Henry James Pye: Verses about Green

A POETICAL ESSAY.


The various powers by Nature's hand combin'd
To fill with harmony the raptur'd mind;
Whose forms, as diff'rent lustre they impart,
Or strike the senses, or exalt the heart,
My daring Muse unfolds;—resolv'd to trace
The glorious theme thro' ev'ry path of space;
Till borne aloft on Truth's triumphant wings
Boldly she rise, and soaring as she sings,
By Fancy urg'd, she shape her vent'rous flight
To those blest regions of supreme delight,
Where Beauty pours her noblest, brightest ray,
Amidst the mansions of eternal day.

Daughters of Albion; ye whose eyes dispense
The mildest beams of virgin innocence,
Whose charms by all the Graces are design'd,
Each the fair emblem of a fairer mind,
To you I dedicate this votive lay:—
With kind applause the pleasing labour pay:
Crown with your myrtle wreaths my artless lyre,
Nor scorn the numbers which yourselves inspire:
So shall my Muse the Poet's bay disclaim,
And prize your smiles, beyond the breath of Fame.

Come, sacred Nature! Nymph divinely bright!
Unfold thy prospects to my eager sight,
O'er flow'ry lawns, with thee, O, let me rove,
And tread the devious lab'rinth of the grove.
Come in the garb of simple grandeur dress'd,
And by thy precepts form my docile breast;
Clear ev'ry mist, and give my eyes to see,
That Beauty only is deriv'd from thee.
Teach me that ev'ry art in ev'ry age
Is but a transcript from thy perfect page,
Where imitation ever charms us most,
And the best model, is the noblest boast.
When the discerning sons of Greece and Rome
Bent the proud arch, and swell'd the stately dome,
E'er gothic structures idly pleas'd the heart,
With all the nice perplexities of art,
The glorious architects rever'd thy name,
And following Nature, found the road to fame.
While Gallic artists proud to shine alone
Amidst a new creation of their own,
Boast too refin'd a taste to suffer thee
To guide a riv'let, or to rear a tree;
But art, expence, and labour have combin'd,
To draw th' attention of the trifling mind,
That senseless crowds may view with ideot stare,
The watry column, and the spruce parterre.
Yet tho' Le Notre bade on ev'ry side
The dazzling garden spread its flow'ry pride,
While the unvaried lawn, and vista'd shade,
In lines, and squares were regularly laid;
Tho' proud Versailles, thro' marble fountains, play
Her tortur'd waters to the face of day,
Such scenes, which only charm us by surprize,
O! may I never view, but to despise:
My wand'ring footsteps rather deign to lead
Thro' the dark forest, or th' enamel'd mead;
Where winding streams divide the verdant vale,
And artless music floats in ev'ry gale.

Ye Nymphs of Pindus! who have still possess'd
From earliest infancy my raptur'd breast,
And thou, celestial Fancy, matchless maid!
Descend propitious to your vot'ry's aid,
Bear me to happier regions far away,
From whence Hyperion darts his ev'ning ray,
Where Beauty's native form was ne'er defac'd
By servile ignorance, and barb'rous taste,
But thro' luxuriant fields, and fragrant groves,
In innocence the peaceful savage roves:
Where lofty mountains lift their piny heads,
Where its green lap the vast savannah spreads,
Or where the congregated waters sweep
With foaming lapse, down Niagara's steep,
Can all the pride of tasteless artists vie
With objects vast as these!—in Reason's eye?
Where Beauty dwells amidst the spacious plains,
Dress'd in her richest pomp, for Nature reigns.

But say, to scenes of humbler grace unknown,
Dwells Beauty with magnificence alone?
And from Britannia's pleasing prospects hurl'd,
Deigns she alone to bless the western world?
Not so,—her lovely form is here display'd
In ev'ry leaf that forms the summer shade,
And ev'ry blooming flower, that paints the vernal glade.

Who stretch'd upon the green hill's breezy brow
Can see the various landscape spread below,
The village spire—the wreathing smoke ascend,
The forest wave, the thymy downs extend,
The shining river roll its silver stream
Thro' woods, impervious to the solar beam,
Or 'midst the meads in smooth mæanders glide,
While bending oziers stoop to kiss the tide,
Till in th' horizon faintly ting'd with blue,
The distant mountains close the pleasing view,
And not in ev'ry tint of Nature's hand,
See Beauty's form, and own her mild command?

When from the East the glorious orb of day
Pours on the burnish'd cliff a golden ray,
While pearly dew-drops, sprinkled by the morn,
Shine in the turf, or glitter on the thorn;
When splendid in meridian light array'd,
His piercing beams the woodland gloom pervade,
When wrap'd in misty ev'ning's silent reign,
Th' encreasing darkness steals across the plain,
Or when in virgin state, the Delian Queen
Drives her bright chariot thro' the blue serene,
While scatter'd round in fair confusion lie
The inferior glories of the vaulted sky:
When gently o'er the flower-empurpled vale,
The vernal zephyrs breathe a genial gale,
When as fierce summers sultry rays descend,
With blushing fruit the loaded branches bend,
When autumn crowns the hills with waving corn,
And pours profusion from his twisted horn,
While deep'ning shade on shade, the woods are seen
From the full crimson, to the faded green:
Or when the trees their leafy honours yield,
And chearless russet clads the dreary field;
When the cascade by wintry fetters tied,
Must cease to murmur, and the stream to glide;
While blows the storm, or falls the delug'd rain,
Or fleecy snows o'erspread the whiten'd plain,
And Nature, tho' her meanest garb she wears,
Majestic ev'n in misery appears.
In ev'ry season, ev'ry hour, I trace
Imperial Beauty! thy transcendent grace;
Behold each scene thy lovely form display,
And wond'ring, own thy universal sway.

Blest is the youth! on whose high-favour'd head
The sacred Nine their happy influence shed;
Inspir'd by them, his raptur'd eyes explore
The choicest objects of thy charming store.
For him their strains the sylvan warblers breathe,
For him fair Maia twines her flow'ry wreath,
Fragrant for him the morning breezes blow,
The poplar trembles, and the fountains flow,
Each charm of Nature strongly strikes his breast,
And Beauty shines supreme, by young ey'd Fancy dress'd.

Not with more joy from the loud tempest's roar,
The dangerous billow, and more dangerous shore,
Escap'd,—the wave-worn sailor's grateful hand
Grasps the dear refuge of his native land;
Than I from proud Augusta's walls retreat,
To the dear refuge of that humble seat.
Though lowly be the roof, can I demand
The loftiest mansion grandeur ever plann'd,
When yon fair dome, magnificently great,
Opes wide to me its hospitable gate;
When these bright scenes, in rural grace array'd,
Invite my footsteps to their friendly shade?
Here, while once more my raptur'd fancy woos,
Far from tumultuous din, the sylvan Muse;
Or when the day-star hides his radiant light,
In calm and peaceful sleep I wear the night;
How does my bosom turn with keen disgust
From those foul paths of plunder and of lust;
Where the stern ministers of rigid law
With iron scourge the harden'd ruffian awe;
Where fear alone can blunt fell murder's knife,
And gaols and gibbets watch o'er human life.

As o'er yon silver lake I throw my sight,
Beyond imperial Windsor's tower-crown'd height,
Where, in the softening tint of heavenly blue,
Thy distant uplands, Berkshire! bless my view:
In waking dreams my fancy wings her flight,
Delightful region! to thy western site,
Where Isis' waves divide thy rural reign
From the green borders of Oxonia's plain;
And gently rising from the vale below,
Rears lovely Faringdon her breezy brow.
There the mild code of Albion's legal sway,
I whilom saw a generous race obey;
Saw the free yeoman and the sturdy swain,
Guided, not gall'd, by influence' lenient rein;
Not to the magistrate's stern mandate bend,
But feel the judge still temper'd by the friend.

Why, driven by wild ambition's veering gale,
Why did I quit, alas! my native vale,
'Mid senates and 'mid camps in vain to find
Joys that could rival those I left behind,
Where, grasping at expense I ill could bear,
I saw my farms and woodlands melt to air?—
Yet,—when, by vengeance arm'd, the Gallic host
With bloody inroad threaten'd Albion's coast;
Her veteran warriors o'er the Atlantic main,
Stemming rebellion's bloody surge in vain;
Her recreant fleet swept from her guardian flood;
Manly and firm, while every Briton stood,
Array'd in arms the impending storm defied,
And frown'd confusion on invasion's pride;—

Could I, long train'd in peace, my sword now yield,
When war's loud clarion call'd me to the field?
Or when two factions, whose contention hurl'd
The throne of Britain from the western world,
We saw at length in treacherous compact meet,
To make destruction's horrid work complete;
While patriot George, in Freedom's happy hour,
Appeal'd to England from her Senate's power;
While virtuous youth a people's suffrage won,
And Chatham's soul reviv'd in Chatham's son:
Then as on me, with kind and partial view,
Their favouring eyes the Berkshire yeomen threw;
Rejecting those, who, dup'd by faction's slave,
Turn'd 'gainst themselves the sacred trust they gave;
Could I refuse of Fame the proudest bough,
That e'er can twine around a Briton's brow?—

Friends and companions of my earliest youth,
The ingenuous days of unsuspecting truth;
Who knew to read each feeling of a heart,
That scorn'd the flatt'ring suppliant's servile art;
Of trust conferr'd by you, is still impress'd
The fond remembrance on this grateful breast;—
The proud remembrance!—that no selfish aim
Stain'd the fair wreath you gave of public fame:
That when my hands restor'd the splendid load
Of delegated power your choice bestow'd,
I won the noblest trophy man could raise,
My conduct sanction'd by your fav'ring praise.
But say, did all who led their native swains,
Waste while they guarded their paternal plains?
All whom their country chose with partial eye,
The sacred trust with mortgag'd manors buy?
Say, must of Prudence' voice, the warning sound,
In warm debates and shouts of war be drown'd?

I feel the just reproof—but, ah! how few
The golden path that Prudence points pursue!
Who know to join in Wisdom's sacred band,
The head retentive with the liberal hand;
Who safe their barks from Avarice' quicksands keep,
And the dire vortex of Profusion's deep.
When such I view, who, with forejudging care,
Know how to scatter, and know when to spare;
Who by no selfish passion led aside,
Or the false glare of ostentatious pride;
No pleasure e'er in vain expense can find,
While lavish for the good of human kind;
Whose time, whose care, whose bounties now are given
Free and extensive as the rains of Heaven;
Now like the lucid streams that silent flow,
Sooth by their healing power domestic woe:
Such worth I bless as God's best, noblest boon,
And in the glorious portrait hail Colquhoun!

Such, Prudence! when thy form; with aching breast
I mourn my wand'rings from thy wise behest;
But from thy shape in worldly garb array'd,
I cannot mourn my youthful footsteps stray'd;
Nor, though the frowns of Fortune I endure,
Lament each cause that made, that kept me poor.
I can't regret the promise that I gave
To smooth a parent's passage to the grave;
Less, that my heart fulfill'd the vow it made,
And sav'd his memory from the curse of trade:
I can't regret the happy hour that led
Not wealth, but beauty, to my bridal bed;
Not bart'ring for a plain and portion'd wife,
The dearest bliss that sweetens human life.

Though more than fifty winters tame the blood
Now circling through my veins in calmer flood;
Yet would I rather now, with wearying stroke,
Hew the hard rock, or fell the stubborn oak,
Than buy of wealth and pow'r the envied charms,
By clasping age or foulness in my arms.
But when I see, in youth and vigour warm,
A sordid wretch fly Beauty's angel form;
And sacrifice, for wild Ambition's flight,
To coldness and disgust each tedious night,
I turn from him with Scorn's indignant smile,
Meanest of mean, and vilest of the vile,
'Mid scenes less infamous to seek relief
In the loose pandar, and the midnight thief.

Nor can I much regret the idle days
When Fancy led me through her fairy maze;
Majestic Science, when I gravely woo'd,
Or sported with the Muse in frolic mood:
Though, as 'mid visionary scenes I stray'd,
I saw life's real prospects round me fade;
While with unclouded conscience I can see
A life from guilt, if not from folly free.
Ne'er did my hopes, my soul, my fortune lie
On the fleet courser or the rolling dye:
And though from early youth's first dawning hour,
Still tremblingly alive to beauty's power,
Ne'er did my art seduce a trusting maid,
Ne'er has my purse in shameful forfeit paid
A wife dishonour'd and a friend betray'd.

Then let me not with sorrowing eye pursue
Past scenes, which long have vanish'd from my view;
But ere of life the fleeting shadows close,
Thankful receive what Fortune yet bestows.
And you, my gen'rous friend, whose princely seat
Gives me from noise and strife a short retreat;
Where I can breathe again the fragrant air,
While days of leisure sweeten months of care;
Spring's blushing flowers, and Summer's fruits behold,
And Autumn's stores of vegetable gold;
Accept these votive numbers, nor refuse
The heartfelt offering of a grateful Muse;
Thanks from a heart, which, while it boasts with pride,
A line to patriots, nobles, kings, allied;
Is prouder yet in sterling worth to shine,
Stamp'd by the friendship of a mind like thine.

But now in public rapture's general sound,
Be private joy and private sorrows drown'd;
Behold aloft, on Windsor's stately brow,
Of Britain's isles the Imperial banner flow;
While shouting Berkshire hails Britannia's Lord,
In peace, in triumph, and in health restor'd.—
Dear and parental fields! while swelling Fame
To earth's remotest regions wafts his name;
Tells when Oppression shook her iron mace
In horrid menace o'er the human race,
His dauntless arm and energetic mind
The guardian Ægis rear'd, and sav'd mankind:
You shall behold him in your verdant seat,
From toils of empire and of war retreat
To the mild charities of social life,
The generous offspring, and the faithful wife;
Shall see sons brave, and daughters chaste and fair,
A duteous circle round the royal pair;
See private worth by sceptred greatness shown,
And bliss domestic flourish round a throne.

When fatal Discord from the realms of night,
Wings to this bleeding world her baleful flight,
Wakes with infernal cries her serpent brood,
Sheds through the troubled air a fiery flood,
And bids invidious rage and fury dart
Their rankling poisons through each monarch's heart,
Justice and Peace from mortal councils driven,
Forsake the earth, and seek their native Heaven;
Remorseless Vengeance every nation guides,
And brutal force in Themis' seat presides;
Satiate with blood, yet thirsting still for more,
Proud of her first success, with savage roar,
The monster urges to the dangerous plain
Destructive War, and all her hellish train.

Then shine around the opening stores of Mars,
The ramparts guarded threaten future Wars;
On every anvil new-form'd weapons gleam,
And loads the darken'd sky a sulphurous steam;
The spacious cities, whilom seats of ease,
With pleasure gay, and every art of peace,
Now swarm with crowding troops and glittering arms,
All look destruction, and all breathe alarms,
While the shrill clarion chides the winter's stay,
Whose tedious hours the promis'd War delay.

The season form'd to fan more pleasing fires,
Parent of blooming hopes and young desires,
When smiling Graces every flower combine,
The blooming wreaths of Love and Peace to twine,
Tempts only now to scenes of blood and death
The daring Warrior urg'd by Glory's breath.

Soft floats the air, and pours the melting snow
In silver torrents from the mountain's brow;
O'er the fair vales the crystal currents glide,
And smiling herbage waits on every tide;
Verdant with rising corn the hills appear,
And laughing Flora decks the vernal year;
The warrior bands with vengeful arms supplied,
The fatal ministers of regal pride,
For glory eager, and of courage proud,
With wings of speed to Honor's standard croud;
For the warm roof the tent it's covering spreads;—
The approaching War each trembling neighbour dreads;
The affrighted hind reluctant quits the soil,
And strangers reap the produce of his toil.

Now on the destin'd spot the martial train
Drawn up in dread array possess the plain;
The full battalions on the appointed place,
With ready hands the growing city trace;
Here stretch the streets, and there the palace gate
Spreads to receive the guardians of the state;
Without or wood, or stone, with skilful hands
By soldiers rear'd, the canvas city stands;
Who, as the War requires, with ease pull down,
Bear off, and raise anew, the moving town.

It asks no vulgar mind, or trifling care,
To chuse the station and the Camp prepare:
Your troops in certain safety would you place,
The different ground with skill and prudence trace:
Here craggy mountains seem to pierce the sky,
There narrow dells and spacious champains lie;
Each, as occasion points or chance directs,
Assists your purpose, and your Camp protects;
On these selected well, and fix'd with care,
Depends the fortune of th' approaching War.

The hardy troops whose steady march you lead,
The substance form of War, yourself the head;
Since from your thoughts their ev'ry motion flows,
Act while they rest, and watch o'er their repose;
To you each look the ardent warriors send,
Wait on your words, and on your skill depend;
With ceaseless care their confidence retain,
Nor let the Soldier trust your power in vain.

Does your bold heart in bloody fields delight,
Resolv'd to try the dubious chance of fight?
Chuse for your daring Camp the extended field,
Whose space shall room for every movement yield;
Small troops advanc'd before your army send,
Let woods, and rivers near, your Post defend:
Protect the neighbouring towns with watchful eye,
Whose plenteous marts your valiant troops supply;
Let your brave bands at equal distance drawn,
Rang'd in two lines, divide the verdant lawn;
Your foot the centre guard with steady ranks,
While your new-form'd dragoons protect the flanks;
The infantry with firm resistless force
Your body make, your arms the rapid horse.
Uncrouded squadrons there their files extend,
Active to charge, or ready to defend;
But in it's proper place each corps employ,
Or ground unfit will all their power destroy.
Mounted on fiery steeds, the Centaur train,
Who rush like lightning o'er the level plain,
Where swells in craggy heights the uneven ground,
Or gloomy forests spread, are useless found,
While the brave foot in all alike remain,
The wood, the marsh, the mountain, or the plain,
March o'er the extended field, or hollow dale,
Climb the steep cliff, the strong entrenchment scale,
Ready with equal vantage to engage,
Where'er the doubtful battle chance to rage.
As when in spring, the clouds together driven,
With scowling vapours blot the face of Heaven,
And thunder, wind, and rain, with stormy blast,
Lay the green hopes of future harvests waste;
So with their heavy fire in close array,
They ruin pour on all who check their way.

If to your breast her aid discretion lend,
Your army's flanks with strictest care defend;
A friendly village, an impervious wood,
A deep morass, or silver-winding flood,
Shall every weaker part from fear protect,
And teach the foe such ramparts to respect.

The bull provok'd, with horns protended stands,
Runs on his foe, and spurns with rage the sands,
With ready front each bold attack receives,
Nor to the assault his side defenceless leaves.
The important precept fix within your heart,
The prudent chief conceals each weaker part;
Secure from wounds, save in the unguarded heel,
The Grecian hero mock'd the force of steel;
Such are your flanks, protect them from the foe,
Nor rashly tempt like him a mortal blow.

By adverse fortune if your schemes are cross'd,
While growing numbers swell the opposing host,
To your thin ranks let Art her succour lend,
Let Nature's works your strengthen'd Camp defend;
Place your battalions on the mountain's brow,
'Midst gloomy woods, or where rude torrents flow.

Nor this enough; some passage unexplor'd
Should from your post a safe retreat afford;
Free to retire, or ready to advance,
Then shall you scorn the shifting power of chance,
O'ercome by talents while your foes remain
To waste with useless rage their force in vain.

Learn in the field of Mars with prudent care,
To range your bands in every form of War;
With fire your line sustain, between the space
Of different corps, your thundering engines place,
Whose brazen wombs with dreadful flash impart
Despair and terror to the assailant's heart.

Behind these fierce volcanos let your band
Of cuirass'd horse in dreadful order stand:
If fire and steel their force in vain combine,
But still your foes advance and pierce your line,
Swift to your eager squadrons give the word,
And let them bathe in blood each shining sword.

Thus to the experienced leader's sage command
It's ready aid affords the docile land,
Still offers safety to his eagle sight,
And wisdom fixes fortune's transient flight.
Valor's a common gift, but Prudence rare,
Varro the daring Soldier's praise may share.
But the form'd Hero shines in Fabius' care.
As where aloft the cliffs of Athos rise,
And rush with azure summits to the skies,
In vain the embattled tempest pours from far,
Against his sides the elemental War,
Smiles 'midst an air serene his lofty brow,
And mocks the thunder as it roars below;
So the cool chief despising fortune's frown,
Looks from his well-fenc'd Camp undaunted down,
Beholds his foe in useless schemes engage,
And waste in vain attempts his fruitless rage.

If Genius in your breast has fix'd her throne,
And Mars propitious mark'd you for his own,
Whatever ground your legions tread, you'll find
Castles, and forts, by nature's hand design'd;
Folly may see, but Wisdom's happy skill
Turns each obedient to the Warrior's will.

Thus Sparta's hero in that glorious day,
When Xerxes' millions forced at length their way,
Oppos'd his scanty troops with daring force,
To stop of Persia's sons the unskilful course,
And Grecia's arms, in many a conflict tried,
Check'd for a while the Median Tyrant's pride.

Thus, when the imperial conflict wafting o'er
From Italy to pale Epirus' shore,
The senate's darling champion rush'd to join
The mighty hero of the Julian line;
Dyrrachium's mountains well your guarded straits
Had turn'd to Pompey's side the doubting fates,
For on your heights the chief secure had stood,
And worn the victor wreath unsoil'd with blood;
But Rome's luxurious youth inflam'd with rage,
Of toil impatient, panting to engage,
Forced him to quit his post's impervious aid,—
The error Mars with tenfold vengeance paid,
And for the fault of one unguarded hour,
Gave up the vanquish'd world to Cæsar's power.

O thou whose skill could like the Roman's shine!
Shield of the empire, guardian of the Rhine!
Whose well-fenced Camps could give to fortune law,
Command success, and keep Turenne in awe,
Say, shall my Muse forget thy glorious name?—
Let Mars assist me while I chant thy fame!
Ye youthful Warriors, mark the great campaign,
Whose conduct guarded fair Germania's plain,
Admire each scene, each field with wonder view,
Survey his Camps, his rapid march pursue,
See his strong posts the fire of Gallia brave,
Restrain her ardor, and his country save.

Think not his force unmov'd he kept, nor deem
Though the large Camp a spacious city seem,
That War no sudden change requires, but learn
To watch the subtle foe at every turn;
With movement quick the former ground forsake,
Prevent his march, and each advantage take,
Safely retire, advance with rapid course,
And still by new attempts employ his force.

When to decamp the General gives command,
In lengthen'd column moves each separate band,
Four different corps they form, the ready horse,
On either flank protect the army's course;
While in the centre, rang'd in long array,
The steady foot pursue their toilsome way:
The distant foe who views the warrior train
Wind o'er in deepen'd files the spacious plain,
As glides the serpent arm'd with glittering scales,
In shining volumes o'er the Libyan vales,
The dreadful scene surveys with wild affright,
While slaughter leads the van, and claims the fight.

When form'd for War, your legions cross the plain,
Would you the smiles of fierce Bellona gain,
Before your front advanced, strong parties send,
Sustain their ardor, and their force defend;
These like the fiery cloud whose chearing light
Through the drear wild conducted Israel's flight,
Mid scenes unknown shall guide your watchful eyes,
And guard your doubtful march from quick surprize.

But should of fatal War the uncertain chance
Demand to right, or left, a swift advance,
March by your flanks embattled on the plain,
While parallel your equal lines remain.

To adverse fate must victors sometimes yield,
Turenne has fail'd, and Condé lost the field;
When forced the day to stronger arms to leave,
Still may the subtle chief his foes deceive,
Applauding worlds his merit shall admire,
Who knows without confusion to retire.
First march your baggage off to safeguards near,
While a bold train protects the lagging rear,
And, while the light-arm'd foot the mountains scale,
Secure the heavier forces pass the vale,
Till freed from danger of insulting foes,
Glorious, yet safe, the harrass'd troops repose.

O'er fair Germania's hills, with ceaseless haste,
And thorny forests Varus heedless past,
His troops neglecting, headstrong, rash, and vain,
Marching unform'd, encamping on the plain,
Till 'mid rude dells, and craggy mountains lost,
Arminius' schemes destroy'd his wilder'd host;
Augustus' tears their cruel fate deplore,
Varus, he cries, my slaughter'd troops restore!—
With wiser counsel, and more helpful care,
He should have cried, imprudent chief beware!
To seize the mountains heights thy power employ,
Nor let a barbarous host my troops destroy.

The Art of War which empire's sway extends,
On these first principles alone depends;
In advantageous posts your Camps prepare,
Advance with caution, and retire with care

Ye Warrior Chiefs who o'er our troops preside,
Learn from my verse your various parts to guide,
Let Practice prove what Theory has shewn;
And would ye sit on Glory's envied throne,
Your Camp like Fabius form, secure and slow,
And learn your Marches from his Punic foe.

When Vice triumphant rul'd the iron age,
And Justice left her seat to savage rage,
'Gainst the rude neighbour prompt at rapine's call,
The rising city rear'd the embattled wall,
While shew'd the citadel it's strengthen'd tower,
To guard the monarch from rebellious power;
Then on the cliff, or by the foaming flood,
With dreadful site the well-fenced rampart stood;
Each narrow pass by threatening works was barr'd,
And frequent forts the spacious frontier guard:
As the sharp fangs that arm the lion's jaw,
With threaten'd fate the Moor affrighted awe,
So where the borders of the realm extend,
If bulwarks strong the lengthening lines defend,
In vain combine of numerous foes the force,
The guarded frontier checks their daring course.

War, first of Arts, that savage nation knew,
By slow degrees to full perfection grew;
Grecia and Rome to fortify their power,
Thicken'd the wall alone, or rear'd the tower,
With missile weapons from whose threatening height,
Against the foe beneath they waged the fight;
From the light sling the leaden ball was thrown,
The arrow shot, or roll'd the ponderous stone.
When now the assailing troops the town inclose,
And deals the weighty ram it's thundering blows,
Descending dreadful from the lofty tower
On the machines a sulphurous stream they shower,
While numerous darts the approaching warrior wound,
And pierce the temper'd buckler's ample round,
Till various schemes the assailant's labors foil,
And force the wearied chief to quit his toil.

I shall not here my lengthen'd song employ
To tell of Priam's fate, and burning Troy.
With reverence due my eyes those scenes explore,
Proud Ilion's ashes, and Scamander's shore,
But tales that Virgil's glowing lines display,
Would ill agree with my severer lay.
Strong Syracusa's ramparts to destroy
See brave Marcellus every scheme employ,
While Archimedes' arts his labor foil,
Burn his machines, and mock his fruitless toil,
Repair each work, each tottering wall sustain,
And curb the force of Rome's imperious train.

Marseilles secur'd by many a strengthen'd tower
Mock'd dauntless Cæsar and his veteran power;
Wearied at length, but sure of fortune's aid,
He bid the sea their floating works invade.—
Thus check'd the siege long, bloody, and severe,
Of Rome's experienced chiefs the bold career.

In later times the powers infernal strove
To wrest the thunder from the hands of Jove,
These new machines have chang'd the face of War.—
The shell from brazen engines thrown afar
Reaches with curve immense the distant wall,
It's ponderous force redoubled by the fall,
Bursts 'mid the astonish'd train with horrid sound,
And cruel deaths unnumber'd scatters round:
Meanwhile the cannon with it's thundering breath
Sends forth terrific roars, and instant death;
Soon as the flash alarms our dazzled eyes,
Swift to the mark the iron bullet flies,
Lays in the dust the strongest bulwark low,
And gives a passage to the assailing foe.
This wonderous art reserv'd for modern days,
Whose power in sieges Mars has deign'd to praise,
Is form'd by sable grains in tubes confin'd,
Of smoulder'd charcoal, salt, and sulphur join'd.

Once to the world this fatal secret known,
Inventive Art to new defence has flown;
No more to guard the town from hostile fears
She builds the bulwark, and the turret rears,
'Gainst force which all that checks it's way destroys,
New skill she uses, and new arts employs.

Vauban, belov'd by Mars, whose forming hand,
The best defence of modern ramparts plann'd,
O that your glorious shade could now declare
The wonderous artifice, the ceaseless care,
Which in proud Gallia's perfect forts conspire
To check Germania's arms, and Britain's fire;
How with strong works you each attack defied,
And to the cruel art new force supplied.

Now the low works hid by the sheltering ground
Despise the thundering cannon's dreadful sound,
Strength to the wall the frequent buttress lends,
While the vast ditch in front the approach defends.
The angle here projects, and there retires,
And bastion bastion guards with flanking fires.
In the deep foss before the curtain placed,
The ravelin see with threatening cannon graced,
These second works prepar'd with skill profound,
Form a new rampart, and dispute the ground.
Round all these labors at a larger space
The extended outworks rise, and guard the place,
The trenches sink before, where give their aid
The cover'd way, and threatening palisade;
And the deep glacis spreads it's fatal green,
Of combat, and of blood the dreadful scene.

What various works has man with plastic skill
Drawn from the arts submissive to his will?
Who but must think where Gallia's bulwarks lower,
Defence has us'd her utmost stretch of power?
Yet deem not so, below observe the mine
With human rage where arts infernal join,
The glacis 'neath your feet the abyss contains,
Where the black dust but waits the whizzing trains
To raise the parting earth with fiery breath,
And strew the neighbouring works with blood and death.

Yet after all the effect of care and toil,
No ramparts now the insulting foe can foil,
For the same art the city which defends,
Assistance equal to the assailant lends:
The attack it's order and it's method knows,
Perils in vain the experienced chief oppose,
He wins his way through every threatening power,
And awes by numerous troops each hostile tower.
Should the bold foe attempt with dauntless face
To force his Camp, and so relieve the place,
Quick his laborious legions ope the ground,
And wide retrenchments all the host surround.
The prudent chief his lines contracts with care,
For works unguarded ill support the War;
The fierce assault unwearied to sustain,
Let for relief a strong reserve remain,
Then in the Camp, if smiling plenty flow,
Mock every effort of the insulting foe.

With care the place's strength and weakness learn,
And all your powers combin'd against it turn;
With cautious step advance, the attack being plann'd,
The line, the rule, the compass in your hand,
Your parallels along the country draw,
And by your winding works the fortress awe.

Now from the thundering engine flies the ball,
The bulwarks tremble, and the ramparts fall,
From their strong posts o'ercome by constant fire,
The steady troops that check'd your march retire,
From flanking shots that sideway bound along,
Soon quit the cover'd way, the hostile throng;
Your conquering steps the sloping glacis tread,
But there untried the faithless verdure dread,
Beneath your feet be sure the wily foe,
With sulphurous blast prepares the fatal blow;
Be cautious then, advance with anxious pain,
Sound well the mines, and spare your valiant train.

Before you push the bold attack too far,
Mind to conclude the subterranean war;
The miner first his useful works askance,
Should to the glacis' verdant base advance.
To save from hidden death each bold brigade,
Assault with fury near the palisade,
And when your troops that bloody region awe,
Swift to the spot your brazen engines draw,
The works shall totter at each fatal blow,
While sinks the crumbling bulwark mined below,
The trench is fill'd, around the warriors bleed,
And to assaults still fresh assaults succeed.

Oft while the troops the fugitives pursue,
The place they enter, and at once subdue;
Thus Gallia's sons by martial ardor fir'd,
Advancing boldly as their foes retir'd,
Seizing with eager hands the favoring hour,
Bent Hainault's capital to Lewis' power.

Observe the soldier, and his rage restrain,
Less fierce the savage of the Libyan plain,
Unless your power confin'd his fury hold,
By plunder lur'd, with savage licence bold,
His sanguine crimes while wrath his bosom warms,
Shall sully all the lustre of your arms.

The cruel chief who lets his troops assuage
In carnage and excess their bloody rage,
Though Conquest lead him o'er her wide domain,
Shall view Disgrace his fairest laurels stain,
While all mankind in mercy's cause combin'd,
His worth forgetting, curse his ruthless mind.

Tilly, who 'neath the imperial eagle fought,
By glorious deeds immortal honor bought,
One bloody cloud eclips'd it's rays divine,
And wip'd his name from memory's hallow'd shrine:
And bleeding Magdeburgh thy cries proclaim
His tarnish'd glory, and his deathless shame.

Ye valiant warriors, if with mournful breath
My voice describes the dreadful scene of death,
'Tis to wake horror for the scene of woe,
And bid your breasts with indignation glow.

Pleas'd with fallacious hopes of sudden peace,
Their watchful guard the hapless inmates cease,
Lull'd by a faithless truce's mean disguise,
The treacherous Tilly seals their wakeful eyes;
Now drowsy Morpheus o'er the unthinking train
Spreads the soft languors of his leaden reign,
On the firm rampart tir'd with constant toil,
The slumbering centries press the dewy soil;
Security and peace the soldier seize,
He quits the trenches for domestic ease;
From Stygian shores the lying fiend appears,
And with deceitful arm the olive rears,
On every side the shouts of joy resound,
And Prudence' voice in festive notes is drown'd.

The watchful Tilly 'mid the dread repose,
Bids his still chiefs their ardent troops dispose,
O'er the strong works with silent step, and slow,
The cruel Austrian mounts, nor meets a foe.
Ah, hapless race! whom empty hope deceives,
Lo! peace to treason's power the city leaves;
Doubling the horror of the midnight shade,
See the funereal wing of death display'd,
Remorseless Rage, and Hell's destructive band
Arm with infernal swords the victor's hand,
Pale Nature groans, and through the thundering skies,
With useless aim the gleaming lightning flies.

Tilly whose hate no mercy could restrain,
Gave to his vengeful troops the loosen'd rein;
Slaughter and rapine rage on every side,
And the sad walls with native blood are dyed.
O'er the fell scene the insatiate chief presides,
Inflames their vengeance, and their ravage guides,
The example fires the mildest of their train,
They force the peaceful house, and sacred fane;
The valiant who oppose, the weak who fly,
Alike with undistinguish'd horror die.
Pierced in the mother's arms the infant's blood
Pours o'er the parent's breast a purple flood,
The father tries in vain the son to save,
But unreveng'd sinks with him to the grave,
Nor age, nor sex their hellish rage disarm,
To Pity deaf, and blind to Beauty's charm.
Feeble with years the hoary priest in vain
Grasps with his mournful arms the hallow'd fane;
Three hundred fathers bent by wasting time,
Slain at the altar's foot increase their crime.
While 'midst the horrid scene our eyes behold
The timid virgin by despair made bold,
By shame impell'd, the dread of danger brave,
And fearless plunge in Elbe's ensanguin'd wave.

But Heavens! what horrid spectacle appears!
What rage unknown each savage bosom sears!—
Why in your hands do baneful torches flame?
Infernal fiends! who blast the Soldier's name!—
See the fierce fires each lofty pile destroy,
The city blazes round, another Troy;
From house to house the shining ruins glide,
And horrid clamors swell on every side;
Who 'scape the flames the shining falchions glean,
While nature trembles 'mid the infernal scene.
So paint our sinking hearts the dread abode,
By torturing fiends, and hellish dæmons trod,
Where furies in gorgonian terrors clad
Chastise the impious, and appal the bad,
Where wretches endless torments undergo,
And fill the measure of eternal woe.
Such, and more dreadful, in those fatal hours
Appear'd, O Magdeburgh! thy shatter'd towers,
As by the conflagration's lurid ray,
Shewn to the sight thy smoaky ruins lay.

The city once of peace the fair retreat,
Of every smiling art the favorite seat,
In the short space of one unhappy night,
Lies a sad desert to the passer's sight,
Where with his crimes fatigu'd the soldier stands,
Proud of the slaughter of his savage hands,
While Elbe's affrighted waves forsake the shore
With corses choak'd, and red with human gore.
Did Fortune's smiles the cruel Tilly crown
For loosing vengeance on the unhappy town?
Devouring flames a useful conquest spoil'd,
And one vast scene of devastation wild
Fair Magdeburgh appears, whose ruins lie
A dreadful prospect to the Victor's eye,
And seem to call the immortal powers to shed
A tenfold vengeance on the Author's head.

Where gentle Deva's lucid waters glide
In slow meanders thro' the winding vale,
And fertile Cestria's pastures green divide;
Deep in the bosom of a sheltering dale
By uplands guarded from the wintry gale,
In rustic site a lowly village stands,
Not laid in form exact with artful scale,
But scatter'd wide by Chance's careless hands
'Mid woods, and breezy hills, and lawns, and fallow'd lands.
Here by the verdant margin of the flood
'Mid osiers dank the humble cottage lies,
And here emerging from the bowering wood
From chimnies low the curling steams arise,
Here on the heath adorn'd with purple dyes
The open casement drinks the ambrosial air,
While pointing boldly to the ambient skies,
The taper steeple marks the house of prayer,
Where to the holy rite the village race repair.
Here erst a simple fabric might you see,
The peaceful mansion of the Parish Priest:
Though unadorn'd with costly symmetry
No splendid portal woo'd the noble guest,
Yet from his lowly door the gentle breast
Was never by unfeeling menace driven,
While Charity in robe of ermine dress'd
Beheld her scanty offerings freely given;
Nor shall her smallest boon escape the eye of heaven.
Though proud Magnificence with splendid arm
Had here no vast superfluous pomp display'd,
Yet Neatness was at hand with simpler charm,
And each domestic comfort lent it's aid.
Though no extended lawns, no forest-shade
Struck with astonishment the enchanted sight,
Yet the small spot in Beauty stood array'd,
Since all around by Husbandry was dight,
For well such cultur'd scenes the placid sense delight.
Right to the golden sun's meridian ray
Healthful, and gay, the chearful front was placed:
Where no Acanthus twin'd with mimic spray
To crown the column of Corinthian taste;
By the soft tendrils of the vine embraced
O'er the slop'd roof the vivid shoots extend,
Now with festoons of leaves luxuriant graced,
And now, as Autumn's ripening beams descend,
Loaded with swelling fruit, the purple clusters bend.
A Garden trim was placed before the door
Kept by diurnal toil in neat array,
By walls defended from the insults frore
Of Boreas' blast, and Eurus' rude affray;
Against whose height leant many a tender spray,
Where the ripe fruits in blushing order glow,
Matur'd by genial Sol's reflected ray:
Nor did their sides unwelcome walk bestow
When though the sun be bright, right keen the winds might blow.
The gravel'd paths by rule exact design'd
In equal parts the cultur'd plot divide,
Where culinary plants of various kind
From every eye the thick espaliers hide,
Beneath, the border deck'd with Flora's pride
Exhibits to the view unnumber'd dyes,
Where in succession through each changing tide
Attentive art the varying plants supplies,
Still to enchant the smell, and fascinate the eyes.
Here venturing on the verge of Winter's power
The Snowdrop, Aconite, and Crocus grow,
The pallid Primrose hails the vernal hour,
And humbly sweet the azure Violets blow,
The Lilies of the vale their fragrance throw,
In meretricious pride the Tulip blooms,
Their gaudy pomp the rich Carnations show,
And, o'er the rest who regal power assumes,
The Rosier's fragrant bud the passing gale perfumes.
Nor did Pomona's treasure less abound
Alternate as the months their power display;
Here crept the fragrant Strawberry on the ground,
Or wav'd the Cherry on the loaded spray,
Here glow'd the Nectarine in the Summer ray,
Here swell'd the Peach all-tempting to the view,
Nor was the Gooseberry's meaner fruit away,
Or Currant red or rich in golden hue,
Or Pear with sugar'd juice, or Plum of glossy blue.
Nor will the Muse disdain with curious eye,
Beyond the thick espalier's verdant skreen,
Amid the vegetable tribes to pry
That spread their shoots the bordering paths between;
Salubrious viands for the board I ween!—
With various dainties was the ground o'erspread,
The Cabbage yellow, and the Colewort green,
The Asparagus that springs in lowly bed,
And Artichokes that rear aloft the spiny head.
The Bean whose perfume scents the ambient skies,
The twining Pea, the Turnip's juicy root,
The Celery that winter's blast defies,
The Radish warm, the Carrot's vigorous shoot,
The rich Potatoe fam'd Ierne's fruit
Sacred to Venus in the genial hour,
The Leek whose steams the hasty Cambrian suit,
With ample head the swelling Cauliflower,
And Lettuce friendly deem'd to Morpheus' drowsy power.
An Orchard too adjoin'd whose vernal hue
Might shame the costly shrubbery's proudest dyes,
Whose daisy'd sod delights the roving view,
And pasture to the gentle steed supplies;
While the bland influence of Autumnal skies
Ripen'd the ruddy fruit of general use,
Either to crown the board with luscious pies,
Or bid the goblet smile with mantling juice,
Bright as the generous wines that Southern climes produce.
Nor was there wanting ornamental care,
The Arbor, seat of Summer jollity,
Where Eglantines perfum'd the evening air,
And Woodbines sweet, and Jasmins fair to see;
Here sometimes from each scene of tumult free
Would Contemplation lift her eye divine,
And sometimes Mirth excite to social glee,
While bright with amber hue the beer would shine,
Or blush the crystal cup with Lusitania's wine.
Should vagrant Fancy tempt the foot to stray
Beyond the Garden's or the Orchard's bound,
Through green inclosures led the winding way
Which the live fence, and leafy hedge-row mound;
While gently gliding through the enamell'd ground
A silver stream with placid current flows,
Whose shelving bank with vivid alders crown'd
A site convenient to the Angler shews
While the delusive fly with skilful hand he throws.
Pleas'd and contented with his calm abode
The reverend Pastor liv'd in quiet state,
The path heaven mark'd he unrepining trod,
Lov'd by the Poor, respected by the Great:
The Harpy Envy, and the Fury Hate,
Far from his gentle flock he drove away,
Till bent at length by Time's increasing weight
His failing powers with gradual lapse decay,
Secure in happier climes to bloom again for aye.
From those fair seats by Isis' sedgy side
Where Rhedecyna rears her hundred spires,
His holy Successor is soon supplied.
His beating bosom swells with new desires;
For by the blest attainment he acquires
A right from monkish cloisters to remove,
Light a pure flame at Wedlock's sacred fires,
And all the scenes of untried rapture prove,
Which crown the mystic couch of Hymeneal Love.
With eager haste he seeks his new abode,
Keen Hope anticipating each delight;
But o'er the little Empire as he strode
It's vulgar Beauties fade upon his sight,
For forms of elegance had charm'd his sprite.
The alley trim offends his nicer taste,
And each compartment rang'd in angles right,
Nor can he see by Husbandry debas'd
Nature's imperial mien with simple Beauty graced.
Much in his mind he bore each lovely seat
That fair Oxonia's neighbouring plains display,
How would his raptur'd heart with transports beat
Through shady Ditchley's spreading groves to stray,
Or as on Nuneham's breezy heights he lay
To view the bending stream of Isis flow
Through meadows rich in all the pride of May,
Or pace the polish'd scenes of princely Stowe,
Or fill his sated eye on Blenheim's towery brow.
Nor need he wander from the Muses shade
To view improving taste's progressive power:
No more in knots by skill capricious laid
Does tonsile box sage Wickham's arms embower.—
Where pious Laud design'd the hallow'd tower
Throws Art her vesture with a chaster hand;
While, welcome refuge from the sultry hour!
By cooling gales with gentle pinions fann'd
Merton's delightful groves with gloomy foliage stand.
Here Ma'dlen too her splendid dome surveys,
Or venerable shade, in Cherwell's stream.—
O witching Memory assist my lays,
And steep my senses in thy soothing dream!
Here wandering oft by Cynthia's silver beam
My youthful Fancy woo'd the sacred Nine,
Or plied by midnight lamp the graver theme,
Or joy'd with Mirth's convivial sons to join,
Or paid the fervent vow at Friendship's holy shrine.
While thus the powers of Elegance unfold
Their Faery visions to his dazzled view,
With scorn his eyes the homely spot behold;—
Anxious the steps of Nature to pursue,
On humbler scale his eager thoughts renew
Whate'er the sons of genuine taste admire,
Whate'er the hands of Brown and Shenstone drew,
Or Wheatley's sober diction could inspire,
Or wak'd the sounding strings of Mason's heavenly Lyre.
Now the strong laborer with repeated blow
Each old incumbring ornament assails,
The guardian wall, it's sheltering height laid low
Admits the Fury of the eastern gales.—
Ah! what it's strength the buttress now avails
That safely kept the garden's flowery scene!—
Spreads the slight fence it's ineffectual rails
Painted by curious Art of dusky green,
Where oft the sportful lambs, destructive creep between.
The espaliers thick with blushing fruitage gay,
The flowing border stretch'd with careful line,
The vegetable viands, all give way,
And low their heads the orchard-trees recline;
While spread abroad with uniform design
The unvaried grass-plot dank extends around
Chequer'd with ragged clumps of sombre pine,
And sinks the deep Haha it's subtle mound,
That nothing from the plain the garden scene may bound.
Close by the border winds with tortur'd course
The gravel'd path it's undulating way,
Where evergreens that mock stern winter's force,
And flowering shrubs their different dyes display.
The Cypress dark, the Lilac's barren spray,
Succeed each useful plant's superior blow,
And as the owner's eyes the work survey
He sees with joy each fair improvement grow,
And deems his little reign a Blenheim or a Stowe.
Now issuing from the garden to the fields
As Taste capricious bares her active arm,
It's leafy shade the lofty Hedgerow yields,
And quits the lofty fence it's fragrant charm:
Nought can it's vernal sweets the stroke disarm,
Low on the earth it's blooming glory lies,
Where erst the pathway shelter'd lay and warm,
And o'er the scene the scatter'd clumps arise
No guard from wintry winds, no shade from sultry skies.
The brook that gently through the level meads
As Nature's hand directed us'd to wind,
Obedient follows now as Fashion leads
In curves is tortur'd, or in lakes confin'd;
While to the hands of Industry consign'd
No more the bending osiers kiss the tide,
Where oft the silent fisher lay reclin'd;
And from the force of Sol's meridian pride
The Naiad tries in vain her throbbing breast to hide.
The work compleated, now survey the scene
Rich in the dress of ornamental Taste,
Each useful plant of humbler homelier green
By barren elegance is now replaced,
While as if seated on the open waste
Unshelter'd, uninclos'd the house appears:
And by no Arts of Husbandry debas'd,
The frequent weed uncheck'd it's offspring rears,
And the rude common's garb the scanty paddock wears.
Wanting the Scythe that each returning dawn
Rank Vegetation's progress should correct,
Unsightly tufts deform the grassy lawn,
Nor can the corded fence the shrubs protect.
Oft will the Shepherd Boy his charge neglect
And crouding Flocks the rising clumps invade,
Oft 'mid the paths by care domestic deck'd
The steed's unseemly ordure will be laid,
And oft the swine obscene uproot the verdant glade.
And here perchance, bending his beetled brow,
Some angry Critic scornful shall exclaim:
‘What Gothic Wight is this, who dares avow
‘To scorn of British Arts the fairest name,
‘Who wishes to recall with Idiot aim
‘What Elegance has banish'd from our shore,
‘Would blast the rural wreath of Albion's fame
‘The ancient forms of Folly to restore,
‘And bid the spruce Parterre usurp her seats once more?’
Far be such blame! no Briton's eye can see
With greater joy the rural taste arise,
Spread wide in native pomp the untortur'd tree,
And the plain turf succeed the tulips dyes,
As Nature boon her simple charm supplies
Dress'd by the hand of Cultivation fair,
Where Art alone the curious eye descries
By shining every lawn with neater air,
The sod's more glossy green, the gardener's nicer care.
When Grandeur spreads around the extended park
Let lavish Nature plan the bold design,
The polish'd culture shall the boundary mark,
And graced, not cramp'd by Art, the Work shall shine:
No need the rule, the level, and the line,
Should 'midst the shades intrude with formal mien,
The splendid walk, the verdant carpet fine,
The contrast bright of variegated green,
Shall shew that artful care has form'd the extensive scene.
But when scant Fortune checks this flattering joy,
Nor gives to ornament the rural reign,
Why the trim Garden's lowlier charms destroy?—
Why Husbandry's more homely cares disdain?—
If Industry with her assiduous train
With step reluctant from the spot recedes,
What features shall distinguish Taste's domain
From the expanse of pastures, and of meads,
But Culture's looser robe, and more luxuriant weeds?

A Poem In Two Books


Now with meridian force the orb of day
Pours on our throbbing heads his sultry ray;
O'er the wide concave of the blue serene
No fleecy cloud or vapory mist is seen;
The panting flocks and herds, at ease reclin'd,
Catch the faint eddies of the flitting wind;
To silence hush'd is every rural sound;
And noontide spreads a solemn stillness round
Alike our languid limbs would now forsake
The open meadow, and the tangled brake;
Here Sol intensely glows, and there the trees
Mix their thick foliage, and exclude the breeze.—
Come let us quit these scenes, and climb yon brow,
Yon airy summit where the Zephyrs blow;
While waving o'er our heads the welcome shade,
Shuts out the sunbeams from the upland glade:
No steep ascent we scale with feverish toil,
No rocks alarm us, and no mountains foil;
But as we gently tread the rising green,
Large, and more large extends the spacious scene;
Till on the verdant top our labour crown'd,
The wide Horizon is our only bound.

What various objects scatter'd round us lie,
And charm on every side the curious eye!—
Amidst such ample stores, how shall the Muse
Know where to turn her sight, and which to choose?—

Here lofty mountains lift their azure heads;
There it's green lap the grassy meadow spreads;
Enclosures here the sylvan scene divide;
There plains extended spread their harvests wide;
Here oaks, their mossy limbs wide stretching, meet
And form impervious thickets at our feet;
Through aromatic heaps of ripening hay,
There silver Isis wins her winding way;
And many a tower, and many a spire between,
Shoots from the groves, and cheers the rural scene.

Still as I look, fresh objects seem to rise;
And lovelier pictures strike my raptur'd eyes,
As young remembrance paints each sylvan glade,
Where full of glee my careless childhood stray'd.
Though other hills perhaps as large a field
To warm description's fairy powers may yield,
As rich a prospect to the sight display,
O'er meads as verdant, and o'er plains as gay;
Yet, when in Memory's fond mirror shewn,
The country smiles with beauties not it's own;
Her fair reflection new delight supplies,
And every floweret blooms with deeper dyes;
The landscape seems to brighten while I gaze,
And Phoebus shines with more than summer rays;
O'er the high woods a livelier verdure reigns,
And more luxuriant harvests deck the plains;
Even when fell winter spreads his mantle drear,
And big with snow descends the inclement year,
Let but her glass reflect the dismal view,
The wither'd trees their wonted charms renew;
The feather'd tribes resume their chearing lay,
And spring her odors, and his beams the day;
December yields to April's milder power,
And vernal blossoms grace the wintry hour.

O sacred Nature! Nymph divinely bright!
Unfold thy various prospects to my sight;
With thee o'er breezy uplands let me rove,
Or tread the devious labyrinth of the grove;
When from the east the glorious orb of day
Shoots o'er the burnish'd cliff his golden ray,
When splendid in meridian light array'd,
His piercing beams the woodland gloom pervade;
When wrap'd in misty evening's sober reign
The increasing darkness steals across the plain;
When o'er the dusky stole of silent night
The Delian Goddess throws her silver light;
When gently o'er the flower-empurpled vale
The vernal Zephyrs breathe a genial gale;
When, as fierce Summer's sultry beams descend,
With blushing fruit the loaded branches bend;
When Autumn crowns the hills with waving corn,
And pours profusion from his twisted horn;
While deepening shade on shade the woods are seen,
From the full crimson to the faded green;
Or when, it's leafy honors swept away,
The scatter'd forest yields to winter's sway;
When the cascade, by icy fetters tied,
Must cease to murmur, and the stream to glide;
While blows the storm, or falls the chilling rain,
Or fleecy snows o'erspread the whiten'd plain;
In every hour and season let me trace,
Enchanting Nature! thy transcendant grace;
With eager eyes thy lovely form survey,
And bless with grateful voice thy boundless sway.
Happy the youth! on whose high honor'd head
The sacred Nine their fostering influence shed,
Though they refuse the lasting wreath, whose bloom
Shall grace his living brow, and deck his tomb;
For the fresh laurel give a sickly flower,
Boast of a day, and glory of an hour;
Yet taught by them his ravish'd eyes explore
The choicest objects of thy charming store:
For him their strains the sylvan warblers breathe,
For him fair Maia twines her flowery wreath;
Fragrant for him the morning breezes blow,
The poplar trembles, and the fountains flow;
Thy various beauties strike his raptur'd breast,
And Nature doubly charms by Fancy dress'd.

Enough has Fancy, frantic with delight,
O'er the gay region stretch'd her vagrant flight;
Let sage Experience now of brow severe
Arrest her soaring in her bold career:
Nor thou, historic Truth, thy aid refuse,
But join the labors of the rural Muse;
With friendly care the pleasing toil divide,
That while she paints the blooming landscape's pride,
Thy voice each storied relick may explain,
And tell the former fortunes of the plain.

First to the north direct your roving eyes,
Where fair Oxonia's verdant hills arise;
There Burford's downs invite the healthful chace,
Or urge the emulous coursers to the race;
While as with agile limbs the ascent they scale,
Rush down the steep, or sweep across the vale,
Exulting Hope, by turns, and chilling Fear
In the pale cheek and eager eye appear;
Each generous fire in every heart is lost,
By fortune favor'd, or by fortune cross'd;
Flies every Virtue, withers every Grace,
And all the selfish Passions take their place.

Emerging from the thicket's bosom, there
See Bamptom's pointed steeple rise in air:
To farther distance now the prospect drawn,
Lo Witney's spire diversifies the lawn!
Whose busy loom to balmy sleep supplies
A guard from wintry cold and freezing skies:
There Whichwood's oaks thick-waving o'er the glade
Yield to the salvage tribe an ample shade:
And in the horizon faintly ting'd with blue
Thy woods, imperial Blenheim! close the view,
Nature between one verdant carpet spreads
Of fruitful pastures and enamel'd meads;
Whose bending reeds, and osier'd banks among,
Fair Isis rolls her virgin waves along;
Her horn while Plenty pours on every side,
And Pales revels where her waters glide.

Hail, lovely Isis! dear parental stream!
The pride of Commerce, and the Poet's theme:
Though, vain of borrow'd pomp, imperious Thame,
Deck'd with the praise which ought to wait thy name,
Triumphant pours his swelling waves along,
Hail'd by the bard, and dignified in song;
Thy silver urn the affluent tide bestows,
And from thy source the plenteous current flows:
Such is the fate that female honors find,
When to a mate unequal fondly join'd.
O had thy stream! like Arethuse of old,
It's virgin waters unpolluted roll'd,
Old Thame through humble vales had pass'd alone,
Sung by no bard, unnoticed, and unknown;
While thine had been confess'd the unrival'd pride,
To waft in commerce with each rising tide,
With foreign spoils Augusta's walls to greet,
And lay the nations tribute at her feet:
Thine been the boast to flow, with current clear,
Through meads to British Freedom ever dear,
Where the bold Barons in a happy hour
Wrested her charter from a tyrant's power;
While grateful bards contended to rehearse
Thy virgin glories in no vulgar verse:
For long as Windsor rais'd her sylvan shade
Or Cooper's swelling hill o'erlook'd the glade,
Sacred to fame thy stream had flow'd along,
In Pope's soft lays, or Denham's sounding song.
Then as thy lucid current gently stray'd
Through fair Etona's academic shade;
While by thy side his silver Lyre he strung,
Gray to thy wave his dulcet notes had sung:
And many a bard in Granta's vale who strays,
And tunes to hoary Cam his votive lays,
Whose youthful Fancy and Invention new
Cull'd the fresh flowers that on thy borders grew,
Had join'd to celebrate thy classic fame,
And half his tribute paid to Isis' name.

And lo! where heathy Cumner's envious height
Hides all thy letter'd triumph from my sight!
Where 'midst fair Rhedicina's gothic towers,
Her hallow'd cloisters, and Pierian bowers,
Isis her silver urn inclines, and views
The votive wreath of every grateful Muse.
No rivulet there from thee their tribute draws,
Usurps thy fame, or shares their just applause:
But gentle Cherwell hears with joy their lays,
And loves the strain that chants a sister's praise;
Pleas'd if the Muse, to grace her head, bestows
One roseate flower that on thy Margin blows.
Nor shall thy reeds in future times complain
Of slighted worth and Thame's usurp'd domain;
That his too favor'd stream with princely waves
The crowded walls of proud Augusta laves;
The votive verse that Pope and Denham raise,
And breathe to him the swelling note of praise;
For him that Gray the strain unequal'd frames,
And sings the moral ode to hoary Thames;
Since fair Oxonia's polish'd sons unite
To vindicate thy classic current's right;
Since every Muse to thee consigns her lays,
And every Science on thy border strays;
And every Grace, and every Art, whose powers
In symmetry have rais'd her dædal towers,
To listening crowds thy parent worth proclaim,
And found their pride on thy maternal name.

Ere yet such scenes of pomp thy channel knows,
While humbly here thy lingering water flows;
While yet thy virgin waves obscurely glide,
Sung by no Muse, nor boast a classic tide;
Say wilt thou here incline thy urn, to heed
The inglorious warbling of my Doric reed?
Though here no city spread her various stores,
No costly villas crown thy peopled shores;
Yet every charm of Peace's rural reign
Attends thy progress through each smiling plain.
The flocks and herds here crowd thy rushy brink,
Graze on thy sides or from thy bosom drink;
And every herb, and every flower that blows
On the green margin where thy current flows;
If a luxuriant bloom they justly boast,
Beyond the produce of another coast;
As in thy glassy wave their charms they see,
Shall own they owe each vivid tint to thee.

Yet glittering spears have here been whilom seen,
And purple war has stain'd thy osiers green;
Here hostile swords have shed a horrid gleam,
And floating corses chok'd thy frighted stream;
While Civil Discord drove with hideous roar
The trembling Naiads from thy widow'd shore.
Ah! ne'er may arms again thy seats invade,
Or shouts of war disturb thy hallow'd shade;
But heaven-born Peace with Plenty in her train
Fix on thy sedgy banks her halcyon reign.

Here too, more fell than war's destructive race,
Has Superstition shewn her gorgon face:
Here where thy chearing stream with gentle waves
These fertile meads and verdant pastures laves,
Where now unwearied Industry resides,
And Toil exulting tills thy fruitful sides;
For Liberty protects the happy swains,
And Property secures what labor gains;
Erst the rich soil, though cultur'd, useless lay,
To monkish ease and luxury a prey,
While distant abbeys with thy wealth were stor'd,
The British subjects of an alien lord.
When bigot John, despotic power to gain,
Found open force and treacherous cunning vain;
His daring nobles fir'd by virtuous pride
His arts eluded, and his force defied;
With Rome's anathemas he arm'd his hand,
And papal thunders shook the trembling land;
Thirsting for lawless sway, he stoop'd to own
His crown dependant on a foreign throne;
To foreign lords ignoble homage gave,
To reign at home a tyrant and a slave.
'Twas then the ravenous monks, a sordid crew,
O'er all the wasted land like locusts flew;
Each rich demesne that to the crown remain'd,
By right, by forfeiture, or conquest gain'd,
Was given to gratify the Church's pride,
And bribe the holy cohorts to his side.
Even 'mid those scenes of devastation wild,
Where William's power the fertile district spoil'd,
The gazing pilgrim saw with strange surprize
Aspiring structures 'midst the desert rise;
And where no trace of man's abode was seen,
No noise disturb'd the tenants of the green,
Save the seas breaking o'er the sounding shore,
Or the faint dashing of the distant oar;
There haughty Beaulieu's gothic arches bend,
And high in air her glittering spires ascend;
While the wild forest's hairy sons around
Start at the unusual anthem's swelling sound.
These fruitful plains, in that unhappy hour
Of papal sway and sacerdotal power,
Were doom'd the new-rais'd abbey to maintain,
And distant Beaulieu rul'd the fair domain.
The famish'd swain beheld with mournful eye
The verdant meadows round him useless lie;
While pamper'd ignorance and priestly pride
The rich productions of the land divide;
Till Henry's haughty soul the bondage broke,
Redeem'd the nation from the servile yoke,
And suffer'd active Industry once more
To dwell, fair Isis! by thy happy shore:
Hence as these blooming fields, (thus heaven decreed,)
A tyrant shackled, so a tyrant freed.

Yet now, as thro' the abbey's mouldering dome
The Muses oft with wandering footsteps roam,
And, while with silver radiance Luna's beam
Shoots through the lengthening isles a trembling gleam,
As pensive Meditation points the way,
By ruin'd piles and nodding towers they stray:
See o'er the impending arch the ivy spread,
And gothic pillars threat the passer's head,
Struck with the awful scene, the astonish'd train
Bewail the fall of Superstition's reign.
Hence many a bard has o'er the ruins hung,
And mourn'd the devastation as he sung;
Has Error's fate in plaintive verse deplor'd,
And wept the day that Reason's rights restor'd.

As bending upward near her scanty source
We backward trace the river's narrowing course,
Her pointed spire see Lechlade proudly rears!
And lowly Cricklade on her banks appears;
Cricklade, where first, when Grecia's letter'd train,
By Slavery exil'd from their native plain,
To fair Hesperia's vales their science bore,
To Gallia's fields, and Albion's distant shore;
Those strains Ilissus' stream was wont to hear
Were pour'd, O Isis, on thy raptur'd ear:
While Grecia's Muse, around whose matron brow
Had twin'd the Athenian olive's fruitful bough,
Forc'd by the rage of Mahomet's savage host
To quit with lingering step Byzantium's coast;
Her drooping forehead with thy osiers bound,
And on thy brink a new Lyceum found;
Till woo'd by princely gifts, these peaceful bowers
She left for Granta's and Oxonia's towers.
And here thy waves, by learning now unknown,
To busy Commerce sacred flow alone,
Where first the loaded raft, and cumberous barge,
Trust to thy placid breast their weighty charge.

Ah, Isis! can the Muse forget that hand,
Whose wanton cruelty thy ruin plann'd?
Or not forgetting, from resentment free,
Recall the hours that threaten'd fate to thee?—
When vain projectors doom'd thy stream to flow
Through meads, neglected, lingering, sad, and slow;
Till the o'er-loaded wave should scarcely force
Through gathering sand, and sedge, it's laboring course;
While in thy stead their plastic power should guide
The stagnate lake by wintry rains supplied.
Perish such schemes! nor by their use be lost
The noblest river, Britain's Isle can boast!—
Let channels, form'd by art, be ever led
Where no fair current wears a native bed;
Then through the obstructing hill, and o'er the vale,
Like Egerton conduct the swelling sail:
Even Isis shall applaud, if from her source,
To where Sabrina pours her amber course,
They bid the smooth canal it's length display,
And feed with copious springs the tedious way:
Till the fraught barge the extended line explores
From Bristol's crowded wharf to London's princely shores.

More westward when we cast our wandering eyes,
Level as ocean's bed the champaign lies:
While, like some promontory's rugged brow,
Proud Badbury's height o'erlooks the plain below,
Where, in yon Saxon camp, the mill its sails
Spreads to the wind, and courts the rising gales.
Beneath how open lies the spacious scene!
No lofty mountains envious intervene;
But o'er the extended lawns our fancies stray,
Till lost in hazy mists they fade away;
By faint degrees the distant prospect dies,
And the blue landscape melts into the skies.

Where gently Cole's pellucid waters glide,
Here Fairford rears her tower with conscious pride;
Whose windows, with historic painting dight,
Attract the curious traveller's wondering sight:
And there, conspicuous 'mid the lawny glade,
Fair Cirencester spreads her ample shade.
Hail happy seat! whose twilight glooms among
Full many a bard has rais'd the tuneful song.
Grows not an oak his hundred arms who spreads
O'er the gay verdure of thy fruitful meads;
Sighs not a grotto to thy murmuring gales,
Nor flows a fountain through thy winding vales,
But seems a classic influence to diffuse,
To Science dear, and haunted by the Muse:
Who oft as morning pours her misty ray,
Or fades the glimmering beam of parting day,
Explores each nodding grove, and every plain,
Sacred to her and all her favorite train.
These scenes could Addison's chaste notes inspire;
Here Pope harmonious struck his silver lyre;
Caught 'midst these solemn shades the glorious plan,
'To vindicate the ways of God to man.'
Arbuthnot here, and Swift, with useful art,
Rear'd Satire's dreaded scourge, or steel'd her dart:
Here Prior the Graces form'd thy softer lay
And taught the moral strain to blameless Gay;
Each pleas'd the Master's praises to engage,
The famed Mæcenas of that happier age.

After such bards, O Bathurst, wilt thou deign
To mark the notes of my inglorious strain?
Shall I presume in these degenerate days
To form one humble verse to Bathurst's praise?
Yes, thou wilt deign my artless notes to hear,
Wilt to my strain inglorious bend thine ear;
And as thy patronage, with noontide ray,
Bade to full vigor shoot the verdant bay,
Taught it the storms of Envy to deride,
And spread it's waving boughs with summer pride;
So thy declining beam with milder power
Shall shed it's influence on the autumnal flower.

O blest old man! on thy thrice happy head
Her choicest gifts has smiling Fortune shed;
Has been for once from taste capricious free,
And true to virtue's cause in favoring thee.
As Anna's hand around thy youthful brow
Thy country's fairest honors taught to grow;
So now, while Justice bids exulting Fame
Tell to succeeding times her Apsley's name,
Marking the source from whence his merit flows,
A fresher wreath thy grateful Prince bestows.
Meantime, disarm'd of all his hostile rage,
Lenient on thee descends the weight of Age;
While still thy soul preserves her wonted power,
To charm the letter'd or the social hour:
No sharp Disease attends his gentle reign,
Nor palsied Indolence nor wasting Pain,
But healthful through the woods thy footsteps stray,
Where thy own oaks their gloomy shade display:
For to thy lot of all mankind is given
That joy peculiar by indulgent heaven,
To see, while round the barbarous hand of taste
Deforms the grove, and lays the forest waste,
O'er each uncultur'd hill, and barren glade,
Thy rising thickets spread unusual shade,
And, in their full luxuriance dress'd, display
Their waving foliage to the face of day.

May thy example Britain's lords inspire!
O may they catch from thee the patriot fire!
Then shall the Dryads, and their sprightly train,
Rove o'er the extent of many a barren plain:
O'er the bleak waste, where dreary heath and skies
Fatigue the sight, the forest then should rise;
Again on Windsor's heights the woods be seen,
And all her sable hills be cloth'd with green;
Her russet mountains send their oaks once more
To waft destruction to some hostile shore.

What tho' Britannia's plains manur'd with care
Refuse the plants of every soil to bear;
What though no olive grow among her vales,
No citron groves perfume her balmy gales;
Though India's spicy forests are denied,
Nor spreads Judea's palm her leafy pride;
Yet her thick woods unnumber'd trees produce,
Sacred at once to ornament and use.
With verdant beech her towering hills are spread,
And Scotia's pine erects her gloomy head;
The shapely fir, that graced Olympus' brow,
Deigns o'er her heights to wave her silver bough;
And, holy Lebanon, thy cedars rise,
Hang o'er her cliffs, nor dread her northern skies;
The elm, and pliant ash, a vigorous train,
Deck with resplendent green the smiling plain;
The bending willow o'er the marshy glade
And shining poplar shed a trembling shade;
And many a hardy plant is wafted o'er,
To grace her forests from the Atlantic shore,
Whose branches, rising from the kindred soil,
Mix with her trees, and pay the planter's toil.
Here too, matur'd by many rolling years,
Above the rest her native oak appears;
Whose giant limbs extend her noblest boast,
Pride of her groves, and bulwark of her coast.

Sure when the Druid train with awful rite
In pious orgies past the dreary night;
While, as their steps the hallow'd trunk surround,
The mystic misletoe their foreheads bound;
They meant to teach their sons succeeding race,
To venerate the groves that deck'd the place.
O ever on Britannia's grateful breast,
Unhurt by time, this image be impress'd!
Still may her heart that sacred tree adore,
Which drives Invasion from her peaceful shore:
So shall each storm of war, whose fatal sway
Speeds o'er her neighbouring realms it's bloody way,
Break like the baffled storm against her coast,
It's force unheeded, and it's fury lost;
As her own oak defies the headlong course
Of warring winds, and mocks the tempest's force.

Nor does fair Albion view with envious eye
The ripe productions of a southern sky.
Let the rich vineyard spread it's purple stores
O'er Gallia's coasts, and Lusitania's shores;
Where with hard hands the tawny peasants press
The swelling grape, a foreign board to bless:
Though 'neath our rougher heaven the docile vine
Around the lofty elm refuse to twine,
Yet has Pomona with no niggard hand
Her blushing orchards scatter'd o'er the land;
Whose ruddy fruits a generous stream produce
Strong as the cluster'd grape's inspiring juice.
Our humble vales the hop's green tendrils grace,
Clasping their stays in many a close embrace;
These to the bearded barley's harvest join'd,
By skill concocted, and with care refin'd,
A liquor yield, that Britain's sons draw forth
Mantling, and bright, the vintage of the north!
Which crowns the humble and the haughty board,
And chears alike the Peasant and the Lord;
Regales o'erwearied Labor at his toil,
And teaches fainting Industry to smile.
The thankful swain beholds the goblet shine,
Nor envies other lands their rosy wine,
Where slavish hinds with skilful hands prepare
The luscious beverage, which they must not share.
Refresh'd with this, Britannia's sons sustain
The keenest labors of the toilsome plain;
Nor, when the hours of work are past, employ
The vacant eve in gay luxurious joy,
Trill the loose air, or beat the echoing ground
To the soft flute, or tabor's sprightly sound;
But with knit limbs on rougher pastime bent,
They strain their sinews to their full extent;
Direct the quoit, or hurl the massy bar,
Or wage with brawny arms the sportive war.
In other realms, to humble swains unknown,
While Honor fires Nobility alone,
Our meanest Peasants share the generous flame,
And learn to glow at Freedom's hallow'd name;
Hence have they, led by Glory's call afar,
With hosts unnumber'd wag'd the unequal war;
Hence Cressy's field, Poitier's victorious fray;
Hence glorious Agincourt, thy wonderous day!
Hence Europe sav'd near Danube's distant flood;
And Blenheim's ramparts red with Gallic blood!
And hence those manly deeds renew'd again
On Abraham's heights, and Minden's trophied plain.

O ne'er may fell Corruption's tainting force
Poison of all our pride this happy source!
To false Refinement with destructive pains
Polish the manly roughness of our swains!
Exil'd from other realms, while here alone
Fair Liberty erects her holy throne,
The exulting train, her glorious gifts who share,
Will scorn of foreign crowds the suppliant air:
Who sees our clowns obsequious, sees the day
That gives our Glory and our Rights away.
In vain would laws guard Freedom's sacred shrine,
If Freedom's sons their native worth resign;
In vain shall Fraud attempt, or Force alarm,
While Valor steels the breast, and Labor nerves the arm.

The sultry hours are past, and Phœbus now
Spreads yellower rays along the mountain's brow:
The broken clouds unnumber'd tints display,
Drinking the effulgence of departing day;
And to our eyes present a radiant view,
Italia's purpled ether never knew.
The eastern prospect now attracts the sight
Where every shrub reflects the setting light:
With ruddy flash the cottage casement gleams,
And shines the waving wood with golden beams.

Where Isis stream divides yon distant glade,
Lo Nuneham rises 'midst the sombre shade;
While at her feet, as the clear current bends,
The lofty spire of Abingdon ascends.
Hygeia and her Oread train inhale
On Radley's site the pure ethereal gale.
On Cherbury's ramparts, urg'd by peaceful toil,
The shining plowshare turns the fruitful soil,
Where erst the peasant saw with anxious fear
The gleaming falchion and protended spear.
On Hinton's verdant brow the lofty trees
Tremble obedient to the evening breeze:
And Pusey her inverted dome surveys,
In the smooth stream that through her meadows strays.
See Buckland here her lovely scenes display,
Which rude e'er while in rich disorder lay,
Till Taste and Genius with corrective hand
Spread culture's nicest vesture o'er the land,
Rang'd every object in it's fairest light,
And call'd each latent beauty to the sight;
Cloth'd the declining slope with pendant wood,
And o'er the sedge-grown meadow pour'd the flood,
While manly Execution's active arm
Wakes to existence each ideal charm.
In the deep gloom of yon impervious bowers,
There Carswell hides her hospitable towers:
And at our feet where the rich pastures spread,
Lo Wadley rears her renovated head,
As art and active labor, join'd, improve
Each fair extended lawn and rising grove,
New scenes unfolding still on every side
Declare the affluence industry supply'd.

Blush! blush, ye sons of power! who proudly stand
Rich in the ruins of your native land;
Who every virtue, every right have sold,
For royal smiles, or ministerial gold;
Proud on your breasts a glittering badge to bear,
True honor hates, and freedom scorns to wear,
If worth, or shewn in peace, or prov'd in war,
Shed not a livelier lustre than the star?
Blush, ye fell race! who cross'd the briny flood,
Foes to mankind! and prodigal of blood!
With wanton rage to waft pale famine o'er
From Albion's cliffs to sad Bengala's shore:
Where starving myriads on the cruel train
Call'd Justice' awful sword, but call'd in vain;
Till Britain's senate, fir'd with patriot flame,
Resolv'd to vindicate her country's fame,
Bade England's laws to Ganges' banks extend,
And equal rule the Indian's life defend.
Though Grecia's orders grace your marble dome,
Though blooms the fairest landscape where ye roam,
Yet sacred Justice shall your seats pervade,
And Conscience haunt you through the deepest shade:
Whilst him whose wealth the arts of Commerce raise,
Mankind shall honor, and the Muse shall praise.
But if like thine, O Charles! his generous heart,
The smiles of fortune to his friends impart;
If heaven, that gave him affluence, gave him too
A soul to every social duty true;
Virtue with joy shall chant his favor'd name,
And give a wreath beyond the power of fame;
While all who know his worth exulting find
That fortune, blessing him, has blest mankind.

Lo Shellingford, an Stanford, 'midst the train
Of hoary trees that skirt yon level plain,
The lofty tower and pointed spire display
Conspicuous, glittering in the western ray:
And on yon hill it's distant head that rears,
Lockinge aloft thy shining dome appears!
Beneath, what woodland nymph with artful hand
The vaulted grotto's sparry roof has plann'd,
Taught the rude arch with pendant ore to shine,
And rang'd each bright production of the mine?
No sylvan Goddess this retreat can claim,
Form'd by the fancy of a mortal dame;
Who from yon humble vale's irriguous bed
To the high cliff the crystal fountain led;
Thence bade in murmurs soft the lucid wave
Pour it's fair current through the craggy cave;
Where every Naiad 'midst the rocks reclin'd,
Approves what Taste and Wymondesold design'd.

Ye envious trees! why does your leafy pride,
Stretch'd o'er the bending valley, Wantage hide?—
Sure every Muse and every Grace will join
With votive hands the fairest wreath to twine;
Cull with assiduous toil the choicest flowers,
And hang the brightest garland on her towers:
While grateful Liberty shall love the shade,
Her guardian chief where fostering Virtue laid;
And Britain's Genius bless the hallow'd earth
Which gave her patriot king, her Alfred, birth.

That equal laws these happy regions share
Springs, Prince benign! from thy paternal care.
Through the dark mists which Error o'er mankind
Tenfold had spread, and wrap'd the human mind;
At thy command fair Science shot her light,
And chas'd the horrid gloom of Gothic night;
To Isis' brink the wandering Muses led,
And taught each drooping art to lift her head:
Hence with the warrior laurel's blood-stain'd bough
That binds with sacred wreath thy conquering brow,
Wisdom's illustrious Goddess interweaves
With mystic hand her olive's peaceful leaves.
Thine is the gift that here no alien crew,
To venal interest more than justice true,
Judge with unpitying eye misfortune's cause,
With cruel power enforcing cruel laws;
But watchful Themis o'er each freeman rears
That sacred shield, the judgment of his peers,
By which protected Britain's dauntless train
See factions rage, and tyrants frown, in vain.
O dear-bought Freedom! if thy holy flame
Burns in our souls, nor rests an empty name;
If for thy sake the kindling warmth we feel
Unwarp'd by selfish views or party zeal;
May we with wakeful, nay with jealous, eye
Regard this hallow'd source of Liberty;
This once attack'd, on which her rights depend,
May every breast the guardian power defend;
Each patriot tongue assert our injur'd laws,
And pour resistless sounds in Freedom's cause;
Each patriot arm, should eloquence be vain,
Lift the dread falchion on the embattled plain;
May we with more than ancient zeal pursue
Rights, Rome and boasted Athens never knew;
Guard this Palladium with our latest breath,
Or perish with it in a glorious death!

Where from the fertile plains yon hills arise,
Quit the low vales and shoot into the skies,
Carv'd rudely on the pendant sod, is seen
The snow-white courser stretching o'er the green:
The antique figure scan with curious eye,
The glorious monument of victory!
There England rear'd her long dejected head,
There Alfred triumph'd, and invasion bled.
Long had proud Denmark stretch'd the iron hand
Of harsh oppression o'er the groaning land;
The freeborn swains, to mean subjection broke,
In silent sorrow bore the opprobrious yoke:
Their virtuous prince to wilds and forests driven,
No shed to screen him from the inclement heaven,
Hears all around his subjects cries ascend,
And sees them sink unable to defend;
Chas'd by his foes disguis'd he treads the plain,
A wretched exile in his own domain!
Much hardship borne, and many dangers past,
On suffering Virtue Fortune smiles at last:
Arous'd to vengeance by his people's woe
He frowns defiance on the insulting foe;
Leaves every fear and every doubt behind.—
High waves the Saxon banner to the wind!
Fir'd at the sight, the country far and wide
Pours forth her veteran sons on every side;
His trusty bow each hardy yeoman draws,
Or lifts his shining brand in Freedom's cause:
Freedom resounds from each determin'd voice,
Freedom the first, and death the second, choice;
Courage and Conquest o'er their helmets play;
The invader trembled at the dread array;
Onward resistless march'd the impetuous host;
And fell Oppression fled the hostile coast:
The exulting steed in conquering standards flies,
While Denmark's raven screaming quits the skies;
And hence the Victor's jocund hands portray'd
The Saxon ensign on yon verdant glade.

His country freed, discerning Alfred saw
How vain the civil bond of social law;
Of crowds untrain'd how weak the hasty aid,
When force prevails, and barbarous hosts invade.
That policy which guards each modern throne
Was then to Europe's bounded kings unknown;
No artful statesman then with treacherous breast
Arm'd half a people to enslave the rest.
With wiser care a rampart firm he plann'd,
To guard from future foes the happy land,
Bade Liberty her rash assailants brave,
And Freemen vindicate what Freedom gave.
He taught each sturdy laborer of the field
The sickle and the sword by turns to wield:
With chearful industry the generous swains
Till for their wealthy lords the peaceful plains;
Or, rous'd from rural toil by war's alarms,
Beneath their well-known banners rush to arms.
Let other realms where Freedom never smil'd,
O'eraw'd by rigor, or by fraud beguil'd,
See mercenary bands surround the throne,
Or safety seek from alien arms alone:
But shall not England blush for every son
Too proud to guard the rights his sires have won?
Rights, in whose cause full many a warrior stood,
By toil obtain'd, and seal'd with patriot blood!
Though envy frown, though venal millions blame,
Shall she not ever love her Chatham's name,
Who while on distant climes her rage he pour'd,
Prudent at home this best defence restor'd;
Her manly sons array'd with parent care,
Arous'd once more her manly youth to war,
And bade her breezy hills, and fruitful plains,
Send forth in arms again their native swains.
Lives there a man in this exulting isle,
Who sees our orchards bloom, our harvests smile,
Who every breath in perfect freedom draws,
His rights protected by the noblest laws;
Would wish to break the fence by wisdom plann'd,
And wrest the sword from every freeman's hand,
Wish to behold our bare defenceless coasts
Unarm'd, or guarded but by foreign hosts?
Dare thy strong powers O Eloquence employ!
This best internal bulwark to destroy?—
Though every guile of specious Fraud he use,
'Mid listening crowds his Poison to infuse;
Try every Wile his curs'd Designs to hide:—
Superior Truth his Cunning shall deride,
Shall tear each paltry mean Disguise away,
Expose his Rancor to the face of day;
His selfish Views to all mankind impart,
And shew the Traitor graven on his heart.

Now turn your eyes and from the mountain's brow
Direct them to the cultur'd vale below;
How rich the spacious plains that stretch between!
How ripe the harvests, and the meads how green!
The herds in myriads o'er the pastures throng;
And mingled lowings break each rural song.
Where e'er with patient care the laborer's hand
Guides the sharp plow-share through the fertile land,
The farmers see the produce crown their toil,
Eye the rich scene, and bless the happy soil.

Soon shall the yellow wealth whose swelling grains
The stalk low bending hardly now sustains,
Stor'd in the barn with jocund labor, yield
To every rural sport the uncumber'd field.
The pointer then shall o'er the stubbled vale
Range unconfin'd, and catch the tainted gale:
The hound's quick scent, or greyhound's eager view,
O'er the smooth plain the timid hare pursue;
Then swelling on the burthen'd breeze afar,
Shall burst the tumult of the woodland war;
While rush the daring youth with breathless speed
To see the wily fox unpity'd bleed.
Let not the Muse the active toil despise,
Or from the chace avert her angry eyes:
Though gentle Shenstone deem'd the hunter's throat
Drown'd with it's clamorous strain the lyric note:
Though pensive Thomson, indolently laid
Beneath the silver willows trembling shade,
Baiting with cruel art the treacherous hook,
To lure the guiltless inmates of the brook,
Blame, as his hands the barbed weapon draw
From the mute wretches agonizing jaw,
Those, who in manly sport with frantic joy
The rapid tenants of the wood destroy:
Yet has the warbling lyre in many a strain
Describ'd the active pleasures of the plain.
The moral bard of Windsor's royal groves
Sings of the hunter, and his toil approves;
Even he, whose verse to mortal eyes has given
The wrath of angels, and the wars of heaven,
Joyful has listen'd to the hounds, and horn,
Rousing with chearful peal the slumbering morn:
Nor shall with brow averse the rural Muse
To Somerville the Poet's meed refuse,
Whose skilful notes each sylvan pastime trace,
And teach the various mazes of the chace;
Whence livelier thoughts and lighter spirits rise,
Strength knits the limbs and courage fires the eyes,
Glows in the ruddy cheek a purer blood,
And rolls the tide of life a sprightlier flood.

Propitious now on Britain's favor'd isle
Though white-rob'd Peace and jocund Plenty smile;
Though while her wrath on hostile shores is hurl'd,
Unhurt she sits amidst a warring world;
Say, have the tranquil scenes which now we see
Been ever such, and must they ever be?
Ah! may not Civil Discord stalk again
With bloody footsteps o'er her ravag'd plain?
Or fell invasion waste her fenceless coast,
Her guardian Fleet by adverse tempests toss'd?
Then, if our country's bleeding breast demands
The aid of dauntless breasts, and ready hands,
To the stout race who haunt the hill and dale
Will nothing then the hunter's toil avail?—
While round her feeble votary's drooping brow
What verdant wreaths shall letter'd sloth bestow?
In vain may Patriot Zeal the bosom warm,
If pale disease unnerve the willing arm:
While the bold youth whose hardy frame defies
The force of fighting winds and angry skies;
Who braving winter's rage pursues the chace,
The sleety tempest rattling in his face;
Or when the dog-star shoots his sultry rays,
Rages unconquer'd by the scorching blaze;
Shall, if he lead Britannia's rustic train,
To the dread conflict of some bloody plain,
Shrink not, though summer suns their beams unfold,
Or biting frosts intensely pierce with cold,
But Freedom's call with stedfast march pursue
Through noontide's sultry heat, or midnight's chilling dew.

Too much the enervate bards of modern days
Attune to slothful ease their moral lays;
The seats of ancient lore their favorite theme,
Lyceum's shade, and hoary Academe;
Forgetful that the stadium's hardy toil,
The boxer's cæstus, and the wrestler's oil,
Sent Grecia's heroes forth a vigorous train,
Learn'd in the schools and victors on the plain.
The Athenian sage, his Country's pride and shame,
Is known to martial, as to letter'd, fame;
Now did he sooth with truth's divine behest,
Young Alcibiades, thy fervent breast,
Now through the paths of war thy steps he led,
And rear'd his guardian buckler o'er thy head,
And he, whose mind with active virtue fraught,
Practis'd each lesson that his master taught,
Not satisfied of love divine to dream,
By the still margin of Ilissus' stream,
Or in warm Fancy's vivid tints to draw
Ideal forms of Polity and Law;
The illustrious Chief who led his glorious band
O'er barren rocks, and deserts black with sand,
Still undismay'd amid surrounding woes,
Still scattering terror on unnumber'd foes.
Learn'd 'midst the echoing forests to sustain
The toils of war and all her horrid train;
Then taught, descending to the embattled field,
Barbarian rage and Persian wiles to yield.

Let Luxury's vain sons with careless pride
The votaries firm of manly toil deride,
Wrap'd in inglorious sloth, let them despise
The noble thirst of glorious enterprise.
But shall the Muse, whose hand should point the road
Which leads o'er rugged steeps to fame's abode;
Whose voice should loudly chant each Hero's name,
To wake in other minds a kindred flame?—

Shall she inglorious now in siren lays
Lavish on harmless Indolence her praise;
Damp the strong flame that warms the noble breast,
And hush each generous passion into rest?
Shall she to those alone confine the song,
Who creep obscure life's tranquil vale along,
And blame the dauntless few who dare explore
The dangerous rocks of bold Ambition's shore;
Who tempt with venturous prow life's stormy seas,
And toil themselves to buy for others ease;
Unaw'd by tyrant power, or factious hate,
Who tread with blameless feet the paths of state;
Or pluck bight honor's sacred meed afar,
Undaunted, from the frowning front of war?
Well may with pious hand the indignant Muse
To many a Victor's brow the wreath refuse,
Well may she tear the laurel vainly spread
O'er many a King's and many a Warrior's head;
And curse a Cæsar's or a Cromwell's name,
Though erring myriads call their ravage fame.
But shall not they who conquer, or who die,
In the great strife of injur'd Liberty,
A tribute from the peaceful bard expect,
Sung by those Muses whom their swords protect?
Say cannot Greece and Rome their warriors bring,
To whom even Virtue's hand might strike the string?
Say cannot Albion, 'mongst whose sons we find
All that exalts and dignifies mankind;
Say cannot she afford such themes of praise
As well might grace the poet's chastest lays?
She can!—she can!—Her Alfred planning laws,
Her Godlike Hambden bleeding in their cause;
Guiding with uncorrupted hands the state
Her Walsingham in scorn of fortune great;
Her gallant Wolfe triumphant even in death,
While weeping Victory caught his parting breath;
Her Hawke, whose ardor rocks nor shoals could bar,
Nor the dread rage of elemental war,
While his bold fleet the Gaul's design explores,
Destroys his navy, and insults his shores;
Are themes whose force the coldest bard may fire,
To call forth rapture from his sounding lyre,
While Truth shall listen to the warbling strings,
And Reason vindicate what Fancy sings.

Enough, rash Muse! tempt not the arduous height
Which asks the Epic or Pindaric flight:
To the fair vale again reduce the lay,
Ere envious twilight snatch the scene away;
For evening's shades with deepening tint prevail,
And darkness soon shall wrap the misty dale.
Here Coleshill's towers demand their share of fame,
Proud of their site, and their great Artist's name;
There, shelter'd from the storm by bowering trees,
The milder charms of verdant Becket please.
What though her level lawn nor sinks, nor swells,
Forms rising hills, or hollow-winding dells;
Yet every friend to genuine taste, who roves
Or by her shining lakes or through her groves,
Shall see a Grace in every solemn shade,
And own that Beauty crowns each watery glade.
Let Taste capricious strive to charm the heart
With all the nice perplexities of art,
With toil immense a sickly scene produce
Trifling in ornament as void of use,
Bid Britain's hills Arabia's sweets perfume,
Bid in our vales Sabæan roses bloom,
Bid summer's fruits 'mid winter's frosts appear,
Force stubborn Nature and invert the year.
To blend utility with each design
The nobler praise, O Barrington! be thine;
The smooth canal whose ample sheet supplies
Food for the board, and pleasure to the eyes,
O'er the morass in shining volumes laid
Drains the moist surface of the rushy glade,
And where the marsh and frequent slough impede
The shatter'd carriage, and the floundering steed,
There the firm causeys form'd by useful care
O'er the deep vale the thankful traveller bear.

Contract the prospect now, and mark more near
Fair Faringdon her humble turret rear,
Where once the tapering spire conspicuous grew,
Till civil strife the sacred pile o'erthrew:
For as on hapless Stuart's ruin bent,
Against yon walls their lord his thunder sent,
And led with ruthless rage the hostile train,
While his own weeping Lares plead in vain;
The balls invade, with erring fury driven,
The hallow'd structure consecrate to heaven.
Such is alas the baleful fruit that springs
From factious subjects and oppressive kings!

Beneath yon roof by the cold pavement press'd,
My peaceful sires in solemn silence rest.—

Imagination flags her pinions here,
And o'er the marble drops the filial tear;
Here too the Muse prepares the votive verse,
The mournful tribute to a Parent's herse;—
O sacred Name! by every tie endear'd!
Lov'd by your friends, by all who knew rever'd.
How well you bore, to Freedom ever just,
This fertile County's delegated Trust,
The British Senate saw, when firm you stood,
Firm to fair Virtue, and your Country's good;
Friend to the worth from Patriot Zeal that springs,
No dupe to Faction, and no Slave to Kings.
How far your private merits could extend,
How kind a Father, and how warm a Friend,
My faultering voice would strive to sing in vain,
For gushing tears would choke the imperfect strain;
The force of words unequal to impart
The strong sensations of my heaving heart.

Here ever slumbering with the silent dead,
Thy daughter, glorious Hambden! rests her head.
Ah cruel mother! say, why does not here
Thy youthful Hambden press his early bier?
Why does no storied urn his worth proclaim,
Who shar'd his grandsire's virtues with his name?—
Untimely on a distant shore he died,
The wretched victim of a parent's pride.

Ye mourning Loves and Graces, aid the verse,
While I in plaintive notes his woes rehearse;
To these his native fields his wrongs relate,
The hapless story of a Lover's fate.
His youthful form could boast each manly grace,
Health strung his nerves, and beauty deck'd his face;
Ingenuous shame, and truth that scorns disguise,
Glow in his cheek, and sparkle in his eyes:
But ah! when manhood now with genial ray
Began to call his virtues into day,
Love! all controling Love! whose fatal power
Spares the rank weed to crop the blushing flower,
Nip'd all his ripening graces in their bloom,
And early mark'd his merits for the tomb.

An aged swain, whose lowly cottage stood
Where 'midst the valley spreads yon rising wood,
A lovely daughter had, whose matchless form
The frozen heart of sapless age might warm:
With falling snow her polish'd skin could vie,
Her lips the coral sham'd, the jet her eye:
There love and modesty united speak,
And opening roses paint her glowing cheek;
The soft redundance of her hair behind
Flow'd loose, and careless wanton'd in the wind;
Such powerful charms the youthful Hambden fire,
He saw perfection, and he felt desire:
The growing passion every thought employs,
Disturbs his peace, and poisons all his joys.
Maria's image ever in his breast
His daily ease destroys and nightly rest;
From his wan cheek the lively crimson flies,
And smiling health forsakes his sinking eyes:
No more his well-breath'd hounds, at early dawn
Ranging, dash eager o'er the dewy lawn;
Now sad he wanders through the sylvan glades,
And sighs responsive to the lonesome shades,
Each Echo answers to his mournful tale,
And pensive numbers float on every gale.

But, as increasing Love resistless grew,
From his torn bosom vanquish'd Prudence flew;
To fair Maria's feet he sighing came,
Confess'd her empire and avow'd his flame;
Soon his soft words the beauteous virgin move,
And secret Hymen crown'd his eager love.
Now peace and happiness appear to spread
Their flattering pinions o'er his favor'd head;
Love every joy and every charm supplies,
And marks each golden moment as it flies.
Ah hapless pair! the short-liv'd bliss enjoy,
Soon shall impending clouds your calm destroy;
Even now, with more than mortal vengeance red,
The tempest bursts on each devoted head.

Ten quick-revolving moons had roll'd away,
And smiling transport crown'd each happy day;
When various symptoms to the world disclose
Maria soon must feel a mother's throes:
The busy neighbours round the tale proclaim,
And scowling Envy triumphs in her shame.
At length the generous youth, distress'd to hear
Each clownish tongue her reputation tear,
Throws with indignant scorn the veil aside,
And owns the fair Maria for his bride.
Soon as his cruel mother heard the tale,
Swift grows her cheek with trembling anger pale;
In vain his youth, in vain her beauties plead,
Instant revenge pursues the imprudent deed;
No worth could please to peasants when allied,
No charms disarm the force of female pride.—
Say did thy Father such distinctions find,
Amidst the equal race of human kind,
When his keen sword he drew in Freedom's cause,
And bled to vindicate her trampled laws?

While rage and hate the ruthless matron fire,
She bears the fatal tidings to his sire,
Tries every art a father's wrath to move,
Awake his vengeance, and subdue his love.
With savage cruelty they now divide
The hapless Hambden from his weeping bride:
She rends her hair, and beats her breast in vain,
Torn from her arms he seeks the distant main.
It chanc'd that Britain's hardy sons prepare
To pour on haughty Spain their naval war.—
Brief let me be, the winds propitious blew,
Proud o'er the waves the gallant navy flew;
Britain aloft her bloody ensign spread,
Iberia saw, she trembled, and she fled;
While her resistless foes exulting bore
The spoils of India to their native shore.—
Ah gallant youth! nor native shore, nor friend,
Shall e'er to thee their welcome sight extend;
Far on a hostile coast thy body lies,
Wash'd by rude waves, or scorch'd by sultry skies.

When sad Maria heard the tale of woe,
From her full eyes no gushing torrents flow;
No current gives her burthen'd breast relief,
But pale she sullen sits in silent grief;
Till her heart bursting with redoubled sighs,
She calls her much lov'd Hambden's name, and dies.
The haughty parents, then alas too late!
Mourn their unhappy son's disastrous fate;
Grieve for the woes their fatal rage supply'd,
Tear their gray locks, and curse their foolish pride;
Pour tears of anguish o'er Maria's grave,
And weep the victims they refus'd to save.

Turn from these solemn scenes the averted head,
The awful mansions of the silent dead!
To where the green-rob'd Dryads joyful rove
'Midst the thick foliage of yon echoing grove.—
Ah blissful seats! beneath whose pleasing shade
My Childhood and my Youth delighted stray'd;
Here first my eyes beheld the gems that shine
Bright and resplendent from the classic mine;
While as I gaz'd my youthful bosom glow'd,
And from my tongue untutor'd numbers flow'd.
Here far from every selfish passion's reach,
Which the world's dangerous school will often teach,
I pour'd to real Love one artless tear,
And breath'd at Friendship's shrine the vow sincere.
The Muses here their grateful offerings pay,
And dedicate to you their closing lay;
Nor ask a brighter wreath to grace their song,
Than verdant grows these waving woods among.
Blest, happy Regions! seats of joy and ease!
Which still have pleas'd me, and must ever please;
Should e'er a Tyrant's Sway, or Faction's Roar,
Drive Liberty from this her native shore;
Though following her, I'd rather friendless go
Through Afric's burning wastes, or Zembla's snow,
Than haunt these much-lov'd shades and favorite springs,
Robb'd of the joys that independence brings:
Yet should I wander to a fairer plain
Than thought can paint, or youthful fancy feign;
Still should I load with sighs the reckless wind,
Still weep those darling scenes I left behind.
If this be weakness! from my beating heart
O never!—never! may that weakness part!—
Let the proud Stoic with disdainful eyes
The thought of local prejudice despise,
And boast in every soil and every air
Where Virtue florishes, his country there;
But ask the generous train whose bosoms beat
With gentle feelings, as with patriot heat;
Would not to see each long-frequented shade
Low on the earth by hostile vengeance laid,
On Albion's desolated fields to gaze,
See her towers fall, her splendid cities blaze;
Though every friend had left the ruin'd coast,
And weeping Freedom mourn'd her empire lost,
Still with new rage their kindling breasts inspire,
And bid their bosoms glow with fiercer fire.
But far from us such sad events shall be,
If aught the Muse prophetic can foresee;
Still Peace and heavenly Liberty shall smile,
With wonted sweetness on their long-lov'd isle;
Pale Tyranny avoid the hostile shore,
And Faction lift her scorpion scourge no more;
Each freeborn swain still reap with thankful hand,
Secure from wrongs, the produce of his land:
And lovely Faringdon! my voice shall still
Or in thy groves, or on this healthful hill,
In rustic numbers sing the happy plains,
Where Freedom triumphs, and where Brunswick reigns.

As when the stream by casual fountains fed
First gushes from the cavern's mossy bed,
Dashing from rock to rock, the scanty rill
With no luxuriant herbage clothes the hill;
Yet when increas'd the ampler current flows,
Each bordering mead with deeper verdure glows,
It's lingering waves through painted vallies glide,
And Health and Plenty deck it's verdant side;
Till swell'd by wintry storms and sweeping rains,
If chance it's rising deluge drown the plains,
The stagnate waters choke the sedgy soil,
And the fond hopes of future harvests foil:
So first Refinement in it's infant hour
Sheds o'er the savage tribe an useless power,
Nor can it's feeble energy impart
Or grace or softness to the human heart;
But when in Reason's moderate bounds confin'd
It's plenteous streams invigorate the mind,
The rising Arts their genial influence share,
And all the social Virtues flourish there;
Till Luxury's polluting torrents roll
A flood destructive o'er the enervate soul,
And to the flowers of generous growth succeeds
The baneful progeny of Vice's weeds.

Man, ere by rules of civil compact taught,
(Uncouth his form, and unimprov'd his thought,)
O'er the rude waste a selfish savage goes,
Nor mutual cares, nor mutual kindness knows,
How to subsist his Being's sole employ,
Strength all his art, and rapine all his joy;
And where a steril soil, and frowning heaven,
Are to his race by ruthless Nature given,
Compell'd by chace his scanty food to gain,
Pierc'd by sharp winds, or drench'd by chilling rain,
While from the assailing climate, rigid grown,
The alter'd fibres lose each nicer tone,
Long is the torpid soul by want oppress'd,
And dawning Reason slowly lights the breast.
But when his milder, happier portion, lies
In kindly regions, and more genial skies,
Where balmy sweets the ambient gales dispense,
And native Luxury enchants the sense,
Where Earth disdaining cultivation's care
Bids her free sons the luscious banquet share,
And the thick groves a roof sufficient spread
To shield from dews and heat the slumbering head;
Press'd by no want, in leisure's vacant hours
The expanding Mind perceives her latent powers,
And from the silken air the nerves derive,
To each sensation tremblingly alive,
Pleasures uncheck'd by labor's stern control,
And bear each finer feeling to the soul.

Then as reclining on the fertile soil,
Unknown the want of culture's stubborn toil,
His grazing charge the gentle herdsman tends,
And o'er the vale his eye delighted bends,
Ten thousand lovely images suggest
The dreams of Fancy to his tranquil breast,
The female form his soften'd heart inspires
With milder thoughts and more refin'd desires,
Sweet notes of rural courtship fill the grove,
And flow the tender strains of pastoral love:
Or as his eyes the nightly ether view,
And trace the heavenly concave's cloudless blue,
He learns to know what different signs appear
To guide and regulate the varied year;
Observes the changeful Moon alternate show
Her orb full-beaming, and her waning bow,
And marks the inferior Planets as they roll
In stated periods round the shining pole.

Hence every charm that polish'd Nature knows,
All that eludes or weakens human woes
First dawn'd in regions where the solar beam
Pours with superior force the effulgent stream,
And to our view the infant Arts arise
Beneath the warmth of Asia's fostering skies,
Or on Arabia's happier coasts inhale,
Loaded with sweets, the aromatic gale,
Or with attentive ear the fables learn
Of mystic lore, by Nile's redundant urn;
Till gently wafted by the favoring breeze
O'er the smooth surface of Ionian seas,
The smiling train their lovely offspring bore
To rise and flourish on the Grecian shore.

Inventive Fancy emulous to raise
For Worth deceas'd the monument of praise,
To bid Fame live beyond this transient breath,
And snatch heroic deeds from icy death,
With filial love the frail memorial rear'd,
And the heap'd fragment mark'd the tomb rever'd:
But vain the pious care!—Oblivion's sway
Soon swept each undistinguish'd name away,
The story of renown no breast retains,
And unexplain'd the mouldering pile remains.
Then ripening Genius sought the Muses aid,
And rustic Verse it's opening powers display'd;
Though no soft grace of polish'd diction shine,
Though harsh the cadence, and though rude the line,
Yet strengthen'd Memory felt the useful art
That fix'd the favorite legend in the heart;
The hoary Sage the sure advantage saw,
And in rough strains promulg'd his simple law,
In the short verse the moral rule compress'd,
And early form'd to truth the docile breast.
The infant warblings of the Muses lyre
Subdue the will perverse, and passion dire;
Their gloomy wilds the savage race forsook
As Orpheus sung, and milder manners took,
And charm'd to order by Amphion's lay
The forms of civil life mankind obey.

As bursts the beam of day through clouded skies
At length with light ethereal Letters rise,
To chain the fleeting sound their magic taught,
Portray'd the Idea, and embodied thought;
Blest, happiest, privilege to mortals given!
Which wings the aspiring soul from Earth to Heaven.
Whether progressive skill the art acquir'd,
Or power divine the sacred gift inspir'd;
Whether a mere invention of the Mind
As opening Science civiliz'd mankind,
Or a peculiar mark of heavenly grace
At first bestow'd on Israel's favor'd race
Though Reason doubt;—from morn to setting day
The various tribes of human-kind survey,
And own that all who following Wisdom's plan
Fulfil those duties that distinguish Man;
All who extend their penetrating sight
Beyond the reach of animal delight,
This blessing from one common fountain share,
Though ting'd with ignorance, or refin'd by care:
Even Greece where letter'd Science prosper'd best
It's oriental origin confess'd,
Fix'd by the fabled Author Asia's claim,
And mark'd it's source by Cadmus' mystic name.

As the ripe feed when sown with skilful toil
Soon feels the influence of a friendly soil,
With rapid shoots the planter's care repays,
And high in air it's waving boughs displays;
So Greece beheld the ingenuous Arts expand
In her congenial air, and kindly land,
While Freedom by the insulting despot driven
From Southern climes, and Asia's warmer heaven,
Fix'd with delight her European throne
Oe'r favor'd realms, and regions all her own.
Cheer'd by her sway each slumbering Muse awakes,
And from her smiles superior vigor takes:
Now Poesy with animating fire
Throws her bold fingers o'er the Epic wire,
And Lyric Extasy exulting sings
Borne on the Theban eagle's towering wings,
While the chaste Drama rising by degrees,
By care successive polish'd, learns to please,
From the rude outlines of the mimic art
First shewn by Thespis in his wandering cart,
To the fam'd Bards whose labor'd scenes engage
The dumb attention of the Attic stage.

Soon every Science, every Art succeeds,
Happy to follow where a Sister leads.
Charm'd from her seats on Egypt's watery plain,
And freed from fabling Error's mystic chain,
Through the still gloom of Academus' shade
Philosophy with solemn footstep stray'd;
Bold Imitation still to Nature true
The perfect form from perfect models drew,
For ne'er were equall'd Grecia's lovely race
Or for the faultless shape, or beauteous face.
Music devoid of each capricious art
Touch'd with her sweetest melody the heart:
And Architecture plann'd, in awful state
The Dome with just proportion simply great,
Or nobly plain the Doric pile appear'd,
Or her light column soft Ionia rear'd,
Or Corinth bade her polish'd Temples rise
With ornamental grandeur to the skies.
With force united this illustrious train
Grac'd the loud forum, and the holy fane,
But chiefly were their magic charms combin'd
When the lov'd Drama fix'd the Athenian mind:
Whether the drops of generous pity spring
At the sad fate of Thebes' unhappy King,
Or glows the exulting heart with patriot flame
To hear the tale of Grecia's ancient fame,
On this delightful source of virtuous joy
The lavish Arts their choicest skill employ,
And all their various powers at once convene
To dress in gorgeous pomp the attractive scene.

Encourag'd thus by Freedom's favoring smiles,
While every Muse the listening ear beguiles,
While Wisdom grave, and polish'd Grace combine,
At once to form the Virtues, and refine,
Improvement spreads to life's more humble cares,
And Industry the happy influence shares:
Down the steep cliff, and o'er the craggy brow
Strong Agriculture drives his laboring plow,
And to the currents of the rising gale
Adventurous Commerce trusts her swelling sail;
To the bleak rock the cultur'd glebe succeeds,
Where waves the harvest and the vintage bleeds,
And the fraught vessel with her woven wings
The wealth of nations to Piræus brings.

Rous'd by those honors cull'd by Glory's hand
To dress the Victor on the Olympic sand,
With active toil each ardent stripling tries
To bind his forehead with the immortal prize;
Hence strength and beauty deck the Grecian race,
And manly labor gives them manly grace.—

Yet while the scenes of Nature and of Art
The perfect forms of elegance impart,
While Wisdom's sacred lore the bosom warms,
And brighter Virtue boasts her moral charms,
The bliss in social intercourse that lies
Unknown they lose, or knowing they despise,
Illiberal folly 'midst their mirth we find,
And savage grossness taints the noblest mind,
The genial board licentious sports beguile,
And sages woo the harlot's venal smile.
For the soft Sex whose mild enchanting power
With gentle pleasure cheers the festal hour,
Denied the banquet's temperate joys to share,
Are the mere drudges made of houshold care;
Hence faint the force of that refin'd desire
Which modest Beauty only can inspire.
To other paths diverted passion turns,
And with enthusiast ardor Friendship burns.—

Far be it from the virgin Muse to try
O'er that mysterious scene to throw her eye.
Enough for her, while every manly breast
She sees in Virtue's purest radiance dress'd,
Sees every heart, with patriot Glory warm,
Check the proud war, or perish in the storm,
To cry like Philip on that fatal plain
Where Victory wept the sacred Thebans slain,
Curs'd be the slanderous tongue that worth like this would stain.

