep was laid
The dust of the prophetic maid.
Facing to the northern clime,
Thrice he trac'd the Runic rhyme;
Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread,
The thrilling verse that wakes the dead;
Till from out the hollow ground
Slowly breath'd a sullen sound.

[sume,

Pr. What call unknown, what charms pre-
To break the quiet of the tomb?
Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite,
And drags me from the realms of night?
Long on these mouldering bones have beat
The winter's snow, the summer's heat,
The drenching dews, and driving rain!
Let me, let me sleep again.
Who is he, with voice unblest,
That calls me from the bed of rest?

O. A traveller, to thee unknown,

Is he that calls, a warrior's son.
Thou the deeds of light shalt know;
Tell me what is done below,

For whom yon glittering board is spread,
Drest for whom yon golden bed?

Pr. Mantling in the goblet see
The pure beverage of the bee,
O'er it hangs the shield of gold;
'T is the drink of Balder bold:
Balder's head to death is given,
Pain can reach the sons of Heaven!
Unwilling I my lips unclose:
Leave me, leave me, to repose.

0. Once again my call obey,
Prophetess, arise, and say,

• Niflheimr, the Hell of the Gothic nations, consisted of nine worlds, to which were devoted all such as died of sickness, old age, or by any other means than in battle: over it presided Hela, the goddess of death.

What dangers Odin's child await,
Who the author of his fate?

Pr. In Hoder's hand the hero's doom:
His brother sends him to the tomb.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me, to repose.

0. Prophetess, my spell obey :
Once again arise, and say,
Who th' avenger of his guilt,

By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt?
Pr. In the caverns of the west,
By Odin's fierce embrace comprest,
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 Hoder's corse shall smile
Flaming on the funeral pile.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me, to repose.

0. Yet awhile 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.

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

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

Pr. Hie thee hence, and boast at home,
That never shall inquirer come
To break my iron-sleep again;
Till Lok + has burst his ten-fold chain.
Never, till substantial Night

Has re-assum'd her ancient right;
Till wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN.

A FRAGMENT.

FROM MR. EVANS'S SPECIMENS OF THE WELSH POETRY;
LONDON, 1764, QUARTO.

OWEN's praise demands my song,
Owen swift, and Owen strong;
Fairest flower of Roderic's stem,
Gwyneth's shield, and Britain's gem.

† Lok is the evil being, who continues in chains till the twilight of the gods approaches, when he shall break his bonds; the human race, the stars, and Sun, shall disappear; the earth sink in the seas, and fire consume the skies: even Odin himself and his kindred deities shall perish. For a further explanation of this mythology, see Mallet's Introduction to the History of Denmark, 1755, quarto.

Owen succeeded his father Griffin in the prinThis battle cipality of North Wales, A. D. 112. was fought near forty years afterwards. S North Wales.

In glittering arms and glory drest,
High he rears his ruby crest.
There the thundering strokes begin,
There the press, and there the din;
Talymalfra's rocky shore
Echoing to the battle's roar,
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, Terrour's child,
Conflict fierce, and Ruin wild,
Agony, that pants for breath,
Despair and honourable Death.

圈

TOBIAS SMOLLETT, well known in his time for the variety and multiplicity of his publications, was born in 1720, at Dalquhurn, in the county of Dumbarton. He was educated under a surgeon in Glasgow, where he also attended the medical lectures of the University; and at this early period he gave some specimens of a talent for writing verses. As it is on this ground that he has obtained a place in the present collection, we shall pass over his various characters of surgeon's mate, physician, historiographer, politician, miscellaneous writer, and especially novellist, and consider his claims as a minor poet of no mean rank. He will be found,

in this collection, as the author of "The Tears of Scotland," the "Ode to Leven-Water," and some other short pieces, which are polished, tender, and picturesque; and, especially, of an "Ode to Independence," which aims at a loftier flight, and perhaps has few superiors in the lyric style.

Smollett married a lady of Jamaica: he was, unfortunately, of an irritable disposition, which involved him in frequent quarrels, and finally shortened his life. He died in the neighbourhood of Leghorn, in October, 1771, in the fifty-first year of his age.

THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.

MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hospitable roofs no more,
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.

The wretched owner sees afar
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast, and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ;
Thy infants perish on the plain.

What boots it then, in every clime,
Through the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancour fell.

The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy day:
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains but those of sorrow flow,

And nought be heard but sounds of woe,
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

O baneful cause, oh, fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their fathers stood,
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's soul was not appeas'd:
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel!

The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forsaken wanders o'er the heath,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.

While the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow:
"Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn !"

ODE TO LEVEN-WATER.

ON Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love;

I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod the Arcadian plain.

Pure stream! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave;