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The lonely hearths blaze o'er the distant glade; The bat, low-wheeling, skims the dusky ground,

August and hoary, o'er the sloping dale,
The Gothic abbey rears its sculptur'd tow'rs;
Dull thro' the roofs resounds the whistling gale,
Dark solitude among the pillars low'rs.

Where yon old trees bend o'er a place of graves, And solemu shade a chapel's sad remains, Where yon scath'd poplar through the windows waves,

And, twining round, the hoary arch sustains. There oft, at dawn, as one forgot behind,

Who longs to follow, yet unknowing where, Some hoary shepherd, o'er his staff reclin'd,

Pores on the graves, and sighs a broken pray'r. High o'er the pines, that with their dark'ningshade

Surround yon craggy bank, the castle rears Its crumbling turrets; still its tow'ry head

A warlike inien, a sullen grandeur wears. So, 'midst the snow of age, a boastful air

Still on the war-worn vet'ran's brow attends; Still his big bones his youthful prime declare,

Tho' trembling o'er the feeblecrutch he bends. Wild round the gates the dusky wall-flow'rscreep, Where oft the knights the beauteous dames have led;

Gone is the bow'r, the grot a ruin'd heap,


This bank, the river, and the fanning breeze,
The dear idea of my Pollio bring;
So shone the moon thro' these soft-nodding trees,
When here we wander'd in the eves of spring.
When April's smiles the flow'ry lawn adorn,

And modest cowslips deck the streamlet's side; When fragrant orchards to the roseate morn Unfold their bloom, in heaven's own colors dyed:

The sainted well, where you bleak hill declines, Has oft been conscious of those happy hours; But now the hill, the river crown'd,with pines, And sainted well have lost their cheering pow'rs;

For thou art gone. My guide, my friend! oh where,

My tend'rest wish, my heart to thee was bare; Where hast thou fled, and left me here behind?

Oh now cut off each passage to my mind! How dreary is the gulph! how dark, how void, The trackless shores that never were repass'd! Dread separation! on the depth untried,

Hope falters, and the soul recoils aghast! Wide round the spacious heavens I cast my eyes: And shall these stars glow with immortal fire? Still shine the lifeless glories of the skies?

And could thy bright, thy living soul expire! Far be the thought! The pleasures most sublime,

The glow of friendship, and the virtuous tear, The tow'ring wish that scorns the bounds of time,

Chill'd in this vale of death, but lánguish here. So plant the vine in Norway's wintry land,

The languid stranger feebly buds, and dies: Yet there's a clime where Virtue shall expand With godlike strength beneath her native skies!

Where bays and ivy o'er the fragments spread. "Twas here our sires, exulting from the fight, Great in their bloodyarms, march'd o'er the lea,The Eyeing their rescued fields with proud delight! Now lost to them! and, ah! how chang'd

to me!

So fair a blossom gentle Pollio wore,

These were the emblems of his healthful mind; To him the letter'd page display'd its lore,

To him bright Fancy all her wealth resign'd; Him with her purest flames the Muse endow'd, Flames never to th' illiberal thought allied: " The sacred sisters led where Virtue glow'd

In all her charms; he saw, he felt, and died. O partner of my infant griefs and joys!

Bigwith the scenes now past, myhearto'erflows; Bids each endearment, fair as once, to rise,

And dwells luxurious on her melting woes. Oft with the rising sun, when life was new,

Along the woodland have I roam'd with thee; Oft by the moon have brush'd the evening dew, When all was fearless innocence and glee.

The lonely shepherd on the mountain's side With patience waits the rosy-op'ning day; mariner at midnight's darksome tide With cheerful hope expects the morning ray : Thus I, on life's storm-beaten ocean toss'd,

In mental vision view the happy shore, Where Pollio beckons to the peaceful coast, Where fate and death divide the friends no more !

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Oh that some kind, some pitying kindred shade, Who now perhaps frequents this solemn grove, Would tell the awful secrets of the dead,

And from my eyes the mortal film remove! Vain is the wish-yet surely not in vain

Man's bosom glows with that celestial fire Which scorns earth's luxuries, which smiles at


And wings his spirit with sublime desire! To fan this spark of heaven, this ray divine,

Still, O my soul! still be aby dear employ Still thus to wander thro' the shades be thine, And well thy breast with visionary joy!


So to the dark-brow'd wood, or sacred mount,
In antient days, the holy seers retir'd;
And, led in vision, drank at Siloë's fount,

While rising ecstasies their bosoms fir'd., Restor'd creation bright before them rose,

The burning deserts smil'd as Eden's plains: One friendly shade the wolf and lambkin chose; The flow 'ry mountainsung, Messiah reigns!" Tho'

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The rural pipe and merry lay,
No more shall cheer the happy day:
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains but those of sorrow flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woc;
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns;
Resentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathising verse shall flow:
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!"



