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'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 warrior fled?
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his eveningprey.
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 havoc urge their destin'd course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their
Ye tow'rs of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twin'd 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.
6 'Edward, lo! to sudden fate
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)
Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
'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
What strings symphonious tremble in the air!
'The verse adorn again
Fierce War, and faithful Love,
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dress'd.
And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
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.
The different doom our fates assign.
He spoke; and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless
THE PROGRESS OF POESY.
AWAKE, Æolian lyre, awake,
A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
Oh! sovereign of the willing soul,
And Frantic Passions hear thy soft control.
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
Thee the voice, the dance obey,
The rosy-crowned Loves are seen
With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
Now in circling troops they meet:
Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay: With art sublime, that float upon the air,
In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of -Love.
Man's feeble race what ills await! Labour, and penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,
And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!
Say, has he given in vain the heav'nly Muse?
Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry,