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E'en yet preserv'd, 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 charm'd a Spenser's


At every pause, before thy mind possest,

Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, With uncouth lyres, in many-color'd vest,

Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown'd: Whether thou bidd'st the well-taught hind repeat The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave, When every shrieking maid her bosom beat,

And strew'd 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 pour'd forth their brawny

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"Tis thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells,
In Sky's lone isle, the gifted wizard-seer,
Lodg'd in the wintry cave with Fate's fell spear,
Or in the depth of Uist's dark forest dwells:
How they, whose sight such dreary dreams engross,
With their own vision oft astonish'd droop;
When, o'er the watery strath, or quaggy moss,
They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop.
Or, if in sports, or on the festive green,

Their destin'd glance some fated youth descry, Who now, perhaps, in lusty vigor seen,

And 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, stare
To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.

To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray,
Oft have I seen Fate give the fatal blow!
The seer, in Sky, shriek'd 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 rag'd in welkin of the North, They mourn'd in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain! And as, of late, they joy'd in Preston's fight,

Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crown'd! They rav'd! divining through their second-sight, Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown'd!

illustrious William! Britain's guardian name! One William sav'd us from a tyrant's stroke; He, for a sceptre, gain'd heroic fame,

But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke,

To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke!

By young Aurora, Collins undoubtedly meant the first appearance of the northern lights, which happened about the year F15; at least, it is most highly probable, from this peculiar circumstance, that no ancient writer whatever has taken any notice of them, nor even any one modern, previous to the above period.

† Second-sight is the term that is used for the divination of the Highlanders.

These, too, thou 'lt sing! for well thy magic Muso
Can 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

Let not dank Wills 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 bewitch'd, 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 bewilder'd in the dank, dark fen, Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then! To that sad spot where hums the sedgy weed. On him, enrag'd, the fiend, in angry mood,

Shall never look with pity's kind concern, But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood O'er its drown'd banks, forbidding all return! Or, if he meditate his wish'd escape,

To 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

Pour'd sudden forth from every swelling source What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs! His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthiy 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 night

Her travell'd limbs in broken slumbers steep, With drooping willows drest, his mournful sprite Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand, Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep:

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, pursue,

At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; Nor e'er of me one helpless thought renew, While I lie weltering on the osier'd shore, Drown'd by the Kelpie's wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more!"

Unbounded is thy range; with varied skill Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring

From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle

§ A fiery meteor, called by various names, such as Wil with the Wisp, Jack with the Lantern, &c. It hovers in

The late Duke of Cumberland, who defeated the Pre- the air over marshy and fenny places. tender at the battle of Culloden.

The water-fiend.

To 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, wond'ring, from the hallow'd ground!

Or thither, where beneath the show'ry 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 solemn hour,

The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power, In pageant robes, and wreath'd with sheeny gold, And on their twilight tombs aërial council hold.

But, on, o'er all, forget not Kilda's race,

How have I sat, when pip'd the pensive wind, To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung! Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind Believ'd the magic wonders which he sung! Hence, at each sound, imagination glows!

Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here! Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows! Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong, and clear,

And fills the impassion'd heart, and wins th' har monious ear!

All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail!

Ye splendid friths and lakes, which, far away, Are by smooth Anan fill'd, or past'ral Tay, Or Don's romantic springs, at distance, hail!

On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread


Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides. Go! just, as they, their blameless manners trace! Then to my ear transmit some gentle song,

Of 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 scented spring; or, hunger-prest, Along th' Atlantic rock, undreading, climb,

And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest. Thus blest in primal innocence they live,

Suffic'd and happy with that frugal fare Which 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 engage

Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest; For not alone they touch the village breast, But fill'd in elder time th' historic page. There, Shakspeare's self, with ev'ry garland crown'd, Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen, In musing hour; his wayward sisters found,

And with their terrors dress'd 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 line

Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass'd. Proceed! nor quit the tales which, simply told, Could once so well my answering bosom pierce ; Proceed, in forceful sounds, and color 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 depart From sober truth, are still to Nature true, And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view, Th' heroic Muse employ'd her Tasso's art. How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke, Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd! When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blast upheav'd the vanish'd sword!

One of the Hebrides is called the Isle of Pigmies;| where it is reported that several miniature bones of the human species have been dug up in the ruins of a chapel there.

† Icolmkill, one of the Hebrides, where near sixty of the ancient Scottish, Irish, and Norwegian kings are in terred.

An aquatic bird like a goose, on the eggs of which the inhabitants of St. Kilda, another of the Hebrides, chiefly Bubsist.

Your lowly glenst 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 Tiviotdale, each lyric flower,
And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where Willy's

Meantime, ye powers, that on the plains which bore
The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains § attend!
Where'er Home dwells, on hill or lowly moor,
To him I lose, your kind protection lend,
And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my
absent friend!

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And oft as Ease and Health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,*
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou, who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail?
Or tears which Love and Pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail.

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?
With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,
And Joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

* Mr. Thomson was buried in Richmond church.

And see, the fairy valleys fade,

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view Yet once again, dear parted shade,

Meek Nature's child, again adieu!

The genial meadst assign'd to bless

Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom! Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb.

Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes, "O! vales, and wild woods," shall he say, "In yonder grave your Druid lies !"

+ Mr. Thomson resided in the neighborhood of Rich mond some time before his death.


