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. A warlike mien, a sullen grandeur wears. 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, Where bays and ivy o'er the fragments spread. "Twas here our sires, exulting from the fight," Great in their bloody arms, march'd o'er the lea, Eyeing their rescued fields with proud delight! Now lost to them! and, ah! how chang'd to me! This bank, the river, and the fanning breeze, The dear idea of my Pollio bring; And modest cowslips deck the streamlet's side; 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 sainted well, where you bleak hill declines, 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 faiters, 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, bnt languish here. The lonely shepherd on the mountain's side In mental vision view the happy shore, 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 pain, And wings his spirit with sublime desire! Still, O my soul! still be aby dear employ The burning deserts smil'd as Eden's plains: Tho' Tho' fainter raptures my cold breast inspire, Let kindled Fancy view the glorious morn, $85. The Tears of Scotland. SMOLLET. MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn! Thy sous, for valor long renown'd, Lie slaughter'd on their native ground: Thy hospitable roofs no more Invite the stranger to the door; In smoky ruins sunk they lic, The monuments of cruelty. The wretched owner sees, afar, His all become the prey of war: Béthinks him of his babe and wife; Then smites his breast, and curses life. Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks: Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain Thy infants perish on the plain. What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime, Thro' the wide-spreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still shone with undiminish'd blaze? Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke : What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage and rancor fell. 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. 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; 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 : glow; 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 light, [night. Quick as the lightning's flash glide to sepulchral O'er the long prospect wide? With Laughter at her side. troubled air. 87. Ode to Leven Water. SMOLLET. Pure stream! in whose transparent wave Still on thy banks, so gaily green, $88. Songe to Ella, Lorde of the Castel of Bry- OH thou, orr what remaynes of thee, Whanne Dacya's sonnes, whose hayres of bloude- Spredde farre and wyde onne Watchets shore; Drawn bie thyne anlace felle, Oh thou, whereer (thie bones att reste) Or seest somme mountayiie made of corse of Orr seest the hatchedd stede, And neighe tobe amenged the poynctedd speeres, $89. Bristowe Tragedie; or, The Dethe of Syr CHATTERTON, under the name of RowLLY. The commynge of the morne; Kynge Edwarde saw the rudie streakes And herde the raven's crokynge throte "Thou'rt ryght," quod hee, "for, by the Godde, Then wythe a jugge of nappy ale His Knyghtes dydd onne hynin waite; And to Syr Charles dydd goe, But whenne hee came, his children twaine, Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore, 64 "O goode Syr Charles!" sayd Canterlone, "I greeve to telle: Before yonne sonne "Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Butte telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not, "Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are, "Tho' I should lyve for aie."" Thenne Theune Maister Canynge saughte the kynge, And felle down onne hys knee; "I'm come," quoth hee," unto your grace "To move your clemencye." Thenne quod the kynge," Your tale speke out, "Who, tho' may hap he has done wronge, "Speke nott of such a traytour vile," "We all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Whatt bootes ytt howe or whenne? "Dethe y's the sure, the certaine fate "Of all wee mortall menne, "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 Carynge, "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 eye From godlie fountaines sprynge; "Dethe I despise, and alle the pow'r "Of Edwarde, traytour kynge. "Before I sawe thy lyghtsome sunne, Thys was appointed mee; "Speke, Maister Canynge! whatte thynge else" Shall mortal manne repine or grudge "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 ynne heav'n "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. "What Godde ordeynes to bee? "Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode, "Whan thousands dy'd arounde; "Whan smokynge streams of crimson bloode "Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde! "Howe dydd I knowe that ev'ry darte, "That cutte the airie waie, And none can saye, butt all mye lyfe "I have hys wordyes kept; "And summ'd the actyonns of the daie "Eche nyghte before I slept. "I have a spouse, goe aske of her "Yff I defyl'd her bedde? "I have a kynge, and none can laie "Blacke treason onne my hedde. "Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve, “Fronm fleshe I dydd refrayne; "Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd "To leave thys worlde of payne? "Ne! hapless Henrie! I rejoyce, "I shafle ne see thye dethe; "Moste willynglie in thy just cause "Do I resign my brethe. "Oh fickle people! rewyn'd londe! "Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe; "While Richard's sonnes exalt themselves, "Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe. "Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace, And godlie Henrie's reigne, "Thatt you dydd choppe your casie daies "For those of bloude and peyne? "Whatte tho' I onne a sledde bee drawne, "And mangled by a hynde, "I do defye the traytour's pow'r, · "He can ne harm my mynde; "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, 66 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, And from thys worlde of peyne and grefe Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete " Praig Godde, that every Christian soule Sweet Florence! why these brinie tears; "Theye washe my soule awale, "And almost make mee wishe for lyfe, Wyth thee, sweete danie, to stale. "Tys but a journie I shalle goe 46 44 Untoe the lande of blysse; "Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love, Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her sale, My herte ys welle nyghe broke: "Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou got, Wythoute thye lovyinge wyfe! "The cruelle axe that cuttes thye necke, And nowe the officers came ynne "I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe; "Teache them to runne the nobile race "Thatt I theyre fader runne: "Florence! should dethe thee take- adieu! "Yee officers, lead onne." Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde, Oh! staie, my husbande! lorde! and lyfe!" And march'd fromm oute the dore. Alle cladd ynn homelie russett weedes, Thenne fyve-and-twenty archers came; Bold as a lyon came Syr Charles, Behynde |