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'Mighty victor, mighty lord,
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
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,
'Edward, lo! to sudden fate
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)
Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
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.
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,
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,
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
THE PROGRESS OF POESY.
AWAKE, Æolian lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign:
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:
The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the
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,
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.
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:
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.
Man's feeble race what ills await!
Labour, and penury, the racks of Pain,
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,