Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unblessed, 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 Arthur3 we bewail; All hail! ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, had!

"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,
Attempered sweet to virgin grace;

1 As the spirits of the other bards begin to vanish, the speaker cries out to them.

2 But as the bards melt into sunset light, a vision reveals itself of the glories of the Tudors, whom he claims as Welsh, and thus restores the dominion of Wales.

3 The great legendary King of Britain.

4 The Plantagenets having passed away, the Tudors are held to bring back the British line.

5 Queen Elizabeth.

What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play, Hear from the grave, great Taliessin,' hear,2

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay; Bright rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured wings. "The verse adorn again

Fierce War and faithful Love,

And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest,

In buskin'd measures move,

Pale Grief and pleasing Pain,

With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast;

A voice as of the cherub choir,

Gales from blooming Eden bear,

And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
That lost in long futurity expire.

5

Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,

Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day: To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.

1 The first and greatest of the bards.

2 The poetry of Elizabeth's time.

3 The buskin, a high sandal, was worn by ancient Greek actors. "Buskin'd measures" therefore mean dramatic poetry. Reference is made to the plays of Shakespeare.

4 Fond once meant foolish.

The bard again addresses Edward. Does he think the bloodcoloured cloud in which the sun has set has ended his career for ever? Even so the destruction of the Welsh glories was only for a time, for they would revive again.

E

"Enough for me; with joy I see

The different doom our Fates assign : Be thine Despair and sceptred Care,

To triumph and to die are mine."

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height, Deep into the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

THOMAS GRAY.

THE FAME OF SIR WILLIAM WALLACE.

1305.

WHAT, though his head o'er gate or tower,

Like felon's on the cursed tree,
Visited oft by sun and shower,

A ghastly spectacle may be ;
A fair renown as years wear on,
Did Scotland give her noblest son :
The course of ages shall not dim,
The love that she shall bear to him.

In many a castle town and plain,
Mountain and forest, still remain

Fondly cherished spots which claim

The proud distinction of his honoured name.

Swells the huge ruins in massy heap

In castled court, 'tis "Wallace' keep ;"
What stateliest o'er the rest may tower,

Of timeworn heap, where rook and daw,
With wheeling flight and ceaseless caw,
Keep busy stir, is "Wallace' tower."

If through the greenwood's hanging screen,
High o'er the deeply bedded wave,
The mouth of arching cleft is seen
Dark yawning, it is "Wallace' cave."

If o'er the jutting barrier grey,

Tinted by time, with furious din,
The rude crags silvered with its spray,

Shoots the wild flood, 'tis "Wallace' linn;" And many a wood remains, and hill, and glen, Haunted, 'tis said of old, by Wallace and his men.

There school-boy still doth haunt the sacred
ground,

And musing. oft its pleasant influence own,
As starting at his footsteps' echo'd sound
He feels himself alone.

Yea, e'en the cottage matron at her wheel,

Although with daily care and labour crost,
Will o'er her heart that soothing magic feel,

And of her country's ancient prowess boast;

While on the little shelf of treasured books,
For what can most of all her soul delight,
Beyond a ballad, tale or jest, she looks,

The history renown'd of "Wallace wight."

But chiefly to the soldier's breast

A thought of him will kindling come,
As waving high his bonnet's crest,
He listens to the rolling drum,
And trumpet's call and thrilling pipe,
And bagpipes loud and stormy strain,
Meet prelude to tumultuous strife,
On the embattled plain.

Whether in Highland garb array'd,
With kirtle short and tartan plaid,
Or button'd close in Lowland vest,

Within his doughty grasp broadsword or gun be prest,

Remembering him, he still maintains

His country's cause on foreign plains,
To grace her name and earn her praise,
Led by the brave of modern days.

Such, Abercrombie, fought with thee
On Egypt's dark embattled shore,
And near Corunna's bark-clad sea
With great and gallant Moore;