Though some prevailing characters we trace
Through every nation of the Grecian race,
Though Superstition, Manners, Speech, the same,
One common origin to all proclaim;
Though when the different states assembled stood
By Pisa's shades, or fair Castalia's flood,
Where each time-hallow'd rite conspir'd to draw
On the full festival religious awe,
By the mix'd forms of mutual converse taught
The separate tribes congenial features caught;
Yet Greece no general bond of empire found
Which all her sons in one firm compact bound,
But each republic as it's fabric rose
Peculiar laws, peculiar customs chose.
Sparta, where royal power's divided sway
Alternate knew to govern and obey,
Where Kings and People equal rule restrain'd,
And rigid Law the only tyrant reign'd,
Saw grave Politeness spread her sober grace,
And Modesty suffuse the warrior's face:
No subtle reasoning mov'd her steady throng,
But every sentence clear, concise, and strong,
In artless guise the speaker's mind convey'd,
And simple language simple truths display'd:
No Luxury debauch'd her frugal train,
For public glory there, was private gain.
While Athens, where alike with frantic zeal
All aim'd by turns to guide the general weal,
For wide her blessings ample Freedom threw,
And every voice an equal suffrage knew;
Athens' beheld her sons forego their claim,
The substance quitting for the shadowy name,
And noisy Faction at Ambition's call
Usurp'd that empire which belong'd to all,
While specious Demagogues seduced the sense
With all the flowery tropes of eloquence,
And the free audience polish'd, and severe,
Mark'd each oration with a critic ear.
In vain might Prudence raise her warning voice
If soft persuasion won the public choice,
In vain it's aims might patriot care pursue
If one mistaken accent censure drew.
Awaken'd thus to every thrill of joy
While arts of elegance their thoughts employ,
Borne by the tide of eloquence along,
Mov'd by a tale, a fable, or a song,
Of their own delegated powers afraid,
Despising laws by their own suffrage made,
The fickle race impatient of control
Rush headlong onward to Corruption's goal:
What patriot sage to turn the current tries
Is doom'd to exile, or by poison dies,
And him they raise who impudent and loud
Inflames the passions of the giddy croud:
And though Invasion with remorseless hand
Spread flame and carnage o'er the groaning land,
The Theatre employs their sole debate,
And more they prize the Drama than the state:
If the fond scene present some favorite theme,
Lull'd by sweet Fancy's vain delusive dream,
Of Persia check'd and Greece preserv'd they boast
Though conquering Philip ravages their coast,
And Marathon's victorious deeds display
On the dread eve of Chæronea's day.

Of human glory thus how short the date!
Expence and Pride, on Wealth and Freedom wait,
And from her burthen'd lap Profusion throws
The seeds of growing Vice, and future woes.—
The fervent zeal of public spirit dead,
And patriot Virtue's manly influence fled,
The daring bands of freemen who defied
In fields of blood the Median Tyrant's pride,
Purchas'd, betray'd, divided, and o'erthrown,
Bend to a state their sires had hardly known.

Yet Science lov'd to breathe her favorite air,
Though Liberty was fled still linger'd there.
Even of those Chiefs who shar'd the unjust command
Which Philip and his greater son had plann'd,
Some brave descendants felt the Muses charms,
And sooth'd with liberal Arts usurping Arms;
Warm Patronage awhile with partial ray
Supply'd the loss of Freedom's genuine day,
And Genius consecrates to deathless fame
With grateful voice her Philadelphus' name.

Though mad Ambition soon with impious blow
Laid every fence of civil Virtue low,
And sunk in sloth, or petrified by fear,
No daring arm oppos'd her wild career,
Yet ne'er did abject Luxury's domain
O'er Grecia stretch her universal reign,
Or Asiatic Indolence dispense
That blasting torpor to each blunted sense,
Chill'd by whose touch the generous Purpose flies,
Droops Emulation, faded Glory dies,
While the corrupted heart each vice imbibes
That sinks mankind below the bestial tribes.

Religion, Language, Manners, though we find
Give one strong tincture to the Grecian mind,
Yet different Interest each republic draws,
Divided Claims, and independent Laws,
The neighbouring states eternal war alarms,
And ease invaded yields to manlier arms;
Whence strict the rules of discipline remain,
And firm their courage on the embattled plain.
Though by compulsion strong, and stronger art,
Philip could temporary peace impart,
With potent gold a shameful union bought
Which public Wisdom oft had vainly sought,
Short was the race by his Ambition run,
And short the glory of his conquering son;
Then as the spoils of empire to divide
Contending chiefs with impious ardor tried,
And Freedom bade some bolder states unite
To guard with ancient zeal her sacred right,
The doubtful conflict for a time call'd forth
The dormant relics of heroic worth,
Till every weak distinction swept away
By the full tide of Rome's superior sway,
Whate'er the stores of Grecian art supplied,
Serv'd but to swell the happier Victor's pride;
And haughty Luxury asham'd to own
O'er tributary realms a partial throne,
Attends the rising power by Fate design'd
To fix her boundless empire o'er mankind.

Lo! in the regions whence Favonius blows
A hardy race Hesperia's vales disclose:
With sinews firm the rugged offspring rise
And brave the force of less auspicious skies,
For freezing winds had erst Campania known,
And yellow Tiber worn an icy zone.
The sons of Rome ne'er felt the soft control
Of milky kindness stealing o'er the soul,
Nor did their nerves to pleasure's touch awake
Of gentler thoughts the mild impression take;
The rigid texture of their rougher frame
The dangerous glories of the field inflame;
To wage with sure success the bloody fight
Their favorite care, and war their sole delight.
Victors, or vanquish'd, by the example taught
They found new paths to conquest as they fought.
Triumphant Carthage vaunts her powers in vain
And claims the exclusive empire of the main,
Rome to the sea her ductile Genius turns,
And from her foe the means of Victory learns;
Repairs with wiser toil the ruin'd fleet,
And gains superior art from each defeat,
Her naval care with perseverance plies,
Till, by the course of long experience wise,
The watery war her perfect gallies dare,
And Libya's ancient splendor melts to air.
In vain to check these unremitting foes
Their studied Tactics Grecia's sons oppose,
Whose force compelling countless hosts to yield,
With Persia's bleeding Myriads strew'd the field:
The Legions active, disciplin'd, and fierce,
With varied shock the close-wedg'd Phalanx pierce,
And Freedom's noblest sons are doom'd by fate
The servile subjects of a foreign state.

Their country vanquish'd, still the arts remain,
Still learned Athens boasts her polish'd train;
The flowery garlands there they weave to bind
In pleasures roseate wreaths the Roman mind,
The joys of peace the haughty Victors learn,
And Greece exulting triumphs in her turn.
Though first they view with undiscerning eyes
Sculpture's fair grace, and Painting's glowing dyes,
Though Consuls by the piece the marble rate,
And the wrought brass is valu'd by the weight;
Yet soon their hearts the Muses sway confess'd
And powerful numbers sooth'd the warlike breast,
Each swelling bosom caught the generous fire,
And Roman fingers struck the Grecian lyre:
Not with that fierce delight, that sudden glow
Which from the genuine beams of Nature flow,
That burst of Harmony which pour'd along
The full luxuriance of the Epic Song!—

Matur'd by time their ripening Genius rose,
From the harsh lines of Ennius' measur'd prose
To strains on which the Muse enamour'd hung,
And drank each dulcet note from Maro's tongue.

But ne'er shall Imitation's loveliest charm
Like native Grace the raptur'd bosom warm,
This bright and awful as the beam of day,
That like the paler moon's reflected ray.
By no fallacious hues does Nature please,
But boldly gives the manners that she sees,
Not Truth in Fiction's splendid garb arrays,
But with free stroke the living form portrays,
Her Bards divine the real actions sing
Of the stern Hero, or the warrior King,
Or paint the life the amorous Shepherd leads
In the rich verdure of Sicilian meads,
While with the verse their heated Fancy weaves
Each sacred tale Mythology believes:
But Imitation with correcter hand
Fills but the outline that Invention plann'd,
With care retrenches each superfluous part,
Or adds the tinsel ornaments of art,
Describes the manners that she never knew,
And faintly copies what her Mistress drew;
Hence with assiduous step the Latian Muse
The march sublime of elder Greece pursues,
Content to glean with unremitting toil
The scatter'd produce of her happier soil.

And now the improving sons of Rome behold
The scenes of Attic elegance unfold,
Admire the fane by sculptur'd Nature graced,
And catch from every glance congenial taste:
The Capitol by conquering Consuls trod
Receives with friendly rite each marble God,
In bend majestic swells the Parian arch
Through which in solemn pomp the Victors march;
Rome with delight the pleasing toil pursues,
And emulates the beauties that she views,
Exults in arts and artists of her own,
Bids the warm canvass breathe, and animates the stone.

Happy had Rome adorn'd by spoils like these
Been satisfied with Grecian Arts to please!
But Asia's subject regions now disclose
The fatal sources of unnumber'd woes.—
Each delegated chief who us'd of yore
To guide the thundering battle's furious roar,
Bind the green laurel round his conquering brow,
And then return contented to the plow,
Now proudly stretches with rapacious hand
O'er plunder'd provinces his harsh command;
Loaded with wealth the stern Proconsuls come,
And eastern splendor dazzles wondering Rome.
Caught with the lustre of the shining ore
The charms of Poverty can please no more,
The ancient fame of frugal heroes dies,
And venal hopes, and venal passions rise;
The honest boast of Democratic pride
Is drown'd in dark Corruption's swelling tide,
And Freedom's awful rights are basely sold
For the vile barter of barbaric gold.
No more Rome's venerable Senate flings
Dismay and terror o'er usurping kings;
No more the injur'd Nations grateful see
Oppression tremble at her just decree;
No more her sword is drawn in Glory's cause
For rights betray'd, or violated laws:
The Tyrant buys impunity for vice,
And every public outrage has it's price:
Avarice can fix a giddy people's choice,
And servile legions arm at Faction's voice.
In vain a few with steady courage stood,
To stem the torrent of the whelming flood,
The selfish passions with insidious force
Of patriot worth had poison'd every source;
Still lawless power uprear'd her hydra head,
And Freedom was no more though Cæsar bled.

Intent the aims of faction to compleat,
Now smoother Cunning seiz'd Ambition's seat.—
A Youth unmov'd by pity or by rage,
As Manhood firm, yet cold as palsied Age,
Hiding in specious guile his cruel views,
The impious scheme with ceaseless toil pursues.
His wiles, the work of ages to destroy,
Severity and ease by turns employ;
Death's stern decrees, or friendship's milder call,
Allure the timid, or the bold appal:
The enchanting Muses, whose delightful art
Can bend the stubborn purpose of the heart,
His voice invokes to charm the attentive mind,
And hide the fetters that inslave mankind.
The Muses hear!—forgetful that their sway
Was first produced in Freedom's happier day
They hear, and mindless of their ancient worth,
Betray the parent power that gave them birth,
Adore the Author of their country's doom,
And seal the fate of Liberty and Rome.

After a dreadful scene of war and woes,
The brazen gates of two-faced Janus close,
The sad effects of civil discord cease,
And all a restless world is wrapp'd in peace.
By Actium's Victory stopp'd the fatal strife,
No more the dire proscription threatens life,
No more the bloody scroll of Death appears,
But Mercy's snowy garb Augustus wears.
The gentler Arts each harsher care beguile,
And Science grows beneath his fostering smile:
Around his throne the laughing Loves resort,
And own the influence of a peaceful court.
Pleasures refin'd that Grecia never knew
Croud to the sight, and bless the raptur'd view:
To the pert quaintness of Socratic wit,
Or the rude jests that lower manners fit,
To feasts where sage disputes the hours employ,
Or the loose revels of licentious joy,
Succeeds that intercourse of sweet delight,
Though gay not vicious, and though free polite,
Their mingled gifts where ease and mirth dispense,
Ease void of roughness, mirth restrain'd by sense:
And lovely Woman, though not taught to know
That public homage later days bestow,
With modest smiles domestic converse graced,
And soften'd by her looks each ruder taste.
Even Freedom though her sacred power was fled
O'er Manners yet a parting radiance shed,
On the warm heart was Virtue's form impress'd,
And dauntless Courage fir'd the warrior's breast.
The generous youth in Mars' gymnastic field
By manly sports his hardy sinews steel'd,
Curb'd the bold steed, the dusty conflict stood,
Or plung'd his glowing limbs in Tiber's flood,
Science a milder charm to Valor gave,
And Empire seem'd to polish, not enslave,
Rome equal Arms, superior Arts could boast,
And hardly deem'd her ancient Glory lost.

But short the light of Pleasure's transient gleam!
Soon Nature starting from the illusive dream
Shrinks back affrighted as her eyes survey
The horrid form of arbitrary sway.—
Monsters who built on vice their dreadful joy,
Proud of their crimes and happy to destroy,
Seiz'd the vast power that Freedom's sons resign'd,
And shook the rod of vengeance o'er mankind;
Life hung alone upon a tyrant's breath,
And each capricious frown awarded death.
Amid the waste of years though haply shine
A Titus, Trajan, or an Antonine,
The short-liv'd interval more strongly shews
The striking contrast of despotic woes.
What force can free the mind that Vice has chain'd,
Or clear the current if the fountain's stain'd?—
No distant regions happier hopes afford
Beneath the empire of a milder lord;
Fear still beholds where'er her eye she flings,
Subjected states, and tributary kings;
And Power o'ertakes the exile as he goes
O'er Libyan deserts, or through Scythian snows.

Condemn'd the endless scenes of blood to see,
While looks are watch'd, and hardly thought is free,
In Rome's sad inmates, now a wretched race,
No more the marks of ancient worth we trace,
In the dull soul, a stupid, lifeless void,
Rous'd by no action, by no cares employ'd,
Each fading Energy of Virtue dies,
As droops the plant beneath inclement skies.
The cohorts from the frontier distant far
In slothful ease forget the toils of war,
Or from their camp with factious arms o'erawe
The weak remains of Freedom and of Law,
O'er Senates with tumultuous force prevail,
And set the Empire of the world to sale.
The Muse no more with native beauty warms
But tricks with art her meretricious charms:
Science in simple form, and semblance chaste,
Offends the alter'd times degenerate taste.
Each social Charity of private life,
The smiling offspring, and the tender wife,
Now cease the scene domestic to endear:
For who can wish a wretched race to rear
Slaves to a cruel tyrant's fickle gust,
Rods of his power, or minions of his lust?—
To the sweet joys that blushing Beauty gave
Succeeds the traffick of the female slave,
Till sated the perverted Fancy roves
To monstrous pleasures, and unseemly loves.
Debarr'd each just pursuit, the restless mind
Seeks in flagitious deeds relief to find,
In sensual cares grows exquisitely nice,
And only seeks variety of vice.

Their stores the tributary realms supply
To glut even Luxury's insatiate eye;
For Italy, while Rome no rival knew,
Ere yet Byzantium's sister empire grew,
Saw on her shores contending nations meet
To lay their various produce at her feet.
Commerce who independent states can draw
To equal compact by her general law,
Who weighs what nature gives and what denies,
While mutual barter mutual want supplies,
Exulting Rome contemn'd, who saw unfurl'd
Her conquering banners o'er a subject world,
And her proud offspring buoy'd by ancient fame,
Not gain by purchase, but by empire claim.
All that the warmer southern climes dispense
Fair to the eye, and grateful to the sense,
Whatever eastern regions can afford
To grace the mansion, or to deck the board,
In endless heaps the imperial seat supplied,
Her pleasure gratified, or sooth'd her pride,
At the full feast to indolence resign'd,
Lie the soft race on purple beds reclin'd,
And o'er the room in many a crimson fold
The arras hangs with ivory rough and gold:
Of massive plate the attentive slaves produce
The meanest vessels of domestic use,
And in rich mists the cooling odors shed
Ambrosial fragrance round the listless head,
Through the wide dome the fumes of incense roll,
And Grecia's purest vintage crowns the bowl.
A nation's wealth their lavish fancies waste
To furnish viands for one great repast;
And Luxury her bloated form so swells
We scarcely credit what th' Historian tells.
To load the table when the Tyrant fed,
Seas have been drain'd, and Hecatombs have bled;
The Euxine mourn'd her shores despoil'd of fish,
And woods unpeopled form'd one costly dish;
Even when the calls of appetite were o'er,
And Nature's loaded powers could act no more,
With brutal skill were shameful means pursu'd,
That blunted hunger's sickly force renew'd,
In the pall'd taste could false desires excite,
And goad the sated sense to fresh delight.

In constant scenes like these enervate grown,
The slaves of Lust and Gluttony alone,
No joy beyond voluptuous ease they deem,
And small exertions cruel hardships seem,
From Indolence, and Vice their pleasures flow,
And Fear's the only active power they know:
Too selfish e'er to think of public care,
Too weak the weight of manly arms to bear,
A Favorite's nod degenerate legions wait,
And servile Eunuchs regulate the state.
Firm discipline is lost by long neglect,
And mercenary hosts the throne protect.
Weaken'd by Constantine's misjudging pride
Whose vain designs the imperial strength divide,
Open and wide the extended frontier lay,
To each barbarian hord an easy prey:
On every side the ruffian bands contend,
By turns invade them, and by turns defend,
Till lur'd by wealth and splendor's tempting prize,
The warlike tribes such coward chiefs despise,
Against the trembling race their swords employ,
And spread destruction round with savage joy,
Pour o'er each region like a wintry flood,
And Rome's diminish'd empire sets in blood.
Of the long sway of twice six hundred years
Stupendous fabrick! scarce a wreck appears,
Save a poor remnant as the ruin falls
Preserv'd to languish in Byzantium's walls.

Now through the extent of Nature's wide domain
Once more the horrid powers of darkness reign,
Again Chaotic ignorance rears her head,
And o'er mankind her sable veil is spread.
What scatter'd arts survive the general doom
Retreat to wither in the cloister's gloom;
And if by chance from thence some sickly beam
Shoots faintly forth a transitory gleam,
It serves but like the meteor's lurid light
To add new horror to the shades of night.

Ye sylvan muses! as my step invades
The deep recesses of your hallow'd shades,
Say will ye bid your echoing caves prolong
The harsher cadence of your votary's song?
Not anxious now to strike the trembling wire,
Sweetly responsive to your vernal choir;
Or from the treasur'd stores of earth to bring
The fragrant produce of the roseate spring:
Mine the rude task, while summer's fading ray
To yellow autumn yields the shortening day,
And all the variegated woods appear
Clad in the glories of the withering year,
With dogs and fiery weapons to profane
The peaceful sabbath of your rural reign;
Your desolated regions to explore
'Mid the wild tempest, and the season frore;
Destruction on your feather'd race to pour,
And add new horrors to the wintry hour.

'Twas thine, immortal Somerville! to trace
The livelier raptures of the joyful chace,
O'er hills and dales to urge, with eager speed,
The hound sagacious, and the panting steed;
And guide the labors of the enthusiast throng
With all the extatic energy of song.—
Severer care these calmer lays demand,
And Fancy curb'd by sage Instruction's hand:
Yet, for the Muse some scatter'd charms shall gleam
'Mid the rich chaos of this copious theme;
Yet, here shall Glory view with generous aim,
The rising elements of martial fame.
As from the chace Britannia's youth shall learn
The docile steed with ready hand to turn;
O'er the rude crag his bounding steps to guide,
Or press his ardor down the mountain's side,
Till, rushing to the field with fierce delight,
She sends forth other Lindseys to the fight:
So shall the steady train, of careful eye,
Who wound th' aerial offspring as they fly,
Whose limbs unwearied keep the constant way,
From morn's first opening dawn, till parting day,
Manly and firm, an unexhausted race,
With hardy frames the shining phalanx grace;
With steps, by labor unsubdu'd, shall know
Incessant to pursue the fainting foe;
Shall, 'midst the rocks and woods, with active toil
Hang o'er his march, and all his movements foil;
Their close platoons, with cool and certain aim,
Shall send destruction forth in vollied flame:
Or o'er the field dispers'd, each shot they pour
Shall mark some hostile victim's fatal hour.

Of old, ere man with imitative skill,
Taught mimic thunders to obey his will,
Train'd by superior care, the elastic yew
With sinewy arm, our English bowmen drew:
The warlike art exulting Albion saw
Protected by the fostering hand of law;
Attentive senates watch'd, with anxious zeal,
This martial bulwark of the general weal;
The rules they order'd, or the prize they gave,
Compell'd the slothful, and inflam'd the brave;
And oft her archer-sons would trophies wear
From Gallia's cross-bow won, and Scotia's spear.

Nor let the frown of literary pride,
Or false refinement's sneer, my labors chide:
Not all are form'd with unremitting view
Pale study's restless labors to pursue:
Not all their hours are dull enough to waste
In the void round of fashionable taste;
Nor can the gentle airings, which engage
The fainter wish of languor, and of age,
From his pursuits the sanguine votary draw
Of wealth, of joy, of wisdom, or of law,
Till slow disease demands the leach's care,
Sad substitute for exercise and air!
The impatient youth, whom manly vigor fires,
Ruddy with health, and stung by wild desires;
By active sports alone can soothe to rest
The boiling fervors of his panting breast.
Nor shall Britannia's patriots blame the cause,
To woods and fields her wealthier chiefs that draws.
Let Gallia's sons to rural scenes resort
Only when exil'd from a partial court,
Whose dearest hopes a Monarch's favor crown,
Rais'd by his smile, or blasted by his frown;
But Albion's freer lords must try to gain
The unbiass'd suffrage of her rustic train.
And every tie that binds her nobler band,
With dearer love, to their paternal land,
Her yeomen shall behold with grateful eye,
A surer pledge of wealth and liberty.

Come then, ye hardy youths, who wish to save
By generous labor powers that nature gave!
Who fly from languor, hush'd in dread repose
Beneath the leaves of sloth's enchanting rose,
Glad on the upland brow, or echoing vale,
To drink new vigor from the morning gale;—
Come! and the Muse shall shew you how to foil
By sports of skill the tedious hours of toil;
The healthful lessons of the field impart,
And careful teach the rudiments of art.

When the last sun of August's fiery reign
Now bathes his radiant forehead in the main,
The panoply by sportive heroes worn
Is rang'd in order for the ensuing morn;
Forth from the summer guard of bolt and lock
Comes the thick guêtre, and the fustian frock;
With curious skill, the deathful tube is made
Clean as the firelock of the spruce parade:
Yet, let no polish of the sportsman's gun
Flash like the soldier's weapon to the sun,
Or the bright steel's refulgent glare presume
To penetrate the peaceful forest's gloom;
But let it take the brown's more sober hue,
Or the dark lustre of the enamell'd blue.
Let the close pouch the wadded tow contain,
The leaden pellets, and the nitrous grain;
And wisely cautious, with preventive care,
Be the spare flint, and ready turnscrew there;
While the slung net is open to receive
Each prize the labors of the day shall give.

Yet oft the experienc'd shooter will deride
This quaint exactness of fastidious pride;
In some old coat that whilom charm'd the eye,
Till time had worn it into slovenry,
His dusky weapon, all by rust conceal'd,
Through rainy service in the sportive field,
He issues to the plain, secure to kill,
And founds his glory on superior skill.

The night recedes, and mild Aurora now
Waves her gray banner on the eastern brow;
Light float the misty vapors o'er the sky,
And dim the blaze of Phœbus' garish eye;
The flitting breeze just stirs the rustling brake,
And curls the crystal surface of the lake;
The expectant sportsmen, urg'd by anxious haste,
Snatch the refreshment of a short repast,
Their weapons seize, their pointers call around,
And sally forth impatient to the ground.

Here where the yellow wheat away is drawn,
And the thick stubble clothes the russet lawn,
Begin the sport.—Eager and unconfin'd
As when stern Æolus unchains the wind,
The active pointer, from his thong unbound,
Impatient dashes o'er the dewy ground,
With glowing eye, and undulating tail,
Ranges the field, and snuffs the tainted gale;
Yet, 'midst his ardor, still his master fears,
And the restraining whistle careful hears.
So when Britannia's watchful navies sweep,
In freedom's awful cause, the hostile deep,
Though the brave warrior panting to engage,
And loose on England's foes his patriot rage,
The tempest's howling fury deems too slow
To fill his sails, and waft him to the foe;
Yet, 'mid the fiery conflict, if he spy
From the high mast his leader's signal fly,
To the command obedience instant pays,
And martial order martial courage sways.

See how exact they try the stubble o'er,
Quarter the field, and every turn explore;
Now sudden wheel, and now attentive seize
The known advantage of the opposing breeze.—
At once they stop!—yon' careful dog descries
Where close and near the lurking covey lies.
His caution mark, lest even a breath betray
The impending danger to his timid prey;
In various attitudes around him stand,
Silent and motionless, the attending band.
So when the son of Danae and Jove,
Crown'd by gay conquest and successful love,
Saw Phineus and his frantic rout invade
The festive rights by Hymen sacred made,
To the rude Bacchanals his arm outspread
The horrid image of Medusa's head;
Soon as the locks their snaky curls disclose,
A marble stiffness seiz'd his threatening foes;
Fix'd were the eyes that mark'd the javelin thrown,
And each stern warrior rear'd his lance in stone.

Now by the glowing cheek and heaving breast
Is expectation's sanguine wish express'd.—
Ah curb your headlong ardor! nor refuse
Patient to hear the precepts of the Muse.
Sooner shall noisy heat in rash dispute
The reasoning calm of placid sense confute;
Sooner the headlong rout's misguided rage
With the firm phalanx equal combat wage,
Than the warm youth, whom anxious hopes inflame,
Pursue the fleeting mark with steady aim.
By temperate thought your glowing passions cool,
And bow the swelling heart to reason's rule;
Else when the whirring pinion, as it flies,
Alarms your startled ear, and dazzled eyes,
Unguided by the cautious arm of care,
Your random bolts shall waste their force in air.

They rise!—they rise!—Ah yet your fire restrain,
Till the scar'd birds securer distance gain;
For, thrown too close, the shots your hopes elude,
Wide of your aim, and innocent of blood;
But mark with careful eye their lessening flight,
Your ready gun, obedient to your sight,
And at the length where frequent trials shew
Your fatal weapon gives the surest blow,
Draw quick!—yet steady care with quickness join,
Lest the shock'd barrel deviate from the line;
So shall success your ardent wishes pay,
And sure destruction wait the flying prey.

As glory more than gain allures the brave
To dare the combat loud, and louder wave;
So the ambition of the sportsman lies
More in the certain shot than bleeding prize.
While poachers, mindful of the festal hour,
Among the covey random slaughter pour;
And, as their numbers press the crimson'd ground,
Regardless reck not of the secret wound,
Which borne away, the wretched victims lie
'Mid silent shades to languish and to die.
O let your breast such selfish views disclaim,
And scorn the triumph of a casual aim:
Not urg'd by rapine, but of honor proud,
One object single from the scattering croud;
So, when you see the destin'd quarry down,
Shall just applause your skilful labor crown.

If your staunch dogs require no instant toil
To rescue from their jaws the fluttering spoil,
Re-load your fatal piece with prudent zeal,
While glows with recent flame the smoaking steel;
So the black grain shall kindling warmth acquire,
And take the flinty spark with readier fire;
Or if some scatter'd bird, that lay behind,
Sudden should rise, and fleet away on wind,
You check her rapid course, nor murmuring stand,
Your empty weapon useless in your hand.

Now some observant eye has mark'd their flight,
And seen dispers'd the weary'd covey light;
Soon to the spot the ranging pointer drawn,
Explores with tender nose the tainted lawn,
Where, to his nicer sense, their fumes betray
The secret ambush of the fearful prey.
With cautious action now, and stealthful pace,
His careful steps pursue the running race;
Now fix'd he stands, now moves with doubtful tread,
Stopp'd by their pause, or by their motion led,
Till, rooted by the sheltering hedge, his feet
Declare the trembling victim's last retreat.

But as, with beating breasts, on either side
The impatient youths the pleasing task divide,
And in the row between, the lurking game
Lies hid from sight, ah, careful be the aim!
Lest, skreen'd and parted by the thorny mound,
The erring shots should give a fatal wound,
And change the jocund sportsman's verdant wreath
For funeral weeds, for mourning, tears, and death.

In Lydian plains, where rich Pactolus roll'd
Through groves of perfume, and o'er sands of gold,
Crœsus, of Asia's lords the proudest name,
Shar'd every gift of fortune, and of fame;
So wide his empire, and so vast his store,
That avarice and ambition ask'd no more;
Though blest in these, the dearer bliss he knows
With which a parent's happy bosom glows,
For not the fairest image ever dress'd
In the fond wishes of a father's breast,
By flattery swell'd, could mate the virtuous praise
To Atys' worth that truth unbiass'd pays.
At war's loud clarion if the nations bled,
Conquest his armies crown'd if Atys led;
If the rude waves of civil discord broke,
Hush'd was the rising storm if Atys spoke;
His lenient voice bade loud rebellion cease,
And charm'd contending factions into peace:
Nor less his care domestic knew to bring
Joy to his sire, than safety to his king;
Nor was the patriot's glory priz'd above
The dearer charity of filial love.

While prosperous scenes the monarch's thoughts beguile,
Too little warn'd of Fortune's transient smile,
'Mid the dark moments of the boding night
A horrid vision seem'd to meet his sight,
With dying mien his Atys stood confess'd,
Transfix'd by horrid steel his bleeding breast.—
Swift from his couch he starts, while wild despair
Contracts his eye-balls, and uplifts his hair.
In vain the orient morn's reviving power
Chas'd the pale phantoms of the midnight hour;
The recollected scene his peace annoys,
Sinks in his heart, and poisons all his joys;
Around him visionary falchions gleam
In act to realize his dreadful dream;
And if by chance loud rumor wafts from far
Uncertain clamors of intended war,
His laboring breast foretels the fatal deed,
And sees in fancied fights his Atys bleed.

What shall his fears invent, or how control
The generous ardor of the hero's soul?—
His mind to gentler thoughts he tries to move,
And conquer strong renown by stronger love.
The fairest maid of Lydia's glowing dames,
Whose beauteous form the manly youth inflames,
With eastern roses crown'd, is blushing led
In Hymeneal pomp, to Atys' bed.
To cares of empire, and to toils of fight,
Succeed the festal day, and genial night:
Soft Pleasure spreads around her blooming flow'rs,
And wanton Cupid leads the laughing hours.

Amid these joys, from Mysia's subject plain,
Before the throne, behold a suppliant train!
‘O mighty prince!’ they cry, ‘we now repair
‘To claim the aid of thy paternal care;
‘A savage monster of portentous size,
‘Whose cruel strength our utmost force defies,
‘Ranges our fields, spreads devastation round,
‘And roots the unripen'd harvest from the ground.
‘O, let thy youths, to range the woods who know,
‘Attend with faithful dogs, and twanging bow;
‘In his dire haunts the fierce invader brave,
‘Repel his fury, and thy subjects save.
‘Perhaps the prince.’—The eager monarch, here,
Urg'd by the influence of parental fear,
Arrests their speech: ‘My arms, my youths shall go,
‘Your terrors quell, and check this savage foe;
‘But for my son, him other cares employ,
‘And the soft scenes of Hymeneal joy,
‘Nor must the rugged chace, or dubious fight,
‘Mar the sweet transports of the nuptial rite.’

He ceas'd; attentive round the Mysian band,
Pleas'd with the promis'd aid, submissive stand.
Not so the prince, his ardent bosom glows
To burst the silken bands of still repose.
‘Ah! what, my sire,’ he cries, ‘has Atys done?
‘What sad distrust awaits your hapless son,
‘That thus immers'd in sloth you keep him far
‘From fields of glory, and from toils of war?
‘For love's soft raptures though the hero burn,
‘Yet fame and danger claim their wonted turn.
‘How shall I meet, involv'd in this disgrace,
‘The indignant murmurs of your warrior race?
‘How will, with tears of silent scorn, my bride
‘Her alter'd lord's inglorious safety chide!
‘O give my wishes way, or let me hear
‘The hidden source of this injurious fear.’

This earnest prayer the smother'd secret draws,
And the sad Monarch owns the latent cause:
When Atys, smiling:—‘How shall I reprove
‘The fond excesses of paternal love,
‘Though for my undeserving life is shown
‘A nice regard you never paid your own?
‘But shall the heir of Crœsus' martial name
‘Inglorious life prefer to glorious fame?—
‘Life is a bliss, when crown'd by virtue's meed,
‘And death a prize, when honor bids us bleed;
‘Omens and dreams in vain the purpose stay
‘When duty calls, and glory points the way.
‘Or grant some god the vision sent, yet here
‘Vain are your cares, and useless is your fear;
‘Transfix'd by steel my bleeding breast you saw,
‘Not torn and mangled by a bestial jaw;
‘Then let me go, and when you meet your son
‘Clad in the shaggy spoils his arms have won,
‘The shadowy phantoms of the night shall cease
‘To haunt your slumbers, and disturb your peace.’

The Monarch hears, and with reluctant eyes
Gives the consent his boding heart denies;
His brow a placid guise dissembling wears,
While Reason vainly combats stronger fears.

It chanced a youth of Phrygia's royal train,
His hand polluted by a brother slain,
Exil'd by vengeance from his native ground,
In Crœsus' peaceful court a refuge found;
Where oft would Atys' gentler care impart
The balm of friendship to his wounded heart;
To him the wretched king in secret spoke,
While tears and sighs his faltering accents choke;
‘If, brave Adrastus, thy oppressive woes
‘In Sardis' sheltering walls have found repose,
‘If here the expiating rite renew'd
‘Has paid the forfeit for fraternal blood,
‘If pity's tear, if friendship's lenient balm
‘Have tried with studious zeal thy griefs to calm,
‘Go with my son, and by attentive care
‘Partake his labors, and his dangers share.
‘Shield him from peril that my soul alarms,
‘And bring him back in safety to my arms.’

To whom the youth: ‘Oft has my ready breast
‘Panted to ask the office you request,
‘As oft my conscious shame that wish restrain'd,
‘Disgraced by exile, and by murder stain'd:
‘Since you command, your Atys I'll attend,
‘Obey my patron, and protect my friend;
‘Watch o'er his safety in the doubtful strife,
‘Or ransom with my own his dearer life.’

Now to the Mysian fields elate and gay
The eager warriors bend their jocund way,
The echoing hills and forest walks resound
With shouts of men, and chidings of the hound.
Rous'd from his lair, and issuing on the plain,
Forth bursts the monster on the hunter train,
Around the circling youths impatient stand,
And launch their steely darts with ready hand.
Too rashly eager as the Phrygian threw,
With erring aim the pointed jav'lin flew,
In Atys' breast the quivering weapon stood,
And drank with fatal barbs his vital blood.—
The mournful shrieks that rent the ambient air,
The weeping troops, Adrastus' loud despair;
The silent agony, the gushing tide
Of the sad parent, and the widow'd bride,
The plaints they utter, and the woes they feel,
No heart can image, and no tongue reveal.
As the ill-fated youth is borne along,
All pale and bleeding, through the groaning throng,
By the cold corse Adrastus' frantic cries,
Death in his voice, and horror in his eyes;
‘Why have the gods in partial vengeance shed
‘Their choicest curses on my wretched head?
‘Fated the keenest strokes of wrath to prove,
‘And doom'd to murder those whom most I love!
‘O much wrong'd sire, let thy avenging hand
‘Expiate by guilty blood this weeping land:
‘Be on my heart thy instant fury hurl'd,
‘And save from future parricide the world!’

‘Alas, my son!' the wretched King replied,
‘'Tis awful Jove who thus corrects my pride,
‘Which, crown'd by conquest, and with power elate,
‘It's fortune deem'd beyond the reach of fate.
‘Alas! too late repentant, now I find
‘The fleeting happiness of human kind!
‘My hopes, my cares are past! this cruel blow
‘Has laid at once my vain ambition low;
‘The offended gods this chastisement have given,
‘Thou but the fatal instrument of heaven.’

Silent the youth withdrew, till sad were paid
The tributary rites to Atys' shade:
Then, as chill midnight's dreary hours return,
Weeping he sought the monumental urn:
‘Atys!’ he cried, ‘behold Adrastus come
‘A willing victim to thy hallow'd tomb!—
‘This erring hand, the fatal stroke that gave,
‘Shall lay thy murderer breathless on thy grave.’
Then pierced with sudden arm his struggling breast,
And on the blood-stain'd marble sunk to rest.

As more obliquely on autumnal skies
With milder force October's suns arise,
The purple pheasant tempts the youth to rove
With well-train'd spaniels through the faded grove.
See how with emulative zeal they strive,
Thrid the loose sedge, and through the thicket drive!
Not ranging lawless o'er the forest wide,
But close attendant on their master's side;
No babbling voice the bosom falsely warms,
Or swells the panting heart with vain alarms,
Till all at once their choral tongues proclaim
The secret refuge of the lurking game;
Loud on the breeze the chearful clamor floats,
And the high wood re-echoes with their notes.
Swift is their course, no lengthen'd warnings now
Space to collect the scatter'd thoughts allow,
No wary pointer shews the cautious eyes
Where from his russet couch the bird shall rise:
Perhaps light running o'er the mossy ground,
His devious steps your sanguine hopes confound;
Or, by the tangled branches hid from sight,
Sudden he wings his unexpected flight.
No open view along the uncumber'd field
To the cool aim will time and distance yield;
But the nice circumstance will oft demand
The quickest eye-sight and the readiest hand,
Swift as he rises from the thorny brake,
With instant glance the fleeting mark to take,
And with prompt arm the transient moment seize,
'Mid the dim gloom of intervening trees.
His gaudy plumage when the male displays
In bright luxuriance to the solar rays,
Arrest with hasty shot his whirring speed,
And see unblam'd the shining victim bleed;
But when the hen to thy discerning view
Her sober pinion spreads of duskier hue,
The attendant keeper's prudent warning hear,
And spare the offspring of the future year;
Else shall the fine which custom laid of old
Avenge her slaughter by thy forfeit gold.

Soon as the ready dogs their quarry spring,
And swift he spreads his variegated wing,
Ceas'd is their cry, with silent look they wait
Till the loud gun decides the event of fate;
Nor, if the shots are thrown with erring aim,
And proudly soars away the unwounded game,
Will the staunch train pursue him as he flies
With useless speed, and unavailing cries.

And now when cloudy skies and drizzling rains
Swell the full springs, and drench the moisten'd plains,
The extended space of land and ocean cross'd
From the bleak scenes of Hyperborean frost,
With active wing the unwearied Woodcocks fly
To southern climates, and a milder sky,
The osier'd borders of the brook explore,
And with deep bills the forest marshes bore.
Where now matur'd yon slender ashes stand,
Rise from their stools and tempt the woodman's hand,
Where the loose trunks admit the partial ray
Along the border take your cautious way.
Here let your care the shorten'd gun employ,
Lest the thick boughs the purpos'd aim annoy;
Let super-added steel with pressure sure,
From the dank drip the shelter'd pan secure:
And as the silent bird the stems among
Wheels slow his desultory flight along,
With steady eye his wavering motion watch,
And through the parting trees the advantage catch;
Though distant be the shot, the slightest wound
Shall lay the fluttering victim on the ground.

Rous'd by the spaniel, 'midst the forest shade,
Behold the trembling Leveret cross the glade!
If round the extended plains yield ample space,
Or for the rapid course, or chearful chace,
O, sacred be her steps! nor let thy hand
Blast the fair hopes of a congenial band,
Or for a transient pleasure meanly foil
The lengthen'd transport of the hunter's toil;
But where steep hills and spacious woodlands rise,
Or the long flight the frequent copse denies,
Blameless arrest her rapid flight, nor spare
The timid victim for the inglorious snare.

Where shining rills with copious moisture feed
The deeper verdure of the irriguous mead,
Or where between the purple heaths is seen
The mossy bosom of the low ravine,
The fearful Snipes, hid from the searching eye,
'Mid the dank sedge and nodding rushes lie.
With sudden turns oblique, when first they rise,
As from the weaver's arm the shuttle flies
They shape their wavering course: but patient stay
Till, with securer wing, they soar away:
Then as aloft their outstretch'd pinions sail,
Borne on the bosom of the buoyant gale,
The fatal shot sent forth with cautious sight,
Shall bring them wheeling from their towering height.

When winter now, a gloomy tyrant, reigns
In dreadful silence o'er the ravaged plains,
Involves in sheets of snow the bending woods,
And throws his icy mantle o'er the floods,
Close by the harden'd brook, whose sullen stream
No more soft murmuring aids the poet's dream,
Where, 'midst the matted sedge, the emerging flood
With air and life renews the finny brood,
The patient fowler stands with silent aim
To watch the station of the watery game:
Not like the gentle angler, careless laid,
In the cool shelter of the summer shade,
But train'd with hardy sinews to defy
The chilling keenness of a wintry sky;
While here the aquatic Wild-fowl's timid race
With wonted pinion seek the well known place;
Where rushes thick the Widgeon's haunt conceal,
The blue-wing'd Mallard, and the tenderer Teal;
Swift on the various race, in fiery shower,
The scattering shots unseen destruction pour,
With mingled slaughter strew the frost-bound flood,
And dye the sullied snow with gushing blood.

Such are the sports that fertile Albion yields,
Such the wing'd inmates of her milder fields;
But bounteous Nature, with diffusive hand,
Spreads wide her various produce o'er the land,
Each different region marks with nurturing care,
And bids a race congenial flourish there.
A tribe peculiar by her power is plac'd
On the drear mountain, and the howling waste,
Which art and industry would rear in vain,
Or in the shelter'd vale, or cultur'd plain.
Hence wandering far from England's gentler scene,
Her spacious champains, and her pastures green,
The hardy youth will Cambria's cliffs explore,
Or climb the heights of Caledonia hoar,
The Grouse and sable Heath-cock to pursue
Where moors unbounded tire the sated view,
And sullen silence reigns, save where the tide
Pours in swoln torrents from the mountain's side;
While summer suns in full effulgence shed
Their burning fervors on the throbbing head.

Thus has my verse in humble strains reveal'd
The various pleasures of the sportive field,
And shewn the different labors of the day
As the revolving seasons roll away:
But vainly shall preceptive rules impart
A perfect knowledge of this manly art;
Practice alone can certain skill produce,
And theory confirm'd by constant use.
As well the stripling of the gay parade,
Proud of his silken sash and smart cockade,
Though taught by wise instructors to explore
The martial depth of mathematic lore,
Might hope to drive Victoria's crimson car
Triumphant o'er the bleeding ranks of war,
Ere the long march, the early toil, and late,
The frequent scenes of danger and of fate,
The fervor of the glowing breast allay,
Change ardor's blaze for valor's temperate ray,
And teach the mind, unruffled and serene,
To keep her powers 'mid horrors wildest scene.

The hardy youth who pants with eager flame
To send his leaden bolts with certain aim,
Must ne'er with disappointed hopes recoil
From cold and heat, from hunger and from toil,
Must climb the hill, must tread the marshy glade,
Or force the passage through the opposing shade,
Must range untam'd by Sol's meridian power,
And brave the force of winter's keenest hour,
Till industry and time their work have wrought,
And honor crown the skill that labor taught.

Yet some, these harsher rudiments to spare,
And equal art with easier toil to share,
Or watch with careful aim and ready sight
The swallow-wheeling in her summer flight,
Or on some lofty cliff, whose chalky steep
Hangs with rude brow impending o'er the deep,
Where gulls and screaming sea-mews haunt the rock,
Pour fire incessant on the mingled flock.
But vain their hopes—presented to the eye
In such diversive lines the objects fly,
The dazzled sight unnumber'd marks pursues,
And shifts it's aim, uncertain which to chuse;
Decision quick and calm, the shooter's boast,
By frequent change, is check'd, confus'd, and lost,
And, guarded by irresolute delay,
Utouch'd shall future coveys fleet away.

More hurtful still to try with distant blow
To bring the percher from th' aerial bough.
How shall his thoughts the level that prepare
With all the caution of mechanic care,
Exact and steady as the sage's eye
Through Galileo's tube surveys the sky,
With ready view the transient object seize,
Swift as the motion of the rapid breeze,
Pursue the uncertain mark with swift address,
And catch the fleeting moment of success?

Ere yet the Muse her lay preceptive end
Ye eager youths these friendly rules attend:
'Tis not enough, that cautious aim, and sure,
From erring shots your brave compeers secure,
That prudence guard those ills which erst might flow
From the wing'd javelin, and the sounding bow;
For on the gun unnumber'd dangers wait,
And various forms of unexpected fate.
Drawn thro' the thorny hedge, the uncertain lock
May give with sudden spring, a deadly shock;
Or the loose spark the rapid flash may raise,
And wrap the sulphurous dust in instant blaze.

'Tis hence the military race prepare
The novice youth with such assiduous care,
And teach him with punctilious art to wield
The weighty fire-lock in the embattled field.
Though some may deem the attention urg'd too far,
As the mere pomp and circumstance of war;
When closely wedg'd the firm battalions stand,
Rank press'd on rank, and band impelling band,
Did not fastidious zeal with cautious plan
Define each act, and every motion scan,
Oft would the bullets 'mid the battles roar
The thirsty herbage die with friendly gore,
And oft the dangerous weapon's kindling breath
Change fields of exercise, to fields of death.

Behold yon' eager race who o'er the plain,
With stimulating heel and loosen'd rein,
Their panting coursers urge to leave behind
The rapid currents of the northern wind,
Though, as with headlong rage they rush along,
Impending dangers seem to wait the throng;
Though accident with more apparent face
Seem to attend the ardor of the chace;
Yet, 'mid these calmer sports, with ghastly mien
The pallid form of slaughter lurks unseen;
And while the hunter checks his bold career
To pour on Russel's tomb the sorrowing tear,
The sportive train who haunt the fatal glades
Where hoary Camus flows by Granta's shades,
Shall weep the unexpected blow that gave
Their much-lov'd Cotton to a timeless grave.
Lamented youth! when erst on Warley's plains
We led in radiant arms our rustic swains,
What time Britannia, friendless and forlorn,
Her shores expos'd, her naval trophies torn,
Bold in her native vigor dar'd oppose
Rebellious subjects, and combining foes;
In vain thy generous bosom burn'd to stand
The manly bulwark of an injur'd land,
Or nobly bleeding by the hostile ball,
In freedom's, and in Albion's cause to fall;
Doom'd by relentless fate, to press the ground,
The unhappy victim of a casual wound.

Votaries of rural joy! with mine while flow
Your kindred streams of sympathetic woe,
By salutary care, ah! learn to shun
The hidden dangers of the unguarded gun!
And, as in fields of pleasure you acquire
The soldier's manly toil and steady fire,
His cautious use of arms attentive heed,
Careful by no inglorious wound to bleed,
Nor lavish life, but in the sacred cause
Of Britain's injur'd rights, and violated laws.

ARGUMENT. Consequences of the Battle of Eddington.—The Danes blockaded on Ashdown.—Circumstances attending the Surrender and Conversion of Guthrum, Chief of the Danes.—Second Prophecy of the future Fortune of Alfred, and of the British Islands.— Homage from the united Army to Alfred.—Conclusion.


Soon as the Morn, in rosy mantle dight,
Spread o'er the dewy hills her orient light,
The victor monarch ranged his warrior train,
In martial order on the embattled plain;
Ready to front again the storm of fight,
Or urge the advantage, and pursue the flight;
But not the horizon's ample range could show
A trace, a vestige, of the vanquish'd foe.

Now, from the exulting host, in triumph peal'd,
The shouts of conquest shake the echoing field;
While, to the sheltering convent's hallow'd walls,
A softer voice the laurel'd hero calls;
Where, from the bloody scene of fight removed,
Trembling, 'mid hope and fear for all she loved,
Elsitha, prostrate on the earth, implored
Blessings on Albion's arms, and Albion's lord.
Sweet were the warrior's feelings, when he press'd
His lovely consort to his beating breast;
Sweet too, Elsitha, thine—with conquest crown'd,
To see the mighty chief, in arms renown'd,
Though loud the chearing shouts of conquest rise,
And war's triumphant clangor rends the skies,
Forego the scenes of public joy awhile,
To share the bliss of Love's domestic smile.
Yet such, alas! of human joy the state,
Some grief on Fortune's brightest hours must wait;
Amid the victor laurel's greenest wreath,
Twines the funereal bough of pain and death.
Elsitha's eye, among the conquering train,
Seeks many a friend, and near ally, in vain.
Leofric, her brother's heir, whose ardent breast
Her influence, mild and bland, had oft repress'd;
Would Indignation's angry frown reprove,
Or warn him from the dangerous smiles of Love;
Leofric, who, when the dawn awoke her fears,
Dried, with consoling voice, her gushing tears,
Mangled, and lifeless, from the combat borne,
Refutes, at eve, the promised hope of morn.
And, as her heart the painful image draws,
Of youthful Donald bleeding in her cause,
The royal warrior, beautiful and brave,
A timeless victim of the silent grave,
O'er her swoll'n breast a softer sorrow steals,
Her heart a warmer sense of pity feels,
While tears, as pure as seraph eyes might shed,
Flow o'er his memory, and embalm him dead.

Even Alfred, when his firmer looks survey
The field of fate, in morning's sober ray,
See Victory's guerdon, though with safety fraught,
By blood of kindred heroes dearly bought.
Though myriads saved from slavery and death,
Their spirits waft to Heaven with grateful breath:
Yet chiefs of noble race, and nobler worth,
Glory and grace of Albion's parent earth,
Extended pale and lifeless in his sight,
Check the tumultuous tide of full delight;
And as the hymns of praise ascend the air,
His bosom bows in penitence and prayer,
O'er the red sword Contrition's sorrows flow,
Though Freedom steel'd its edge, and Justice sped the blow.

But when he views, along the tented field,
With trailing banner, and inverted shield,
Young Donald, borne by Scotia's weeping bands,
In deeper woe the generous hero stands.

'O, early lost,' with faultering voice he cried,
'In the fresh bloom of youth and glory's pride;
Dear, gallant friend! while memory here remains,
While flows the tide of life through Alfred's veins,
Ne'er shall thy virtues from this breast depart,
Ne'er Donald's worth be blotted from this heart.—

Yet the stern despot of the silent tomb,
Who spreads o'er youth and age an equal doom,
Shall here no empire boast,—his ruthless dart
That pierced, with cruel point, thy manly heart,
Snatch'd from his iron grasp, by hovering Fame,
Graves, in eternal characters, thy name.
All who the radiance of thy morn have seen,
Shall augur what thy noon-tide ray had been,
If Fate's decree had given thy rising sun
Its full career of glory to have run;
But oft are Valour's fires, that early blaze,
Quench'd in the crimson cloud their ardours raise.—

'Ah, wretched Gregor! how can words relate,
To thy declining age, thy Donald's fate?
For while of such a son the untimely doom
Drags thy gray hairs in sorrow to the tomb,
Each tale of praise, that tries to soothe thy care,
But wounds thy heart, and plants new horrors there.—
On me, on England's cause, the curse shall fall,
On me the wretched sire shall frantic call;
Who from his arms his soul's last solace led,
On distant plains to mingle with the dead.
Then O, my valiant friends, whose ears attest
Of Donald's dying voice the sad bequest,
With yours my dearest care shall be combined
To smooth the tempests of your monarch's mind;
With you protect, from War's, from Faction's rage,
The feeble remnant of his waning age.
As round our isle the azure billow roars,
From all the world dividing Britain's shores,
Within its fence be Britain's nations join'd
A world themselves, yet friends of human-kind.'

He ceased,—the words applauding Scotia hails,
And low the spear in filial homage vails,
Homage to Alfred, and to England's train,
Eternal friendship vows, and equal reign,
While swells in shouts of transport to the wind,
'Never shall man divide, whom Heaven has join'd!'

And now the light-arm'd foot, and agile horse,
Whose speed pursued the invader's flying force,
Returning from the chase, to Alfred show
The distant refuge of the scatter'd foe.
Through woods and heaths they urge the swift career,
Pale Terror hanging on their trembling rear;
Nor thought of rest, nor hope of safety find,
And hear the victor's shouts in every wind,
Till distant Ashdown's verdant height they scale,

Tremendous frowning o'er Berochia's vale,
On the proud summit of whose rampired steep
Hangs the strong mound, o'er trenches broad and deep;
Where erst her wing Rome's towering eagle spread,

In haughty triumph o'er the Briton's head.

The Monarch hears, and bids his troops prepare
Their flight to follow, and renew the war,
Resolved to sweep from Albion's rescued coast,
The last remains of Scandinavia's host.

'To-day in peace the social hours employ,
In moderate triumph, and in temperate joy:
Let the skill'd Leech the wounded warrior tend,
The generous soldier mourn his parted friend;
Let holy priests, with orison sincere,
Chant the sad requiem o'er the hero's bier;
But when the morrow's dawn first gilds the plain,
Let war's stern duties reassume their reign;
Beneath its banners, let each different band,
Prompt to obey, in silent order stand,
The trumpet's signal waiting, to pursue
The distant squadrons, and the fight renew.'