Oh baneful cause, oh fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their fathers stood;
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's soul was not appeas'd:
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames and murd'ring steel!
The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath;
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend

§ 86. Ode to Mirth. SMOLLET. PARENT of joy! heart-easing Mirth!

Whether of Venus or Aurora born,
Yet Goddess sure of heavenly birth,
Visit benign a son of Grief forlorn :

Thy glitt'ring colors gay
Around him, Mirth, display;
And o'er his raptur'd sense
Diffuse thy living influence :
So shall each hill, in purer green array'd,
And flower-adorn'd in new-born beauty
[the shade,
The grove shall smooth the horrors of
And streams in murmurs shall forget to flow.
Shine, Goddess, shine with unremitted ray, [day.
And gild (a second sun) with brighter beam our


Labor with thee forgets his pain,
And aged Poverty can smile with thee;
If thou be nigh, Grief's hate is vain,
And weak th' uplifted arin of tyranny.
The morning opes on high
His universal eye;

And on the world doth pour
His glories in a golden show'r.
Lo! Darknesstrembling'fore thehostileray,
Shrinks to the cavern deep and wood forlorn:
The brood obscene, that own her gloomy

Troop in her rear, and fly th' approach of morn. Pale shiv ring ghosts, that dread th' all-cheering light, [night. Quick as the lightning's flash glide to sepulchral But whence the gladd'ning beam That pours his purple stream O'er the long prospect wide? "Tis mirth. I see her sit In majesty of light,

With Laughter at her side.
Bright-eyed Fancy hovering near
Wide waves her glancing wing in air;
And young Wit flings his pointed dart,
That guiltless strikes the willing heart.

Fear not now Affliction's pow'r,
Fear not now wild Passion's rage;

Nor fear ye aught, in evil hour,
Save the tardy hand of Age.

Now Mirth hath heard the suppliant Poet's pray'r: No cloud that rides the blast shall vex the troubled air.

Hh 3


87. Ode to Leven Water. SMOLLET.
ON Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.

Pure stream! in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source,
No rocks impede, thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread;
While, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood,
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood:
The springing trout, in speckled pride;
The salmon, inonarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike, intent on war;
The silver eef and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake.
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bow'rs of birch, and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with eglantine.

Still on thy banks, so gaily green,
May num'rous herds and flocks be seen;
And lasses, chanting o'er the pail;
And shepherds, piping in the dale;
And antient faith, that knows no guile;
And industry, embrown'd with toil;
And hearts resolv'd, and hands prepar'd,
The blessings they enjoy to guard.

OH thou, orr what remaynes of thee,
Ella, the darlynge of futurity,

Lelt thys mie songe bolde as thie courage be,
As everlastynge to posteritye.

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And neighe to be amenged the poynetedd speeres,
Orr ynne
blacke armoure staulke arounde
Embattel'd Brystowe, once thie grounde,
And glowe ardurous onn the Castle steeres;
Or fierye round the mynsterr glare;
Let Brystowe stylle be made thie care;

Then wythe a jugge of nappy ale

His Knyghtes dydd onne hymn waite;

$88. Songe to Ella, Lorde of the Castel of Bry-" Goe tell the traytour thatt to-daje stowe ynne daies of yore. From CHATTERTON, "Hee leaves thys mortall state." under the name of RowLEY.

Orr seest the hatchedd stede,
Ypraunceynge o'er the mede,

Lyche Avones streme ensyrke ytte rounde, Ne lette a flame enharnie the grounde, Tyllynne one flame all the whole worlde expyre.

$89. Bristowe Tragedie; or, The Dethe of Syr Charles Bawdin.

CHATTERTON, under the name of RowLLY.
THE feather'd songster chaunticleer
Had wounde hys bugle horne,
And told the earlie villager

The commynge of the morne;

Kynge Edwarde saw the rudie streakes
Of lyght eclypse the greie;
And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.

"Thou'rt ryght," quod hee, "for, by the Godde,
"That syttes enthron'd on hyglie,
"Charles Bawdin, and his fellowes twaine,
"To-daie shall surelie die."

Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe.
Wythe hart brymm-fulle of woe;
Hee journey'd to the castle-gate;
And to Syr Charles dydd goe,

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"Speke nott of such a traytour vile,”
The kynge ynne fury sayde;
"Before the ev'ning starre doth sheene,
"Bawdin shall loose hys hedde:
"Justice does loudlie for hym calle
"And hee shall have hys meede;

Speke, Maister Canynge! whatte thynge else" "Atte present doe you neede?”

