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Whose turf, whose shade, whose flow'rs among Ah, shew them where in ambush stand,

Wanders the boary Thames along

His silver-winding way!

Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!
Ah fields belov'd in vain!

Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from you blow
A momentary bliss bestow;

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to sooth,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace;

Who foremost now delight to cleave,
With pliant arms, thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which enthrall?
What idle progeny succeed

To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent
Their murmuring labours ply

'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint To sweeten liberty:

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry:
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in ev'ry wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer, of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn,

To seize their prey, the murd'rous band!

Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful anger, pallid fear,

And shame that skulks behind;

Or pining love shall waste their youth,
Or jealousy with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart;
And envy wan, and faded care,
Grim-visag'd comfortless despair,
And sorrow's piercing dart.
Ambition this shall tempt to rise;
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter scorn a sacrifice,
And grinning infamy.

The stings of falsehood those shall try,
And hard unkindness' alter'd eye,
That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;
And keen remorse with blood defil'd,
And moody madness laughing wild
Amid severest woe.

Lo! in the vale of years, beneath,

A grisly troop are seen,
The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen:

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,

That ev'ry labouring sinew strains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage:

Lo! poverty, to fill the band,

That 'numbs the soul with icy hand:
And slow consuming age.

To each his suff'rings: all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan;

The tender for another's pain,
Th' unfeeling for his own.

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate?
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies.
Thought would destroy their paradise.
No more where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.

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RUIN seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait! 'Tho' faun'd by conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state! 'Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor eveu thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, 'From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'

Snch were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
StoutGlo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance:
To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his
quivering lance.

On a rock whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Rob'd in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the poet stood
(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.
'Hark, how each giant-oak and desert cave
" Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
'O'er thee, O king! their hundred arms they


'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: 'Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song

'Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'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 grisly 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,'

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Mighty victor, mighty lord, "Low on his fun'ral couch he lies! "No pitying heart, no eye, afford "A tear to grace his obsequies. "Is the sable warrior 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. [blows,
"Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr
"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 bir
evening prey.

"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,

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"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.") 6 Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn, 'Leave me unblest, unpit.ed, here to mourn: In yon bright track that fires the western skies, They meit, they vanish from my eyes.[height

'But oh! what solema scenes on Snowdon's 'Descending slow their glittring skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! 'Ye uuborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.[hail! All-hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry frouts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear." 'lu the midst a form divine!

'Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line; 'Her lion port, her awe-commanding face, 'Attemper'd sweet to virgin grace.

'What strings symphonious tremble in the air! 'What strains of vocal transport round her play! 'Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; 'They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.

'Bright rapture calls, and, soaring as she ́ siugs,

Waves in the eye of Heaven her manycolour'd wings.

'The verse adoru again

'Fierce war, and faithful love,

And truth severe, by fairy fiction dress'd.
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 faturity expire.

Foud impious man! think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, [day! Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of 'To morrow he repairs the golden flood,


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Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd hours,

Fair Venus' train, appear;
Disclose the long expected flow'rs,
And wake the purple year!
The attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of spring;
While, whisp'ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch-
A broader, browner shade;

Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade;

Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the muse shall sit and think

(At ease reclin'd in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How-low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!

Still is the toiling hand of care;
The panting herds repose :
Yet, hark, how thro' the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honey'd spring,

And float amid the liquid noon : Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some shew their gaily-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun.

To contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of man;

And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.

Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter thro' life's little day,
In fortune's varying colours drest:
Brush'd by the hand of rough mischance,
Or chill'd by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply:

Poor moralist! and what art thou?

A solitary fly!

Thy joys no glitt'ring female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display;
Ou hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone→→
We frolic while 'tis May.

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AWAKE, Eolian lyre, awake,

Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry,

And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. || He gives to range the dreary sky:

From Helicon's harmonious springs

A thousand rills their mazy progress take :
The laughing flow'rs that round them blow,
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Now the rich stream of music winds along,
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
'Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign:
Now rolling down the steep amain,
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour;

The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the


O sovereign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and solemu-breathing airs,
Enchanting shell! the sullen cares

And frantic passions hear thy soft controul.
On Thracia's bills the Lord of war
Has curb'd the fury of his car,

And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the sceptred hand

Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
With ruffed plumes, and flagging wing:
Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie

The terror of his beak, and lightning of his eye.