The chiefs fulfil their king's behest,—the day
In joy, by grief attemper'd, wears away.
For Valour mourns, mid Conquest's chearful cries,
Of friendship, and of blood, the sever'd ties.
But sheath'd in radiant arms, by morn's first light,
The ardent warriors claim the promised fight.
The clarion blows—silent the steady throng
In close compacted order move along;
Each rank, each file, prepared with martial care,
Instant to form the threatening front of war,
Should, from the hollow vale, or mountain's crest,
The ambush'd foe their toilsome march molest.

Twice dewy morn unveil'd her eyelids gray,
Twice blush'd the dappled west with setting day,
While onward still the unwearied victors pass'd,
Till Ashdown's verdant summits rose at last.
The scene of former fame as Alfred hails,
Omen of hope in every breast prevails.
There, on the summit of the embattled brow,
In eve's red beam, the Danish banners glow;
For Guthrum, gathering courage from despair,
The relics of the war collected there.
Close round the camp his host the Briton draws,
And with his mail-clad foot the fortress awes.
While a selected troop, by Edgar led,
Their wakeful guard wide o'er the champaign spread,
Scouring, with rapid steeds, the extended lawn,
In distant circle, till the approach of dawn.

Now sinks of twilight dim the last faint gleam,
And Hesper yields to Luna's brighter beam.
For with full orb the effulgent Queen of Night
Shed, through a cloudless sky, her silver light.—
O'er the broad downs her rays their lustre throw,—
A flood of radiance gilds the vale below.
There the high trees, in splendour keen array'd,

Cast every deep recess in darker shade;
Their leafy summits waving to the sight,
Seem a vast flood of undulating light.—
When, issuing from the camp, a warlike train,
Their bright arms glittering, speed across the plain.

The alarm is instant given,—the Saxon horse
Close on their passage, and oppose their course.
Hemm'd and surrounded by a mightier host,
Useless is flight, and hope from combat lost.
Urging their swift career, with rested lance,
As on each side the circling troops advance,
A voice exclaims, 'Ye English chiefs, forbear!—
Those who nor fight, nor fly, in pity spare.
From yon fenced camp, where morning's rising ray
Shall scenes of carnage and of death display,
This youth, from Guthrum sprung, whose arms nor feel
Valour's firm nerve, nor grasp the warrior's steel,
His royal sire, beneath my guidance, sends
To seek protection from his distant friends.
Your vigilance has marr'd his vain design,
To you, ourselves, our weapons, we resign,
If we must fall, opposed in arms who stood,
Stain not your swords with unoffending blood.'

'Well may the race, in Murder's livery dyed,
Such fate expect,' the gallant Edgar cried.—
'Though mid the thunder of the battle's storm,
Where Horror stalks abroad in ghastly form,
The victor's falchion, with vindictive blow,
May strike a flying, or a yielding foe,
Yet cool, in peaceful parle, the English sword
An unresisting bosom never gored;
Ne'er have our warriors wreak'd their impious rage
On woman, helpless infancy, or age;
To Alfred's tent, devoid of terror, go,
Who in a suppliant, ne'er beholds a foe.'

Straight to the circling camp which Albion's race,
Round Denmark's steep and guarded fortress, trace,
Brave Edgar bids his bands their captives bring,
The royal youth presenting to the king:
Trembling before the monarch's feet he kneels,
Who all the man, and all the parent feels.
'Dismiss thy fears,' with voice benign he said,
His hand extending to the youth dismay'd;
'That mercy which I trembling ask of Heaven,
To mortal suffering ever shall be given.
Such pity as, I trust, my child would know,
From the brave bosom of a generous foe;
Such, bless'd by Providence, my conquering sword
Shall, to the offspring of my foe, afford.
Cursed be the coward rage that sees offence,
Howe'er derived, in weeping innocence!—
Let every doubt, and every terror end,
And in your father's foe, embrace a friend.'

Contending passions struggling in the breast,
Low sinks the youth, by fear and hope depress'd.
Edgar, as prompt to succour and to spare,
As the dread front of bleeding war to dare,
Caught the faint stripling ere he reach'd the ground,
And from his head the shining helm unbound.
Though on the lips was Death's pale ensign spread,
Though from the cheek the blooming rose was fled,
Though on the liquid radiance of the eyes,
The sable lash a silken curtain lies,
Yet o'er the brows, which, with the forehead, show
Like jet encircled in a bed of snow,
Flows in loose ringlets to the fresh'ning air
The soft redundance of the ambrosial hair,
And charms, of more than mortal grace, betray'd
The form and features of a beauteous maid.

Soon as that form struck Edgar's starting eyes,
'My Emma here?' the youth enraptured cries:
'And do these looks once more her beauties trace?
These arms now clasp her in their fond embrace?—
Look up, my love, and with thy fragrant breath
My bosom free from anguish worse than death.'

Waked by the well-known voice, her eye unseal'd,
Through the dark lid returning life reveal'd,
Again their beams reviving pleasure speak,
Again the tint of health illumes her cheek,
And, leaning on young Edgar's raptured breast,
A silent tear her blushing love confess'd.

'Dear beauteous maid,' he cried, 'from me receive
Each tender care that love, that truth can give:
To thee their thanks shall England's chieftains bring,
And bless the charms that rescued England's king.
Love, love of thee, thy faithful Edgar gave
To Guthrum's power a voluntary slave.
Love form'd the spell that drew me to remain
Mid the rude sons of Riot's desperate reign,
Where one soft glance from lovely Emma's eye,
O'erpaid the galling pangs of slavery.
Hence 'twas my hap—to Heaven's protecting power
May grateful Albion consecrate the hour!—
To warn my sovereign, with prophetic breath,
From the abode of danger and of death.
Hence, too, my voice his faithful followers drew
To save Elsitha from a ruffian crew,
Of whose dire cruelty the mildest doom
Is the swift mercy of an instant tomb.'

'Bless'd be thy aid! the lovely cause be bless'd!
For ever partner of Elsitha's breast.—
'Mine, mine,' the royal matron cries, 'the care
To soothe the sorrows of the weeping fair,
From me the Danish maid shall ever prove
At once a parent's and a sister's love.'

Sweet tears of joy now fill the virgin's eye,
Her gentle bosom breathes the grateful sigh,
While a kind glance her looks on Edgar stole
Spoke the soft language of her inmost soul.

Soon the report to Guthrum rumour brings,
For evil tidings fly on eagle wings,
That, by the radiance of the moon betray'd,
The hostile camp detain'd the captive maid.
A herald to the English king he sent
To ask safe conduct to the royal tent.—
The solemn pledge of safety given, he sought
The British host, with splendid ransome fraught;
Where, as along the martial files he pass'd,
Each soldier's eye a glance of triumph cast,
To view the tyrant of the wasted land,
Sad, and unarm'd, an humble suppliant stand.
Yet still was grief by rage indignant drown'd,
Still on his rugged brow defiance frown'd.—
But when the chief his blushing daughter saw
Respect from all, and kind attention draw;
Saw his benignant foes employ their care,
To soothe each terror of the anxious fair,
A kindly beam of fond affection stole,
Unfelt before, across his stubborn soul.
Struggling, he scarce restrain'd the swelling sigh,
Scarce check'd the tear that trembled in his eye;
The stifled pang his faltering voice suppress'd,
He show'd the gold, and silence told the rest.

'Think not,' the Monarch cried, 'our mercy sold;
The mercenary price of proffer'd gold;
Treasures, by plunder gain'd, the lawless spoil
Of England's ruin'd towns, and wasted soil;—
Can these the indignant owners' vengeance bribe,
Panting to force them from your vanquish'd tribe?
Soon as the orient beams of morn are shed
Shall, o'er your camp, war's furious storm be sped.
Nor think yon feeble mounds your heads can shield,
When kindling fury calls us to the field;
When wrongs beyond the strength of man to bear,
Harden each heart, and sharpen every spear.
Look forth on yonder field, and trembling see
Superior numbers, fired by victory.
Numbers, increasing still with every hour,
Croud from the regions round, and swell our power;
Determined each to make your slaughter'd host
A dreadful landmark on the English coast,
And paint Invasion's image on your shore,
In the dire blazonry of Danish gore.
Mistake me not—we do not wish to gain
By threats, a prize our swords must soon obtain.
But anxious to withhold the fatal blow,
To spare a vanquish'd, though a cruel, foe.
Pitying I view the horrors that await,
Your fortress forced, and mercy ask'd too late;
When, by retentive sway no longer bound,
The insatiate fiends of havoc stalk around.

'In safety to your camp return, and there
Weigh well your state in council,—and prepare
Once more the dread award of war to try,
Or trust a generous victor's clemency.—

For this sweet maid, whom Fortune's changeful hour
Has given a captive to my happier power,
Whether you yield to Concord's gentler charms,
Or dare the stern arbitrement of arms,
I pledge my faith her beauties to restore,
Free, and unransomed, to her native shore;
Or, if she fear o'er ocean's wave to roam,
I am her parent, and my realm her home.'

'Enough! enough!' the Danish chief replies,
The bursting shower now gushing from his eyes;
'Firm 'gainst your conquering numbers had I stood,
And, lost to hope, bought glory with my blood,
Smiling elate in death, while round me rose
A dreadful monument of bleeding foes;
But mercy, pure as thine, O, England's lord!
Subdues the stubborn breast that scorns thy sword.

'Go to my camp, declare the conflict o'er,
That Alfred sways, and we resist no more;
Tell them, the sanguine toils of battle cease,—
Here I remain, a hostage of the peace.'

The Danes, with doubting eye and sullen breast,
Receive, in silence deep, their king's behest,
Yet unresolved, or at his will to yield,
Or try again the fortune of the field.
But when the morn's returning light display'd,
Far as the eye the spacious scene survey'd,
Gleams of refulgent arms on every side,
And myriads crowding still to swell the tide,
Hope from resistance sunk,—and bending low
Their banners, trail'd in dust, submission show,
Slow issuing on the plain, the yielding band,
By their piled arms, in anxious silence stand.

To whom the victor thus:—'Dismiss your fear,
Nor vengeance shall ye feel, nor insult hear;
The galling taunts a captive's ear that brave,
Tarnish the brightest trophies valour gave.
To those who wish from Albion's realms to fly,
Who pant for Scandinavia's bleaker sky,
My friendly barks shall yield free conduct o'er,
Shall land in safety on their native shore;
But all who here have ties congenial form'd,
Whose bosoms Albion's milder scenes have charm'd,
Beneath our sway protected may remain,
May freely cultivate the wasted plain;
For much, alas! of our unhappy soil,
Ravaged by war, demands the labourer's toil;
So by your care shall plenty be restored,
Your ploughs repair the ruin of your sword.
Though your remorseless priests, the conflict o'er,
Their bloody idols sate with human gore,
Our holy faith, with lenient precept, shows
The light of pity to repentant foes.—
Demons of Hell grasp Persecution's rod,
Mercy's the darling attribute of God.'

First ran a murmur through the attentive crowd,
Then shouts of joy their glad assent avow'd.
A few, by early ties to Denmark bound,
Cross'd the blue ocean to their natal ground;
But most, from infancy inured to roam,
War their employment, and a camp their home,
Unknown the wish, which turns with fond delight,
To woods and fields that charm'd the infant sight,
While barren moors, in memory's tablet drawn,
Eclipse of cultured care the greenest lawn,
In fertile England fix, nor wish to try
A harsher region, or a ruder sky,
Her laws adopting, happy to obey
The mild decrees of Alfred's parent sway;
Abjure the Pagan lore, whose fiend-like breath
Taught horrid rites of cruelty and death,
For that pure faith, with angel meekness fraught,
To unresisting foes which kindness taught.
From the brave hand his conquest that achieved
The holy cross the Danish chief received,
Wash'd, by the sacred lymph, from sin's foul ban,
No longer Guthrum now, but Athelstan.

Circling a mount, high rising from the plain,
The honour'd tomb of ancient heroes slain,
The minstrel train around, in choral lays
The exulting peal of peace and triumph raise,
While loud the thrilling harp's melodious wire
Vibrates responsive to the vocal choir.
When, issuing from the rest, with awful gait,
Slow moves a sacred troop, in solemn state,
A snowy garb each form majestic wears,
Each on his arm a golden viol bears.
Alfred with wonder, mid the hallow'd band
Conspicuous, sees Cornubia's Druid stand;
Him who, 'mid Athelney's surrounding shade,
Of distant times the glorious scenes display'd;
On the green summit of the grassy mound
Aloft he stands, and views the region round.
Again his heart mysterious strains inspire,
Again his accents breathe prophetic fire,
Which bursting boldly from his struggling breast,
In notes like these the attentive king address'd.
'Alfred, lo! now confirm'd my mystic strain,
Conquest her ensigns waves o'er Albion's reign;
Crown'd with success thy pious efforts see,
Thy foes are vanquish'd, and thy people free.
Much yet for thee remains;—in ether blue
Where yon bold heights melt from the aching view,
Beneath their base, among the flowery meads,
Her silver current gentle Isis leads.
There, to the Muse, must thy protective power
The solemn shade extend, and rear the tower.
Amid the warrior-laurel's blood-stain'd leaves,
Behold her brighter laurel Science weaves.
Lo! Rhedecyna's princely domes arise,
And shoot their thousand turrets to the skies.
There shall Religion light her holy flame,
And moral Wisdom glow at Virtue's name;
With desultory step shall Study rove,
In rapt attention, through each twilight grove.
There all that lies in volumes famed of old,
All that inquiring ages can unfold,
Whatever toil, or genius, can impart,
To charm, inform, and purify the heart,
Sought, and combined, by Education's hand,
Shall spread instruction round the illumined land.

'There, as from war relieved, thy bosom woos,
In Science' awful shade, the moral Muse,
The hallow'd form of Themis shall arise,
Her ample volume opening to thine eyes.
There shalt thou read the sacred code, whose zeal,
On private happiness, rears public weal.
In vain their guard constituent powers may draw,
And public Freedom's bold invader awe,
If fraud oppressive, or litigious strife,
Invade the humbler walks of private life;
Too oft the jealous patriot's general plan
Protects the state, regardless of the man,
While rule on rule that laws coercive frame,
Leave individual freedom but a name;
As the rich arms that blazon'd knighthood dress,
Protect the life, but every limb oppress.

Small is the woe to human life that springs
From tyrant factions, or from tyrant kings,
Compared with what it feels from legal pride,
From statutes rashly framed, or ill applied.
One legislator England's sons shall see,
From aught of pride, and aught of error free;
One code behold a patriot mind employ,
To shield from fraud and force domestic joy.
Though through the creviced wall, and shatter'd pane,
Sings the chill blast, or drives the drizzly rain,
The cot, more guarded than the embattled tower,
Stands a firm fortress 'gainst despotic power.
The poorest hind, in independance strong,
Is free from dread, if innocent of wrong,
Firm o'er his roof while holy Freedom rears
That sacred shield, the judgment of his peers.

'Let the stern despot of coercive law,
With racks and wheels, the wretched culprit awe,
Bid torturing flames and axes seal his doom,
Or plunge him living in the dungeon's tomb;
Thine be the glorious privilege to spare
The scourge of Justice, by preventive care.
The friendly decade, link'd in social ties,

Shall check the guilty scyon ere it rise,
The mild reproof shall weaken Passion's flame,
And kindling vice be quench'd by virtuous shame,
While mutual safety binds the blameless throng,
Each man responsive for his neighbour's wrong.

'As from the scanty rill, mid sheltering reeds
That steals, unnoticed, through the irriguous meads,
Swells the full stream Augusta's walls that laves,
Proud Commerce brooding o'er its sea-broad waves.
From the small acorn's orb, as, nursed by years,
Aloft the oak its giant branches rears,
And wide o'er wat'ry regions learns to roam,
Wherever tempests blow, and billows foam;
So, boldly rising from this humble base,
The simple canon of an artless race,
A fabric stands, the wonder of the sage,
The guard and glory of a polish'd age.
Not to thy native coasts confined alone,—
Borne by thy sons to Earth's remotest zone,
Where, in the burning east, the lamp of day
Chears the mild Bramin with its orient ray,
Where its declining radiance warms a clime
Yet wrapp'd from notice in the womb of time;
Mid boundless tracts, beneath the rigid poles,
Where scarce the foliage bursts, the current rolls,
Where the wild savage treads the dreary coasts,
Rude as their cliffs, and sullen as their frosts;
Or where, embosomed in the southern tide,
Bloom isles and continents yet undescried,
By British arms, and British virtues borne,
Shall arts of cultured life the waste adorn;
The patriot dictates of an Alfred's mind
Spread peace and freedom wide o'er human kind.

'Now learn events, yet unreveal'd that lie
In the dark bosom of futurity.—
As my delighted eyes, in yon firm line,
With friendly folds see Albion's banners join,
I view them, in prophetic vision shewn,
United subjects of a mighty throne;
See Cambria's, Caledonia's, Anglia's name
Blended, and lost in Britain's prouder fame.
And ye, fair Erin's sons, though Ocean's tide
From Britain's shores your kindred shores divide,
That tide shall bear your mingled flags unfurl'd,
A mutual barrier from an envying world;
While the same waves that hostile inroad awe,
The sister isles to closer compact draw,
Waft Friendship's intercourse, and Plenty's stores,
From Shannon's brink, to Humber's distant shores.
Each separate interest, separate right shall cease,
Link'd in eternal amity and peace,
While Concord blesses, with celestial smiles,
The favour'd empire of the British Isles.

'But come, victorious bands! with common toil
Sketch the white courser on the pendent soil.
O'er many a rood the chalky outline drawn
Pourtrays the Saxon ensign on the lawn,
Which, from the extended vale, the curious eye
In times remote, with wonder shall descry—
The lasting monument of victory.
When in revolving age's lapse, once more
We hail the argent steed from Elba's shore,
This in your brave descendants' shields shall shine,
The patriot kings of Othbert's mighty line;

Othbert, of Roman race; who led his train
From Tiber's brink to cold Germania's plain.
This, drawn in silver blazonry, shall grace
The stoutest warriors of Britannia's race;
Mid fiery horrors, yet to war unknown,
Horrors by fiends to future battle shewn;
Mid flames more dreadful than the lightning's glare,
Peals that with louder thunder rend the air
Than Jove's dread bolts, the honour'd badge they bear.

'Oft then, with festal joy, the rustic crew
Shall, the worn outline which you trace, renew;
And, as in yon deep foss and threatening mound,
By which the upland summit now is crown'd,
Then smooth'd by time, by flocks successive trod,
And softly clad in verdure's velvet sod,
With sinewy arm they hurl the massy bar,
Speed the swift race, or wage the sportive war;
Little they reck, though faithful annals tell,
That here Invasion fought, Invasion fell.

'Nor Vinitagia, shall thy humble towers,
Though the dark shade thy lowly walls embowers,
Be shrowded from the Muse's favouring eye,
Or miss the votive strain of melody.
For all who fame in arms, or arts revere,
All to whom Freedom's sacred cause is dear,
All who enjoy a sovereign's temper'd sway,
Which temperate freedom glories to obey,
Shall love, shall venerate the hallow'd earth,
Which gave their first of kings, their Alfred, birth.

'Yet o'er the scene, with dawning splendour bright,
One cloud of sorrow throws funereal night;
Deep in the vale, where yon green summit stands,
Conspicuous rising mid the level lands,
There shall thy son, thy Edward, yield his breath,
And tread the inevitable road of death.—
Restrain thy tears,—for not in youth's fresh bloom
Sinks he, untimely, to the silent tomb.
In lapse of age possessor of thy crown,
Mature in years, in virtue, in renown,
He falls in peace, a people's general groan
His holy passport to a heavenly throne.

'There shall, in Time's remote and distant day,
A voice to Alfred's name devote the lay.
If not like hallow'd poets, who of old
In verse divine of gods and heroes told;
Or those pourtraying truth in fiction's dye,
The fairy bards of Gothic minstrelsy;
Yet while his tongue shall chaunt, in humble strain,
The real glories of an Alfred's reign,
If not by Genius, fired by patriot zeal
For Freedom's favourite seat, for Albion's weal;
For him, though no perennial laurel bloom,
Living to grace his brow, or shade his tomb;
Yet Truth approving, sure may give one flower,
Faint though its tint, and short its transient hour.

'O, would that bard sublime, whose seraph fire
Shall call forth rapture from the epic wire,
Whose daring Muse shall soar, with eagle flight,
Beyond of Grecian song the proudest height,
Drink, with undazzled look, the etherial beams
From the pure fount whence light immortal streams,
Fill, with the magic of his mighty hand,
That outline his creative fancy plann'd,
Then should a monument eternal rise,
Worthy of Alfred's glory, to the skies.
But scorning earthly deeds, and earthly fame,
His bosom burning with celestial flame,
To sapphire fields aloft he wings his flight,
Lost in the blaze of empyréan light.'

Now on the summit of the upland lawn,
In martial pride, beneath their banners drawn,
Stood the united host.—With thrilling clang
At once a thousand harps symphonious rang,
Proclaiming, while war's brazen clarions cease,
'Pride, pomp, and circumstance, of glorious peace.'
Brave Caledonia bows the conquering sword,
And Cambria's prince owns his superior lord.
All hail the godlike hero, first who reigns
Unrivall'd monarch of Britannia's plains;
While Erin's joyful shouts applauding, join
The strains fraternal of the British line.—

The king, surrounded by his victor bands,
In all the pride of conscious virtue stands;
The sounds of homage that around him roll,
Swell not the placid current of his soul.—
Though by the chiefs of shouting hosts adored,
A conquering nation stooping to his sword;
While, with a stronger arm than shook the field,
His clemency compels their souls to yield:
Though myriads burn his purpose to fulfil,
Their rein his wisdom, and their spur his will;
Though conscious Rectitude, with inward voice,
The impulse seconds, and confirms his choice;
In specious colours painting to his mind,
The power unlimited to bless mankind.
Uncheck'd by human barriers, to impart
Wide, the pure dictates of a patriot heart,
Spread peace and justice o'er a smiling land,
Crush stern Oppression with a giant hand;
Yet in Truth's faithful mirror stands reveal'd,
A charge too vast for mortal man to wield.
Convinced, of public care the unnumber'd dyes
From human rights and human crimes that rise,
No single heart can judge, or arm secure,
However active, and however pure;
That the bright lure of arbitrary sway
May tempt the firmest foot from Virtue's way;
With careful hand around his throne he draws
The sacred bulwark of unbiass'd laws.
Or, if awhile his fervid pulse might beat
With the wild frenzy of Ambition's heat,
Sudden the visionary vapours fly
From the mild lustre of Elsitha's eye.
To the soft charities of social life
He turns, from lust of power, and rage of strife;
Feels the true duty of the royal mind,
His first, his purest bliss, to bless mankind.
Scorning the base degenerate power that craves
A hard-wrung homage, from a horde of slaves,
His generous thoughts to nobler fame aspire,
His bosom glows with more celestial fire;
Happy to form, by Virtue's sovereign sway,
A gallant race of freemen to obey,
Respect by deeds of goodness to impart,
And fix his empire o'er the willing heart;
While patriot worth this godlike mandate taught,
'Free be the Briton's action as his thought.'

Such the true pride of Alfred's royal line,
Such of Britannia's kings the right divine.

As in his mind revolving thus, he stood,
The thoughts congenial of the wise and good,
Along the blue serene, with distant voice,
Again Heaven's thunder consecrates his choice;
While Britain's throne applauding angels saw
Rear'd on the base of Liberty and Law.

ARGUMENT. Episode of Ceolph and Emmeline—March of the Army.—Battle of Eddington.


'Mid Selwood's sylvan walks, with martial care,
The king arrays his valiant troops for war.—
As when autumnal vapours dimly rise,
And load, with future storms, the misty skies,
From the surrounding hills and bordering main
The gathering clouds condense, then break in rain;
So, from each green retreat and bowering shade,
The eager warriors crowd to Alfred's aid.
Dark, on the plain, the thick battalion stands,
To burst, tempestuous, on the adverse bands.

As o'er the tented field the squadrons spread,
Stretch'd on the turf the hardy soldier's bed;
While the strong mound, and warder's careful eyes,
Protect the midnight camp from quick surprise,
A voice, in hollow murmurs from the plain,
Attracts the notice of the wakeful train.

'Soldiers! who prowling wide in ceaseless round,
Trace the fenced circuit of the embattled mound,
To Alfred's tent a wandering warrior bring,
Who knows what much concerns your martial king.'

From guard to guard the words in whispers pass'd,
And reach'd the monarch's watchful ear at last;
For on the leader's eye the ambrosial dews
Of balmy slumber scanty drops diffuse.—
Convey'd with caution through the silent bands,
Before the royal tent the stranger stands.—

'Warrior!' the monarch cries; 'whate'er thy birth,
Or Briton born, or rear'd on foreign earth,
Freely thy wish disclose, secure to find,
For pain, and care, a sympathizing mind,
Train'd in Misfortune's rugged school, I know,
A man myself, to pity human woe.'

'Yes, thou may'st pity those,' he stern replied,
'By error plunged in dark Misfortune's tide,
Even to thy proudest foe may'st mercy give,
Spare the fallen head, and bid the suppliant live;
But he, whose traitor heart, by Envy fired
Against his Prince, his Country, has conspired;
Who, to avenge Ambition's baffled aim,
Gave up his native land to sword and flame,
Can hope no guerdon from the brave and good,
But rage repaid by rage, and blood by blood;
Mercy in vain the suppliant's grief may feel,
When public Justice lifts her sacred steel.
Should generous Alfred feel a wretch's woe,
The patriot King must crush his country's foe.
Strike then a breast, whose arteries swell to pour,
To injured Albion's wrongs, a crimson shower,
And, to the manes of thy slaughter'd host,
Send tidings of revenge by Ceolph's ghost.'

He paused—and, as the traitor stood confess'd,
Alternate passions shook the monarch's breast:
Now, tugging at his heart, vindictive ire
Breathes through his heaving form a fatal fire,
While myriads of his bravest warriors slain,
Whose limbs, unburied, strew'd the empurpled plain,
While cries of infancy, and groans of age,
Unhappy victims of apostate rage,
Sit on his sword, and urge the instant blow
Of rigid justice on the treacherous foe.
And now the conscious dignity that leads
The undaunted soldier to heroic deeds,
Aware, though injured right the stroke demand,
That blood, thus shed, must stain the warrior's hand,
Who grasps a sword that never yet had sped
Its force resistless on a prostrate head,
Arrests his arm, by cruel wrongs though strung,
And checks the blow that o'er the victim hung.