"My nobile liege!" goode Canynge sayde, Leave justice to our Godde,


And laye the yronne rule asyde,
Be thyne the olyve rodde,


"Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines, "The best were synners grete; Christ's vycarr only knowes ne synne. Ynne alle thys mortall state,

"Let mercie rule thyne infante reigne, "Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure; "From race to race thy familie

"Alle sov'reigns shall endure;

"But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou “Beginne thy infante reigne,



"Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows Wyll never lonng remayne.” Canynge, awaie! thys traytour vile Has scorn'd my pow'r and mee; Howe canst thou thenne for such a manne "Intreate my clemencye?" My noble lege! the truly brave "Wylle val'rous actions prize, Respect a brave and nobile mynde, "Altho' ynne enemies.” * Canynge, awaie! By Godde "That dydd mee beinge gyve, ** I will nott taste a bitt of breade "Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve. By Marie, and all Seinctes ynne heav'n, Thys sunne shall be hys laste." Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare, And from the presence paste, With herte brimm-fulle of gnawynge grief, Hee to Sir Charles dydd goe, And satte hymm down uponne a stoole, And teares beganne to flowe,


"We all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Whatt bootes ytt howe or whenne? "Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate "Of all wee mortall menné,


"Saye why, my friend, thie honest soul "Runs overr att thyne eye;


"Is ytte for my most welcome doome Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?" Quod godlie Canynge, "I do weepe, "Thatt thou soe soone must dye, "And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe; "Tis thys thatt wettes myne eye." "Thenne drie the teares thatt out thyne cyb From godlie fountaines sprynge; "Dethe I despise, and alle the pow'r "Of Edwarde, traytour kynge, "Whan throgh the tyrant's welcom means "I shall resigne my lyfe, "The Godde I serve wylle soon provyde "For bothe mye sonnes and wife.


"Before I sawe thy lyghtsome sunne, Thys was appointed mee;


Shall mortal manne repine or grudge "What Godde ordeynes to bee?

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"Ah, goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende, "And guarde thee and thyne sonne, "Yff 'tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott, Why thenne hys wylle be doune,



My honeste friende, my faulte has beene "To serve Godde and mye prynce ; "And thatt I no tyme-server am,


My dethe wylle soone convynce. Ynne London citye was I borne, "Of parents of grete note; My fadre dydd a nobile arms Emblazon oune hys cote: "I make no doubte butt he ys gone "Where soone I hope to goe; "Where wee for ever shall bee blest, "" From oute the reech of woe: "He taught mee justice and the laws Wyth pitie to unite ;


"And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe "The wronge cause fromm the ryghte ; "Hee taught mee wythe a prudent hande To feede the hungrie poore, "Ne lette mye servants drive awaie "The hungrie fromine my doore: H h 4


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"Wyatte tho', uphoisted onne a pole,
Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre,
"And ne ryche monument of brasse
"Charles Bawdin's name shall bear;
"Yet ynne the holie booke above,


"Whyche tyme can't eat awai, "There wythe the servants of the Lorde Mye name shall lyve for aie. "Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne "I leve thys mortall lyfe ; "Farewell, vayne worlde, and alle that's deare, Mye sonnes and loving wyfe!


"Now dethe as welcome to mee comes,

"As e'er the month of Maie, "Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve, "Wyth my dere wyfe to staie." Quod Canynge," "Tys a goodlie thynge "To bee prepar'd to die;

And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe "To Godde ynne heaven to flie." And nowe the bell beganne to tolle, And claryonnes to sounde; Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete A-prauncyng onne the grounde; And juste before the officers,

Hys lovynge wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe,

Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne. Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere, "Ynne quiet lett mee die; "Praig Godde, that every Christian soule "Maye looke onne dethe as I

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"Till tyredd oute wyth ravynge loude,
Shee fellen onne the flore;
Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte,

And march'd fromm oute the dore.
Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne,

Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete;
Lookes, thatt enshoone ne moe concern

Thanne anie ynne the strete.
Before him went the council-menue,
Ynne scarlette robes and golde,
And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,
Muche glorious to beholde :
The Freers of Seincte Augustyne next

Appeared to the syghte,

Alle cladd ynn homelie russett weedes,
Of godlie monkysh plyghte:
Yun diffraunt partes a godlie psaume

Most sweetlie theye dydd chaunt ;
Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,
Who tun'd the strunge bataunt.
Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came;
Echone the bowe dydd bende,
From rescue of kynge Henries friends
Syr Charles forr to defend.

Bold as a lyon came Syr Charles,

Drawn on a clothe-layde sledde, By two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white, Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde:


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