(Loose his beard, and hoary hair

Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air)

And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

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Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,

Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath!

O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breath;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

I 3

Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

That hush'd the stormy main:

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:

Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,

Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail ;
The famish'd Eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries-
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,

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.'

II 1

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,

The winding-sheet of Edward's race.
Give ample room, and verge enough

The characters of hell to trace.

Mark the year, and mark the night,

When Severn shall re-eccho with affright

The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing King!

She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,

That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate,

From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs

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The scourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait! 60
Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,
And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.

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II 2

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 Warriour fled?

Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead.

The Swarm, that in thy 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.

II 3

"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 havock urge their destined course,
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murther fed,
Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame,
And spare the meek Usurper's holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread :
The bristled Boar in infant-gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

Now, Brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom,
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

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III 1

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 glitt'ring 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.

All-hail, ye genuine Kings, Britannia's Issue, hail!

III 2

'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 lyon-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

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What strings symphonious tremble in the air,

What strains of vocal transport round her play!

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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 Heav'n her many-colour'd wings.

III 3

'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 Horrour, 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.

Fond impious Man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud,
Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the Orb of day?
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Enough for me: With joy I see

The different doom our Fates assign.

Be thine Despair, and scept'red Care,

To triumph, and to die, are mine.'

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.

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WILLIAM COLLINS

AN ODE ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND,

CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY

H- -- thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads long
Have seen thee ling'ring, 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 youth,

Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's side; Together let us wish him lasting truth,

And joy untainted with his destin'd bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast My short-liv'd bliss, forget my social name; But think far off how, on the southern coast,

I met thy friendship with an equal flame!
Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, whose ev'ry vale
Shall 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.

II

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 meet

Beneath each birken shade on mead or hill.
There each trim lass that skims the milky store
To 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, knows
How, wing'd with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly;
When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes,

Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie.

Such airy beings awe th' untutor'd 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.

III

Ev'n yet preserv'd, how often may'st thou hear,
Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run,
Taught by the father to his list ning son

Strange lays, whose power had charm'd a SPENCER's ear. At ev'ry pause, before thy mind possest,

Old ŘUNIC bards shall seem to rise around,

With uncouth lyres, in many-coloured vest,

Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown'd: Whether thou bid'st the well-taught hind repeat

The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave, When ev'ry 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 bony swarms, And hostile brothers met to prove each other's arms.

IV

'Tis thine to sing, how framing hideous spells In SKY's lone isle the gifted wizzard seer,

Lodged in the wintry cave with

Or in the depth of Uist's dark forests dwells:
How they, whose sight such dreary dreams engross,
With their own visions oft astonish'd droop,
When o'er the wat'ry strath or quaggy moss
They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop.
Or if in sports, or on the festive green,

Their
glance some fated youth descry,
Who, now perhaps in lusty vigour 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.

VI

What though far off, from some dark dell espied,
His glimm'ring mazes cheer th' excursive sight,
Yet turn, ye wand'rers, 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,

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If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise.