CONCLUSION. Go forth, my Song, upon thy venturous way; There was And graced thy numbers with no friendly name, Whose partial zeal might smooth thy path to fame. and O! how many sorrows crowd Into these two brief words!-there was a claim By generous friendship given-had fate allow'd, It well had bid thee rank the proudest of the proud! All angel now-yet little less than all, And, least of all, what 'vails the world should know, '[The reader is referred to Mr. Hogg's "Pilgrims of the Sun" for some beautiful lines, and a highly interesting note, on the death of the Duchess of Buccleuch. See ante, p. 10.] THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. Quid dignum memorare tuis, Hispania, terris, Vox humana valet!· CLAUDIAN, ΤΟ JOHN WHITMORE, Esq. AND TO THE COMMITTEE OF SUBSCRIBERS FOR RELIEF OF THE PORTUGUESE SUFFERERS, IN WHICH HE PRESIDES, THIS POEM, (THE VISION OF DON RODERICK,) COMPOSED FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE FUND IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY WALTER SCOTT. LIVES there a strain, whose sounds of mounting fire All as it swell'd 'twixt each loud trumpet-change, That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal revenge! II. Yes! such a strain, with all o'er-pouring measure, Might melodize with each tumultuous sound, Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or pleasure, That rings Mondego's ravaged shores around; The thundering cry of hosts with conquest crown'd, The female shriek, the ruin'd peasant's moan, The shout of captives from their chains unbound, The foil'd oppressor's deep and sullen groan, A Nation's choral hymn for tyranny o'erthrown. III. But we, weak minstrels of a laggard day, Timid and raptureless, can we repay The debt thou claim'st in this exhausted age? Thou givest our lyres a theme, that might engage Those that could send thy name o'er sea and land, While sea and land shall last; for Homer's rage A theme; a theme for Milton's mighty handHow much unmeet for us, a faint degenerate band! IV. Ye mountains stern! within whose rugged breast repose: The friends of Scottish freedom found Ye torrents, whose hoarse sounds have soothed their rest, Returning from the field of vanquish'd foes; And Cattraeth's glens with voice of triumph rung, And mystic Merlin harp'd, and grey-hair'd Llywarch sung!1 1 This locality may startle those readers who do not recollect, that much of the ancient poetry preserved in Wales refers less to the history of the Principality to which that name is now limited, than to events which happened in the north-west of England, and south-west of Scotland, where the Britons for a long time made a stand against the Saxons. The battle of Cattraeth, lamented by the celebrated Aneurin, is supposed by the learned Dr. Leyden to have been fought on the skirts of Ettrick Forest. It is known to the English reader by the paraphrase of Gray, beginning, Had I but the torrent's might, With headlong rage and wild affright," &c. But it is not so generally known that the champions, mourned in this beautiful dirge, were the British inhabitants of Edinburgh, who were cut off by the Saxons of Deiria, or Northumberland, |