JOSEPH and THOMAS WARTON were sons of Rev. Thomas Warton, who was for some time Professor of Poetry at Oxford. Joseph was born at Dunsfold, Surrey, in 1722, and Thomas at Basingstoke, Hampshire, in 1728. Both were educated at Oxford. Joseph early contributed verses to the "Gentleman's Magazine," and published "Odes, on Various Subjects" in 1746. He travelled on the Continent with the Duke of Bolton in 1751, and two years later issued an edition of Virgil, with a translation of the Eclogues and Georgics. In 1756 he published the first volume of his "Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope," of which the second volume was not published until 1782. In this work he questioned the supremacy of Pope, and exhibited an amount of critical skill and knowledge that forced an honorable recognition for the book in the face of universal prejudice. He took orders and obtained several valuable livings. He issued an annotated edition of Pope in 1797, and died on February 23, 1800.

Thomas, who was also a clergyman, was less fortunate. than his brother in the matter of preferment, but far excelled him as a poet. He occupied the chair of Poetry at Oxford, and his lectures were held in high esteem. In 1754 he published "Observations on the Faerie Queene of Spenser," which gave him high reputation as a critic. In 1774 he published the first volume of his "History of English Poetry," which is still a standard work. Two other volumes were published in 1778 and 1781, but it was never finished. In 1777 he published a collection of all his poems that he cared to preserve. These went through several editions, and on the death of Whitehead, the poet-laureate, Warton was appointed to that position. He improved the style of work usually done by the laureate, and was somewhat ridiculed for his pains. His last publication was an annotated edition of the minor poems of Milton. He died on May 21, 1790. Of the following selections, the first two are by Joseph Warton, the others by Thomas.


O PARENT of each lovely Muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murdered fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.
O nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crowned,
Waving in thy snowy hand
An all-commanding magic wand,
Of power to bid fresh gardens blow,
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
Through air, and over earth and sea,
While the vast, various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes.
O lover of the desert, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Mid fall of waters, you reside,
'Mid broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and grassy dales between,

'Mid forests dark of aged oak,

Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,
Where never human art appear'd,
Nor even one straw-roofed cot was reared,
Where Nature seems to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne;

Tell me the path, sweet wanderer, tell,
To thy unknown sequestered cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds ber nest,
Each evening warbling thee to rest:
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser through a fairy grove;
Till, suddenly awaked, I hear
Strange whispered music in my ear,
And my glad soul in bliss is drowned
By the sweetly-soothing sound!
Me, goddess, by the right hand lead
Sometimes through the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-robed Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court,
Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,

Nodding their lily-crownéd heads,
Where laughter rose-lipped Hebe leads,
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
Listening to the shepherd's song:
Yet not these flowery fields of joy
Can long my pensive mind employ.
Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly
To meet the matron Melancholy,
Goddess of the tearful eye,

That loves to fold her arms, and sigh;
Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnels and the house of woe,
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each sad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promised bridegroom's urn to seek ;
Or to some abbey's mouldering towers,
Where, to avoid cold wintry showers,
The naked beggar shivering lies,
While whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles lest the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For my heart glows with martial fire,
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat;
The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear,
A thousand widows' shrieks I hear;
Give me another horse, I cry,
Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly!
Whence is this rage?-what spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?
'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war,
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where Tumult and Destruction reign;
Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead;
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With sullen joy surveys the ground,
And, pointing to th' ensanguined field,
Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield !
O guide me from this horrid scene,
To high-arch'd walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervors of the mid-day sun;
The pangs of absence, oh remove!
For thou canst place me near my love,
Canst fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss,
While her ruby lips dispense
Luscious nectar's quintessence!

When young-eyed Spring profusely throws
From her green lap the pink and rose,
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale,
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks;
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold;
At every season let my ear
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.
O warm, enthusiastic maid,
Without thy powerful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a soul to every line,
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane
To utter an unhallowed strain,

Nor dare to touch the sacred string,

On which thou lov'st to sit at eve,
Musing o'er thy darling's grave;
O queen of numbers, once again
Animate some chosen swain,

O hear our prayer, O hither come
From thy lamented Shakespeare's tomb,
Who, filled with unexhausted fire,
May boldly smite the sounding lyre,
Who with some new unequalled song,
May rise above the rhyming throng,
O'er all our list'ning passions reign,
O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain,
With terror shake, and pity move,
Rouse with revenge, or melt with love;
O deign t' attend his evening walk,
With him in groves and grottoes talk;
Teach him to scorn with frigid art
Feebly to touch th' unraptured heart;
Like lightning, let his mighty verse
The bosom's inmost foldings pierce;
With native beauties win applause
Beyond cold critics' studied laws;
O let each Muse's fame increase,
O bid Britannia rival Greece!

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Give me, beneath a colder, changeful sky,
My soul's best, only pleasure, Liberty!
What millions perish'd near thy mournful

When the red papal tyrant cried out-"Blood!"
Less fierce the Saracen, and quiver'd Moor,
That dashed thy infants 'gainst the stones of

Be warned, ye nations round; and trembling see
Dire superstition quench humanity!
By all the chiefs in freedom's battles lost,
By wise and virtuous Alfred's awful ghost;
By old Galgacus' scythéd, iron car,
That, swiftly whirling through the walks of


Dashed Roman blood, and crushed the foreign throngs;

By holy Druids' courage-breathing songs;
By fierce Bonduca's shield and foaming steeds;
By the bold peers that met on Thames's meads;
By the fifth Henry's helm and lightning spear;
O Liberty, my warm petition hear;
Be Albion still thy joy! with her remain,
Long as the surge shall lash her oak-crown'd

*Alluding to the persecutions of the Protestants, and the wars of the Saracens, carried on in the southern prov

Save when with smiles thou bidd'st me sing; inces of France.

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