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The rain is descending; the wind rises loud;
And the moon her red beacon has veil'd with a cloud;
'Tis the better, my mates! for the warder's dull eye
Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigh.

Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Gray! There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his neigh; Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane Shall marshal your march through the darkness and

rain.

The drawbridge has dropp'd, the bugle has blown ; One pledge is to quaff yet—then mount and begone! To their honour and peace, that shall rest with the

slain; To their health and their glee, that see Teviot again!

TH

MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH.

AIR — “Ymdaith Mionge."

WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON'S WELSH MELODIES,

[1817.]

ETHELFRID, or OLFRID, King of Northumberland, having be

sieged Chester in 613, and BROCKMAEL, a British Prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighbouring Monastery of Bangor marched in procession, to pray for the success of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their monastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted, is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession.

When the heathen trumpet's clang
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar grey
March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye ;
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds
Floating down the sylvan Dee,

O miserere, Domine!
On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled;
Who could think such saintly band
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand ?
Such was the Divine decree,

O miserere, Domine !

Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung,
Met the northern bow and bill,
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill:
Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand,
Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand,
Woe to Saxon cruelty,

O miserere, Domine!

Weltering amid warriors slain,
Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane,
Slaughter'd down by heathen blade,
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid:
Word of parting rest unspoke,
Mass unsung, and bread unbroke;
For their souls for charity,

Sing, O miserere, Domine!

Bangor! o'er the murder wail !
Long thy ruins told the tale,
Shatter'd towers and broken arch
Long recall'd the woeful march :'
On thy shrine no tapers burn,
Never shall thy priests return;
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,

O miserere, Domine!

· William of Malmsbury says, that in his time the extent of the ruins of the monastery bore ample witness to the desolation occasioned by the massacre;-"tot semiruti parietes ecclesiarum, tot anfractus porticum, tanta turba ruderum quantun vix alibi cernas.

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

ENCHANTRESS, farewell, who so oft has decoy'd me,
At the close of the evening through woodlands to

roam, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me

Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild speak

ing The language alternate of rapture and woe: Oh! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are

breaking, The pang that I feel at our parting can know.

Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came

sorrow, Or pale disappointment to darken my way, What voice was like thine, that could sing of to-morrow,

Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! But when friends drop around us in life's weary waning, The grief, Queen of Numbers, thou canst not

assuage; Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining,

The languor of pain, and the chillness of age.

T was thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing,

To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the plain,

*[Written, during illness, for Mr. Thomson's Scottish Collection, and first published in 1822, united to an air composed by George Kinloch of Kinloch, Esq.)

And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing,

And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ; As vain thy enchantments, O Queen of wild Numbers,

To a bard when the reign of bis fancy is o'er, And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers

Farewell, then — Enchantress ; — I meet thee no

more.

EPITAPH ON MRS. ERSKINE.

(1819.)

Plain as her native dignity of mind,
Arise the tomb of her we have resign'd;
Unflaw'd and stainless be the marble scroll,
Emblem of lovely form, and candid soul.
But, oh! what symbol may avail, to tell
The kindness, wit, and sense, we loved so well!
What sculpture show the broken ties of life,
Here buried with the parents, friend, and wife!
Or on the tablet stamp each title dear,
By which thine urn, Euphemia, claims the tear!
Yet taught, by thy meek sufferance, to assume
Patience in anguish, hope beyond the tomb,
Resign'd, though sad, this votive verse shall flow,
And brief, alas! as thy brief span below.

*[Mrs. Euphemia Robison, wife of William Erskine, Esq. (afterwards Lord Kinedder,) died September, 1819, and was buried at Saline in the county of Fife, where these lines are inscribed on the tombstone.)

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