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And keen remorse, with blood defil'd,
Lo, in the vale of years beneath
More hideous than their queen :
To each his sufferings: all are men,
Yet ah! why should they know their fate,
EXTRACT FROM THE PROGRESS OF POESY.
IN climes beyond the solar road,
Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
To cheer the shivering native's dull abode.
And oft, beneath the od'rous shade
Of Chili's boundless forests laid,
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,
Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves.
Glory pursues, and generous shame,
Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.
Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
Isles, that crown the Ægean deep,
Or where Mæander's amber waves
In lingering lab'rinths creep,
How do your tuneful echoes languish,
Inspiration breath'd around;
Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,
They sought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.
Far from the sun and summer-gale,
To him the mighty mother did unveil
Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy!
Of horror that, and thrilling fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.
Nor second he, that rode sublime
Upon the seraph-wings of ecstacy,
He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time,
The living throne, the sapphire-blaze,
Where angels tremble while they gaze,
He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,
Clos'd his eyes in endless night.
Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear
Two coursers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resounding pace.
Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-eyed fancy hovering o'er,
Scatters from her pictur'd urn
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But ah! 't is heard no more
Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit
Wakes thee now! Though he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
Yet shall he mount and keep his distant way,
Beneath the good how far-but far above the great.
EXTRACT FROM THE BARD, A PINDARIC ODE.
RUIN seize thee, ruthless king!
Confusion on thy banners wait;
Though fann'd by conquest's crimson wing,
To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance..
On a rock, whose haughty brow
With haggard eyes the Poet stood:
Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air)
"Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave,
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
* This ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward the first, when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bards that fell into his hands to be put to death.
The original argument of this ode, as its author had set it down on one of the pages of his common-place book, was as follows: "The army of Edward I. as they march through a deep valley, are suddenly stopped by the appearance of a venerable figure seated on the summi of an inaccessible rock, who, with a voice more than human, reproaches the king with all the misery and desolation which he had brought on his country; foretels the misfortunes of the Norman race, and with prophetic spirit declares, that all his cruelty shall never extinguish the noble ardour of poetic genius in this island; and that men shall never be wanting, to celebrate true virtue and valour in immortal strains, to expose vice and infamous pleasure, and boldly censure tyranny and oppression. His song ended, he precipitates himself from the mountain, and is swallowed up by the river that rolls at his foot.
The hauberk was a texture of steel ringlets, or rings interwoven, forming a coat of mail that sat close to the body, and adapted itself to every motion.
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hush'd the stormy main :
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head.
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
I see them sit, they linger yet,
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line."
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,. Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of Ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood,