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II. 2.

'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.
The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born,
Gone to salute the rising Morn.

Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
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 his eveningprey.

II. 3.

'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.

III. 1.

'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.)
Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:
All-hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail!
III. 2.

'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 ;
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

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What strings symphonious tremble in the air!
What strains of vocal transport round her play !
Hear from the grave, great Talliessin, hear;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-coloured

III. 3.

'The verse adorn 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 futurity expire.

Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,

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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.

Enough for me: With joy I see

The different doom our fates assign.

Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care,

To triumph, and to die, are mine.'

He spoke; and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless




I. 1.

AWAKE, Æolian lyre, awake,

And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
From Helicon's harmonious springs

A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
The laughing flowers, that round them blow,
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Now the rich stream of music winds along,
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,

Through 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


I. 2.

Oh! sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares

And Frantic Passions hear thy soft control. On Thracia's hills 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 ruffled plumes and flagging wind:
Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie

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

I. 3.

Thee the voice, the dance obey,
Temper'd to thy warbled lay.
O'er Idalia's velvet-green

The rosy-crowned Loves are seen
On Cytherea's day

With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
Frisking light in frolic measures:
Now pursuing, now retreating,

Now in circling troops they meet:
To brisk notes in cadence beating,
Glance their many-twinkling feet.

Slow melting strains their queen's approach declare:

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.

II. 1.

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! The fond complaint, my song, disprove,

And justify the laws of Jove.

Say, has he given in vain the heav'nly Muse?

Night and all her sickly dews,

Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry,
He gives to range the dreary sky:

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