Thee the voice, the dance obey,

Temper'd to thy warbled lay.

O'er Idalia's velvet green

The rosy-crowned loves are seen

Ou Cytherea's day,

With antic sports, and blue-eyed pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures:

Now pursuing, now retreating,

Now in circling troops thy meet; To brisk notes in cadence beating,

Glance their many-twinkling feet.

Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.

In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains


The muse has broke the twilight gloom,
To cheer the shiv'ring native's dull abode.
And oft, beneath the od'rous shade
Of Chili's boundless forests laid,
She deigns to bear the savage youth repeat,
In loose numbers, wildly sweet,
Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky


Her track, where'er the goddess roves,
Glory pursues, and gen'rous shame,
Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep;
Isles, that crown th' Egean deep;
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Mæander's amber waves
In ling'ring lab'rinths creep,

How do your tuneful echoes languish !
Mute but to the voice of anguish!
Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breath'd around ;
Ev'ry shade and hollow'd fountain
Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,
Left their Parnassus for the Latian plaius:
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant pow'r,
And coward vice, that revels in her chains.
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,

Slow melting strains their Queen's approach They sought, O Albion! next thy sea encircled


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Nor second he, that rode sublime

Upon the seraph wings of ecstasy,

The secrets of th' abyss to spy.

Scatters from her pictur'd urn

Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
Bat, ah! 'tis heard no more—

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and O lyre divine! what daring spirit


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, bis hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed fancy, hov'ring o'er,

Wakes thee now? Tho' he inherit
Nor the pride nor ample pinion,
That the Theban eagle bear,
Sailing with supreme dominion
Thro' the azure deep of air:

Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms as glitter in the muse's ray,
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun,
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,

Beneath the good how far-but far above the great!


UPROSE the king of men with speed,

And saddled straight his coal-black steed:
Down the yawning steep he rode,
That leads to Hela's drear abode.
Him the dog of darkness spied:
His shaggy throat he open'd wide;
While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd,
Foam and human gore distill'd.
Hoarse be bays with hideous dia,
Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin;
And long pursues, with fruitless yelly
The father of the powerful spell.
Onward still his way be takes
(The groaning earth beneath him shakes),
Till full before his fearless eyes
The portals nine of hell arise.

Right against the eastern gate,
By the moss-grown pile he sat,
Where long of yore to sleep was laid
The dust of the prophetic maid.
Facing to the northern clime,
Thrice he trac'd the runic rhyme;
Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread,
The thrilling verse that wakes the dead;
Till from out the hollow ground
Slowly breath'd a sullen sound.


What call unknown, what charms, presume To break the quiet of the tomb? Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite, And drags me from the realms of night? Long on these mould'ring bones have beat The winter's snow, the summer's heat, The drenching dews, and driving rain! Let me, let me sleep again. Who is he, with voice unblest, That calls me from the bed of rest?


A traveller to thee unknown
Is he that calls, a warrior's son.
Thou the deeds of light shalt know;
Tell me what is done below,

For whom you glittring board is spread,
Drest for whom yon golden bed?


Mantling in the goblet see

The pure bev'rage of the bee;
O'er it hangs the shield of gold:
'Tis the drink of Balder bold.
Balder's head to death is given.
Pain can reach the sons of Heaven!
Unwilling I my lips unclose:
Leave me, leave me to repose.


Once again my call obey; Prophetess, arise, and say What dangers Odin's child await, Who the author of his fate?


In Hoder's hand the hero's doom; His brother sends him to the tomb. Now my weary lips I close: Leave me, leave me to repose.


Prophetess, my spell obey; Once again arise, and say Who th' avenger of his guilt,

By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt!


In the caverns of the West, By Odin's fierce embrace comprest, A wondrous boy shall Rinda bear, Who ne'er shall comb his raven hair,

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