For Gilderoy, that luve of mine, Among the leaves sae green; Oh! that he still had been content His courage bauld wad try; For my dear Gilderoy. And when of me his leave he tuik, I gave tull him a parting luik, "My benison gang wi' thee! God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart, My heart is rent, sith we maun part, Nane eir durst meet him man to man, At length wi' numbers he was tane, Wae worth the loun that made the laws, To reave of life for ox or ass, For sheep, or horse, or mare: Had not their laws been made sae strick, Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek Giff Gilderoy had done amisse, He mought hae banisht been; Ah! what sair cruelty is this, To hang sike handsome men! To hang the flower o' Scottish land, Nae lady had so white a hand Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were, They bound him mickle strong, Tull Edenburrow they led him thair, And on a gallows hung: They hung him high aboon the rest, He was so trim a boy : Thair dy'd the youth whom I lued best. Thus having yielded up his breath, Wi' tears, that trickled for his death, And siker in a grave sae deep I laid the dear-lued boy, 89. Song. Gilderoy. CAMPBELL. THE last, the fatal hour is come, That bears my love from me; I hear the dead note of the drum, The bell has tolled; it shakes my heart; To bear a death of shame ? These limbs in fetters bound; He could not injure you! Regards my woe with scorn? Then will I seek the dreary mound That wraps thy mouldering clay; And weep and linger on the ground, Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me, although I was poor; [less away, When the sour-looking folks sent me heartI had always a friend in my poor dog Tray. When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray, And he licked me for kindness-my poor dog Tray. Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case, Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face; But he died at my feet on a cold winter day, And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray. Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? YE Mariners of England! Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, Your glorious standard launch again And sweep through the deep, For the deck it was their field of fame, Her march is o'er the mountain waves With thunders from her native oak, As they roar on the shore, Till danger's troubled night depart, When the storm has ceased to blow; 92. Song. Battle of the Baltic. CAMPBELL. Or Nelson and the North, Sings the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; But the might of England flushed From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, To our cheering sent us back ;— Outspoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave, Then Denmark blessed our chief, As Death withdrew his shades from the day O'er a wide and woeful sight, Now joy, old England, raise! Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! Of the brave! BYRON. 93. Song. Banks of the Rhine. I send the lilies given to me; The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Could thy dear eyes, in following mine, Yon sun that sets upon the sea A few short hours and he will rise Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; "Come hither, hither, my little page! But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; "Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, Yet did not much complain; life? Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? Will blanch a faithful cheek. "My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake, And when they on their father call, Will laugh to flee away. "For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour ? § 94. Song. My native Land-adieu. BYRON. Fresh feres will dry the bright-blue eyes ADIEU, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, *Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good, by Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his despatches. We late saw streaming o'er. For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave No thing that claims a tear. "And now I'm in the world alone. Upon the wide, wide sea: But why should I for others groan, Till fed by stranger hands; He'd tear me where he stands. "With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, So not again to mine. My native land-Good Night!" $95. Song. The world is bright before thee. HALLECK. THE world is bright before thee; To nature's morning hour: There is a song of sorrow The death-dirge of the gay- These charms may melt away; Thy evening home may be ; Float on a summer sea; $96. Lamentation for the Death of Celin. LOCKHART. AT the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barr'd, At twilight, at the Vega gate, there is a tram pling heard ; There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe. "What tower is fall'n, what star is set, what chief come these bewailing?" "A tower is fall'n, a star is set. Alas! alas, for Celin!" Three times they knock, three times they cry, and wide the doors they throw : Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go: In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch, Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch; Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing, For all have heard the misery. “Alas! alas, for Celin!" Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's blood, [bles stood; "Twas at the solemn jousting; around the noThe nobles of the land were there, and the ladies bright and fair Look'd from their lattic'd windows, the haughty sight to share ; But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are bewailing, For he was Granada's darling knight. "Alas! alas, for Celin!" Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view; Behind him his four sisters, each wrapt in sable veil, Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their doleful tale; When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing, And all the people, far and near, cry,-" Alas! alas, for Celin!" O, lovely lies he on the bier above the purple pall, The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all; [is pale, His dark, dark eyes are clos'd, and his rosy lip The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, the Moor stands at his door, One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore: Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew, Upon their broider'd garments of crimson, green, and blue Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the loud bewailing, From door and lattice, high and low—” Alas! alas, for Celin!" An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry; [eye. Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed 'Twas she that nurs'd him at her breast, that nurs'd him long ago; She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall knowWith one deep shriek she through doth break, when her ears receive their wailing"Let me kiss my Celin ere I die-Alas! alas, for Celin!" $97. Song. Gentle river, gentle river: translated from the Spanish. PERCY. Although the English are remarkable for the number and variety of their ancient ballads, and retain, perhaps, a greater fondness for these old simple rhapsodies of their ancestors than most other nations, yet they are not the only people who have distinguished themselves by compositions of this kind. The Spaniards have great multitudes of them, many of which are of the highest merit. They call them, in their language, Romances. Most of them relate to their conflicts with the Moors, and display a spirit of gallantry peculiar to that romantic people. The two following are specimens. GENTLE river, gentle river, Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore; Many a brave and noble captain Floats along thy willow'd shore. All beside thy limpid waters, All beside thy sand so bright, Moorish chiefs, and Christian warriors, Full of wounds and glory died; Fell a victim by his side. Proud Seville his worth admires. Loudly shouts, with taunting cry: "Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra ! Dost thou from the battle fly? "Well I know thee, haughty Christian; Long I liv'd beneath thy roof; Oft I've, in the lists of glory, Seen thee win the prize of proof. Seven years of pain and woe. Which I drank when I was thine!" Back he sends an angry glare: Whizzing came the Moorish javelin, Vainly whizzing through the air. Back the hero, full of fury, Sent a deep and mortal wound: Instant sunk the renegado Mute and lifeless on the ground. With a thousand Moors surrounded, Brave Saavedra stands at bay : Wearied out, but never daunted, Cold at length the warrior lay Near him fighting, great Alonzo Stout resists the paynim bands; From his slaughter'd steed dismounted, Firm intrench'd behind him stands. Furious press the hostile squadron, Furious he repels their rage. Loss of blood at length enfeebles: Who can war with thousands wage? Where yon rock the plain o'ershadows, Close beneath its foot retir'd, Fainting sunk the bleeding hero, And without a groan expir'd. § 98. Alcanzor and Zaida, a Moorish Tale: imitated from the Spanish. PERCY. SOFTLY blow the evening breezes, Oft he sighs with heartfelt care. To the fainting seaman's eyes, Tell me, am I doom'd to die? Thou wilt sell thy bloom to age? "An old lord from Antiquera Thy stern father brings along; But canst thou, inconstant Zaida, Thus consent my love to wrong? "If 'tis true, now plainly tell me, Nor thus trifle with my woes; |