Ceolph at once perceived the generous strife,
And thus pursued his tale.—'This forfeit life
Think not I wish to save—to carry hence
A conscience deeply stain'd by foul offence.—
Each avenue to fame and virtue cross'd,
A name dishonour'd, and a daughter lost;
A daughter, by a ruffian's venom'd breath
Condemn'd, alas! to horrors worse than death,
Can Ceolph, wretched Ceolph, wish to live?—
No!—all that he can ask, or thou canst give,
Are means of vengeance.—Set me once again
In the red vaward of the embattled plain.—
I seek not glory—from her radiant roll,
Envy's malicious demons snatch'd my soul;—
But let me hunt, amid the toils of fight,
The fiend who dragg'd me down from Virtue's height.
Perhaps this arm, amid the battle's roar,
With slaughter flush'd, and steep'd in Danish gore,
Through the protective shield and threatening dart,
May reach the foul abode of Oswald's heart:
Then shall, in peace, this tortured spirit fly,
Whose only wish is vengeance, and to die.

'O, Alfred!—coward tears! why dim my sight,
Where dire revenge should glare with lurid light?
O, Alfred! let thine ear my wrongs receive,
Pity that wretch even Mercy can't forgive.

'Short are the joys malignant passions yield.—
Scarce were the horrors cold of Wilton's field,
When, Envy's sanguinary frenzy o'er,
The pangs of conscious guilt my bosom tore.
I saw my pride had urged Destruction's band,
To sate their vengeance on my native land;
Saw Rapine, Lust, and Murder's furious brood,
Their footsteps drench in carnage and in blood;
Saw Innocence and Beauty plead, in vain,
To the wild license of a cruel train,
Who, scorning sweet Endearment's 'suasive breath,
The shrieking virgin woo with threats of death.
Vainly I strove, with ineffectual aim,
To damp wild Devastation's spreading flame;
They mock'd the worthless friend by Envy made,
And scorn'd the soldier who his Prince betray'd.—

Lives there a horde so rude as not to know
The ills from violated faith that flow?
As not to hate the wretch who arms the hand
Of foreign vengeance, 'gainst his native land?
Despised by those my treason fail'd to gain,
Reviled and hated by my feudal train,
Whom my base arts had lured, from virtuous fame,
To scenes of insult, misery, and shame,
Still was I doom'd by righteous Heaven to know
The biting anguish of a nearer woe.—
My Emmeline!—unbend that brow severe,
O, curse the traitor, but the parent hear!
My Emmeline—sweet as the opening rose,
Pure as the gale o'er violet banks that blows,
Attracted Oswald's eye; a chief allied
To Guthrum's line, his mate in power and pride.
The wretch whose specious breath, with fiend-like art,
Blew the dire embers lurking in my heart,
Raised to gigantic shape my fancied wrong,
And drew my recreant soul to Denmark's throng.
Of me he ask'd the maid,—my anxious thought
Saw his design with foul dishonour fraught.
With feign'd respect I strove to soothe his pride,
And undervalued what my fears denied.
Sullen he stalk'd away, nor deign'd reply;
I mark'd his lowering brow and fiery eye;
Full well I knew how, in the impatient heart,
Rankles of disappointed hope the smart.
Short the suspense—the hand of lawless power
Tore my sad daughter from her peaceful bower.
In vain to Guthrum's feet I suppliant came,
The sword of Justice in my cause to claim.
While tears, and prayers, and threats, alternate strove,
As the wild gust of veering passion drove.
Alas! a traitor's tears unpitied flow,
And weak the threats of a dishonour'd foe.
Then late Remorse, with all a Fury's tongue,
In my stunn'd ears ‘Woe to the vanquish'd,’ rung.

'Contemn'd, neglected, as an outcast vile
I pass'd, unnoticed, by the warder's file.—
Alfred, to thee I come!—on thy decree
Thy faithless vassal's fate depending see;
Give me, 'tis all I ask, with pitying breath,
The means of vengeance, or the stroke of death.'

'O, far from me,' replies the King, 'to tread,
Remoreseles, on repentant Misery's head,
Draw heavier vengeance from the thundering cloud,
And break the wretched heart that Heaven has bow'd.
Backward to trace Rebellion's path be thine,
To aid returning Virtue's effort mine.
Even now the troops, impatient of delay,
Chide night's slow march, and pant for rising day;
Already neigh their steeds, their banners fly,
While shouts, and shrill-toned clarions rend the sky.
Frowning through tears, indignant Mercia's host
Burn to avenge their prince, their leader, lost.
Now youthful Leofric guides them to the plain,
Breathing defiance 'gainst the treacherous Dane.
Amid their ranks the award of battle wait,
And vindicate an injured rival's fate.
Redeem, by manly vengeance on the foe,
The stroke that laid unhappy Burthred low.
Who, forced by fate, new climates to explore,
A wretched wanderer, sought the Italian shore;

Where, sunk by toil and grief, imperial Rome
Rear'd, o'er his sainted head, the hallow'd tomb.'
'And is he fall'n?—the virtuous and the brave!—
Sleeps Burthred?—sleeps he in a foreign grave?—
O, glorious martyr in thy country's cause!
O'er thee no veil of shame Reflection draws.—
With indignation o'er my recreant head
While every friend to patriot faith shall tread,
With grief eternal o'er thy sacred bier
Shall injured Albion shed the votive tear.
Yes!—in the foremost ranks of war I'll stand,
And point the path to thy avenging band,
First of thy squadron will I dare the plain,
Lead them o'er streams of blood, and hills of slain;
Dread as the baleful meteor of the night,
My sword shall guide them through the thickest fight:
No plated buckler's ample fold I need,
To guard a wretched breast resolved to bleed.
Yet, when returning from the fatal field,
Borne, a pale corse, upon the soldier's shield,
Even Ceolph shall be pardon'd when they tell
How brave he fought, how penitent he fell.'

Now in the east the morn's gray banner floats,
Loud breathe the inspiring clarion's martial notes.
The impatient warriors instant at the sound,
Spread, in refulgent phalanx, o'er the ground.—
Again the clarion blows—in bright array
The dazzling columns win their winding way.
As now the mountain's airy brow they scale,
Pace the smooth plain, or thrid the woodland dale,
From their refulgent helms, and glittering shields,
A flood of radiant glory gilds the fields.
From morn's first orient blush, till dewy eve,
Nor food nor rest the ardent host relieve.
But when, in rising Luna's silver beam,
The towering summits of Æcglea gleam,

The warriors' limbs, forespent with constant toil,
In needful slumber press the grassy soil,
Their march renewing with the morning light,
New strung their nerves, and panting for the fight.

Passing the borders of the forest drear,
A shriek of female anguish pierced the ear,
And, starting from the shade, a figure wan,
With piteous plaint arrests the wondering van.
Loose flow'd her careless robe, her streaming hair
Floated, in ruffled tangles, to the air,
And on her livid cheek and haggard eye,
Throned in imperial state, sat misery.

With voice by weeping choked, convulsed her breast,
The woe-lorn form the passing host address'd.
'O, see before you, humbled to the dust,
A victim sad of cruelty and lust.—
When in the battle's doubtful shock ye join,
Think of the horrors of a fate like mine;
The curses of a violated maid
Shall nerve each arm, shall sharpen every blade.
For me—conceal'd my lineage and my name—
Ah, once my country's glory! now its shame!—
One only way remains from deep disgrace
To clear the offspring of a noble race.'—
She ceased—and instant in her struggling breast
Her fatal poniard sheath'd, and sunk to rest.

Half petrified around the warriors stand,
When, sudden darting from the astonish'd band,
Rush'd Ceolph forth—and as his eye survey'd
The breathless reliques of the murder'd maid,
'My Emmeline!'—with frantic tone, he cried,
Then sunk in death-like torpor by her side.—
Now starting from the trance,—his maniac eye
Fix'd on the pale remains that bleeding lie.—

From the pierced heart he drew the reeking blade,
With frantic look the ensanguined point survey'd,
While from his eye-balls darts, with horrid glare,
The enfuriate wildness of supreme despair.—
The impulse checking, ere he gave the wound,
Furious he dash'd the weapon to the ground,
And, clasping to his breast, with frenzied force,
The mangled bosom of the beauteous corse,
'O, injured Emmeline!—O, ill-starr'd maid!
Sad victim of a father's crimes;' he said,
'Awhile this loath'd existence I endure,
To make the deadly blow of vengeance sure.
Ye ruthless ministers of hell! I come,
The author of my own and Oswald's doom!'

While grief and rage in every bosom strove,
Breathing revenge, the generous warriors move.
Conceal'd by forests deep, whose ample shade

Spread gloom impervious o'er the twilight glade,
Through many a silvan glen the silent throng,
Unseen, unheard, vindictive march along,
Till, issuing on the plain, the verdant height
Of Eddington breaks sudden on their sight;
Conspicuous waving on whose breezy brow,
Proud Scandinavia's threatening banners flow,
Wide spreads the dread array, with ruddy gleam
Their bright arms glittering in the evening beam.

Fired at the view, instinctive ardour runs
Through every band of Britain's mingled sons;
On England's plains the flash of foreign arms
By Conquest crown'd, the coldest bosom warms;
While the brave leader of the British name,
With kindling accents fans the rising flame.

'My faithful subjects, and my brave allies,
All equal heirs of Albion's fostering skies,
Nor peace, nor liberty, can Britain know,
But from the fall of yon injurious foe.
The paths through yon embattled barrier lie,
That lead to freedom and to victory.—

On civil strife what horrid ills await,
Of foreign servitude the grievous state,
No words of mine need paint—for lo! it stood,
Drawn in the red charactery of blood
Full in your sight—what time the hapless maid,
Sad victim! fell, self-murder'd, on the glade.—
Is there a father, lover, husband, here,
Holds female charms, and female honour dear?
Let indignation urge each fatal blow,
With more than mortal vengeance on the foe.
Is there a warrior, 'mid this valiant train,
Who mourns a parent, son, or brother slain?
O, let him speak the sorrows of his breast
In strokes of thunder on the Danish crest.
If there be one, by guilty wiles misled,
Who 'gainst his native land his force has sped,
O, let him expiate now the dire disgrace,
By tenfold vengeance on yon hostile race;
And, in the blood of Scandinavia's horde,
Wash off the stain from his polluted sword.

'And ye from Cambria's hills who join our band,
From Caledonia's rocks, and Erin's strand,
Generous and brave compeers! O, now be shewn
The only strife that future times shall own.
A glorious strife of Britain's isles the pride,
The friendly contest ne'er may time decide;
Eternal be the conflict which shall fight,
First in their monarch's, and their country's right!'

Though now, in mellower tint, the orb of day
Sheds o'er the hostile camp a golden ray,
Yet each bold leader of the associate bands
The expected sign of instant war demands;
But Alfred checks their zeal, till morning's light,
Dispelling all the vapoury shades of night,
Shall pour new ardour through the warrior's breast,
Gay, as the laughing hour, and fresh from rest.
Long was the march, and all the rugged way
Through thorny brakes, and tangled thickets lay.
Conscious that soft repose their limbs require,
The prudent chief restrains their generous fire;
For though, when high the flames of battle rise,
Valour's impatient fury strength supplies;
Firm and unfailing sinews must sustain
The lengthen'd labours of the bloody plain.

But while the soldiers, on the tented ground,
The sweets of slumber and reflection found,
The balmy cordial of refreshing rest
Ne'er soothed to peace the princely leader's breast.
Now through the silent camp his footsteps steal,
To wake the wearied centry's drooping zeal;
Now anxious on his sleepless couch reclined,
He calls forth all the treasures of his mind,
His thoughts the various forms of battle weigh,
And plan the conflict of the coming day.

Though each resource of martial art he tried,
Not on his skill alone the chief relied;
Not on his host, though every bosom, fired
With patriot zeal, a patriot soul inspired.
Not always in the lists of life belong
The wreaths of conquest to the swift and strong;
A Power beyond the span of human souls,
The wisest plans of erring man controuls.
To that tremendous Power, whose awful will
Swells the loud storm, bids the wild roar be still,
Fires the red bolt, or moulds the crystal hail,
Or breathes soft fragrance in the vernal gale;—
Who, o'er the wretched outcast's houseless head,
His adamantine shield can favouring spread;
The cause forlorn of suffering Virtue own,
Or hurl Oppression from his guilty throne;
To that dread Power he bows, with heart sincere,
'And, fearing Heaven, despises earthly fear.'
Nor was exempt from nearer, humbler grief,
The pious votary and the royal chief.
Too oft of selfish pride the poisonous taint,
Rankling, infects the patriot and the saint.
Not Alfred such—his generous feelings prove
Each charity of friendship and of love;
From warm benevolence each germ that sprung,
With shoot congenial, round his bosom clung:
And that divine ambition fill'd his mind
Which grasps the happiness of human kind.

Soon as the harbinger of morn, on high
Beat Heaven's blue vault, and caroll'd through the sky;
When now the first pale streaks of rising day
Oped, on the steaming hills, their eyelids gray,
Collected from the tents, the impatient band,
Waiting the word, in listening silence stand.
Then, as his eye along the embattled van,
Fill'd with the pleasing hope of conquest, ran,
A pensive languor in the monarch's breast
Damp'd fame's keen ardour, and that hope repress'd.—
Full many a youth, in manhood's prime, he knew,
Who now the balmy breath of morning drew,
Would, ere the dewy shades of eve descend,
On Earth's cold breast a lifeless corse extend:
O'er them, of Glory's amaranthine flowers,
Their country's hands shall shed perennial showers,
Secure alike of honour's purest meed,
For her who conquer, or for her who bleed.—
And now before the warrior's melting eyes,
The peerless beauties of Elsitha rise,—
While round him float the clarion's loud alarms,
He clasps the lovely matron in his arms;
With manly fondness chides her anxious cares,
Or sportive mocks the sorrows that he shares,
Nor quits the endearing fold with tearless eye,
Though war's vindictive clangor rends the sky.—
When threatening round the fearless warrior's head,
The rising thunders of the battle spread,
When clouds of iron-tempest o'er him lower,
And pour unnumber'd deaths in arrowy shower,
Unmoved he stands, in zeal heroic warm,
A breathing bulwark 'gainst the furious storm;
As the firm-rooted oak the tempest braves,
As the steep cliff defies the angry waves;
But the soft magic of Affection's tear
Wakes in the bravest heart a transient fear:
Though love, heroic ardour may inspire,
Its object weeping damps the hero's fire;
O'er Valour's cheek, Affliction's moisture steals,
A chief he combats, but a man he feels.

From fair Elsitha's chaste, and fond embrace,
The monarch speeds, to join the warrior race.
Darting his eye along the radiant files,
The firm array he views, with cheerful smiles;
Breathes bold resolve through every soldier's breast,
And ardent zeal by discipline repress'd.
Sudden the ensigns move.—As in the vale,
When from the irriguous marsh the dews exhale,
The floating mists from eve's dank breath that spread,
In whitening volume, o'er the level mead,
Appearing, through the glimmering shades of night,
A waste of waters to the traveller's sight,
At morn roll up the mountain steep, and crown,
With clouds of dim expanse, the upland down;
So, from the hollows of the winding dale,
Slow, the ascent the British warriors scale;
So, wide extended on the breezy height,
Tremendous frown the threatening clouds of fight,
Where the wan twilight of the opening dawn
Shews, throng'd with hostile spears, the aërial lawn.

Loud blows the clarion shrill!—with thundering sound
Roars the tremendous peal of battle round.
Full in the front the English archers stand,
The bent bow drawing home with sinewy hand,
Scarcely the shining barbs the tough yew clear,
The ductile nerve stretch'd to the bowman's ear.
Not from the foe by sheltering ranks conceal'd,
Boldly they dare the foreward of the field;
With deadly point the levell'd arrows shine,
Pierce the cuirass, and check the close-wedged line:
Here Caledonia's hardy mountaineers
Lift the broad targe, there mark her lowland spears;
While Cambria's and Ierne's warriors brave,
With lighter arms, the war's destructive wave;
Spread o'er their agile limbs the osier shield,
The shorten'd sword, and biting pole-axe wield;
Strike, with swift aim, the desultory blow,
And tire, with varied shock, the wavering foe.
Clad in rich panoply, each high-born knight
Impels his barbed courser to the fight;
The burnish'd arms a bright refulgence shed,
White waves the plumage o'er the helmed head;
And on the ample shield, and blazon'd crest,
Shines, of each chief, the known device impress'd.
Swift as the rapid bird of Summer flies,
Cleaving, with agile wing, the tepid skies,
The warlike squadrons on the spur advance,
With seat unshaken, and protended lance.—
Ampler in numbers, Denmark's sons oppose
The dreadful onset of their rushing foes:
With lowering front the northern warriors stand,
In deep array, a firm, and fearless band:
And, as where Scandinavia's mountains rear
The accumulated snows of many a year,
The enormous masses undissolved remain,
And summer suns roll over them in vain;
So the unshaken squadrons, firm, defy
The lightnings of the war that round them fly.—
Loud blows the brazen tube's inspiring breath,
With shouts of triumph mix'd, and groans of death;
With horrid shock the infuriate hosts engage,
And Slaughter stalks around with fiend-like rage.

Fierce Ceolph views the field with fiery eye,
And marks where haughty Oswald's banners fly:
Then swift and dreadful, as the whirlwind's force
Speeds o'er the ruin'd fields its fatal course,
Through all the horrors of the raging fray
He cuts, with furious arm, his eager way;
Before the Danish chief his circling train,
Their spears and sheltering shields oppose in vain;
Breathless and bleeding, onward still he press'd
Through groves of iron pointed at his breast;
'Gainst Oswald's heart his rapid sword he drives,
The thundering stroke the solid corslet rives;
Prone falls the injurious tyrant on the ground,
His life-blood streaming from the fatal wound;
Pierced by a thousand spears, on earth laid low,
The expiring victor spurns his prostrate foe;
O'er the warm corse in fatal triumph lies,
And, sated with revenge, exulting dies!

Around the banners of their bleeding lords,
With shock impetuous, close the adverse hordes,
Each squadron emulous to bear away
The blazon'd trophies of the doubtful fray.

While here the war in equal balance hung,
And loud the peal of death terrific rung,
With happier fortune Albion's force was sped
His veteran bands where royal Alfred led.
There, like a torrent, o'er the yielding Dane,
With force resistless, pour the Saxon train,
For every soldier, in his monarch's sight,
With all a hero's ardour dared the fight.
The rising shout of triumph Guthrum hears,
His chiefs receding from the English spears,
Then gathers round him all his scatter'd force,
Points to the spot, and urges on their course;
The increasing numbers, by his summons drawn,
In swift career pour o'er the dusty lawn.
As on the deep, when driving winds afar,
Swell the blue surge, and rouse the billowy war,
The wary mariner the ocean sees
Scowling and black before the approaching breeze;
As o'er the champaign wide the dark clouds sail,
The ripen'd harvest waving in the gale;
So watchful Alfred saw, condensed and strong,
The threatening storm of battle sweep along;
His scatter'd files, by instant order closed,
To the fierce foe a steady front opposed:
In vain the troops, by rage impetuous arm'd,
In numbers strong, by recent conquest warm'd,
Press round on every side—with eagle glance
Alfred beholds the intrepid band advance.
The furious onset checks with martial care,
And stems the fiery deluge of the war,
While swifter than his eye his fatal sword
Strikes from his courser many a Danish lord.
The troops, dismay'd, behold their chieftains bleed,
Turn in amaze, and from the fight recede;
Indignant Guthrum views the recreant train,
And chides them to the front of war in vain.

'Dastards!' he cries, 'is this your vaunted boast?—
Flies from a single sword your coward host?
Mine be the task to wipe away your shame,
And vindicate the sullied Danish name.'

He said, and stung at once by rage and grief,
Impels his courser toward the British chief;
With sinewy arm, and rising to the blow,
His ponderous spear he aims against his foe;
Opposed, the king his shield oblique extends,
On the wide orb the thundering stroke descends,
But, from the polish'd surface sidelong cast,
The steely point with erring fury pass'd;—
Not innocent of blood—for Mercia's pride,
Leofric the brave, who fought by Alfred's side,
Leofric of youthful bloom, and royal race,
From Burthred sprung, and Ellen's chaste embrace,
Who braved the combat, urged by generous fire,
Pious avenger of his exiled sire,
Received the lance, and life its purple showers,
Down his white vest and shining armour, pours;
His nerveless arm forsakes the useless rein,
And low he sinks, war's victim, on the plain.

In Alfred's breast the fires of vengeance rise,
Red glows his cheek, and ardent flash his eyes.
'Gainst Guthrum's heart, the ample shield above,
His weighty spear the royal Briton drove;
But from the corslet's plated scales rebounds
The blunted weapon, nor the bosom wounds;
By the strong fury of the ponderous stroke
Shiver'd, the strong-grain'd ash to atoms broke,
And the stunn'd warrior, tottering with the force,
Stoop'd from the blow, and scarce retain'd his horse;
On rush'd the hero, shining in his hand
The broad refulgence of his threatening brand;
Full on the Danish crest the blow descends,
Beneath the mighty shock the warrior bends,
Though the proved helm the trenchant steel disarms,
Prone on the dust he falls, with clanging arms;
Then o'er the extended chief as Alfred stood,
Soon had he paid the forfeit price of blood,
Or, led in triumph by the victor's side,
Changed, for a captive's chains, a tyrant's pride;
When generous Hardiknute rush'd through the strife,
And ransom'd, with his own, his monarch's life.
Quitting his courser, while the attending horde
Placed on the steed their bruised and vanquish'd lord,
Opposed to Alfred's sword, he dauntless stands
A rampire to the chief of Denmark's bands,
Victim of true allegiance' generous call,
By Alfred's arm ennobled in his fall.
Now to the close-fenced camp, with needful care,
Their wounded prince the Danish chieftains bear.
Mix'd with the flying rout, the Saxon horse,
With bleeding warriors, mark their fatal course;
Give to vindictive rage the loosen'd rein,
And the wide field with hostile carnage stain.

Different the scene where, o'er the extended field,
The Danish squadrons to the auxiliars yield;
In swift pursuit the ranks their order lose,
The turning foes again their columns close;
And while of ebbing fight the refluent course,
Checks, in its mid career, the victor's force,
Increasing numbers from the encampment near,
Hang on his scatter'd flank, and sever'd rear:
Press'd on each side, Scotia's bold sons in vain
The rising labours of the war sustain;
Fierce as the Danes in loose array, advance,
Useless the ample targe, and lengthen'd lance,
While Cambria's and Ierne's warriors pour
Of feathery darts an ineffectual shower:
Not like the shaft sent from the English bow,
The corslet riving with resistless blow,
As the dread fury of the thunder's stroke
Shivers, with fearful shock, the mountain oak;
The missile reed that lightly flies along,
Thrown from the cross-bow, or the sounding thong,
Bounds, with vain effort, from the temper'd mail,
As from the rocky cliff the pelting hail.

Around the field, as with attentive gaze,
Alfred the fortune of the day surveys,
He marks where Caledonia's banner flows
At distance, circled by a cloud of foes;
With eagle swiftness o'er the crimson'd glade,
He leads his victor squadrons to their aid,
The chase forsaking of a flying foe,
To rush where bold resistance deals the blow.
More pleased the shock of adverse hosts to dare,
And the proud wreath from Valour's helmet tear,
Than snatch a trophy from a yielding crowd,
Unbought by peril, and unstain'd by blood.
The cautious Danes behold the approaching storm,
Close their loose files, and firm their battle form.
Swift as the arrow from the elastic yew,
To youthful Donald's aid, the hero flew,
With sudden shock he breaks the opposing bands,
And by his side an aid terrific stands,
His guardian shield extends, and scatters far,
With godlike arm, the threatening ranks of war.
As lightning swift around his faulchion flies,
At every stroke a Danish warrior dies.
In vain fresh numbers to the fight succeed,
Trembling they fly, or combating, they bleed.

Brave Donald, fired by emulative pride,
Spurs on his steed, contending by his side:
Such emulation as the generous feel,
Such contest as is roused by warlike zeal;
Which only in the virtuous bosom glow,
Nor jealous hatred raise, nor envy know:
The active springs that Donald's bosom move,
Are steady friendship and unsullied love.
Friendship that, fearless, in the battle's strife,
Would sacrifice his own for Alfred's life;
Love, that no hope of selfish bliss would buy
With one sad tear from chaste Elsitha's eye.

Press'd and confused, recede the Danish bands,
To where their camp a rampired fortress stands.—
It chanced that wintry rains, with constant force,
Through the resisting mound had worn a course;
This the proud race, of strength and courage vain,
Unheeding pass, or, heeding, they disdain,
But 'scaped not Alfred's wary search, when round

The midnight camp he raised the minstrel's sound;
Hither his arm the storm of battle guides—
Loud roar, of closing fight, the straiten'd tides.
When Hinguar, brother of the imperious lord,
Hubba, who fell by valiant Oddune's sword,
Against the King, with spear protended, flies
Swift, and unheeded by the monarch's eyes.
Young Donald saw, and met his subtle foe,
His shield presenting to the threat'ning blow.
Passing the buckler, on the prince's breast
Lights the fell stroke, with skilful arm address'd,
Rives, with dire force, the plated corselet's joint,
And drinks his vital blood with fatal point;
On his wan cheek the rose of beauty dies,
And swimming vapours dim his closing eyes;
Drops from his hand his unavailing sword,
And his sad train receive their dying lord.

''Tis past,' he cried, 'the toil of war is o'er,
This heart, at Glory's call must beat no more;
Yet, ruthless tyrant of the darksome grave,
Thy form terrific ne'er alarms the brave!
But, O! my friends, a father's grief control,
Speak comfort to his agonizing soul.
Tell him, though swift his Donald's earthly race,
Yet not inglorious was its short-lived space;
One hour of Fame more lasting trophies rears,
Than wait on coward Sloth's protracted years.
Mature he dies, who dies when Glory calls,
Who falls with honour ne'er untimely falls,
Graced in my obsequies, since Alfred's tear
Will shed its kindly dew o'er Donald's bier.
O, glorious prince! my leader and my friend,
On me the eye of virtuous pity bend;
In me, extended on this fatal plain,
You see, alas! a wretched rival slain.—
Start not—for though, in youthful fancy warm,
My heart drank love from chaste Elsitha's form,
Yet was that more than angel form enshrined
With sanctimonious reverence in my mind.
No pilgrim e'er, with toil and watching faint,
Paid purer homage to his patron saint.—
A flame, from aught of grosser passion free,
Dying, I boast, and dying boast to thee,
O, should thy virtuous consort deign to throw,
On Donald's fate, one drop of pitying woe,
Tell her I glorious fell, in battle's pride,
Stemming her Alfred's foes, and by his side.—
And, ah! with Kindness' lenient balm, assuage
My father's grief, and smooth the couch of age.
Childless, unfriended,—should Rebellion raise
Its bloody storms to cloud his closing days,
My dying breath points out, in Alfred's care,
His people's guardian, and his Donald's heir.'

He ceased, and as along the lucid rill,
When wintry Eurus shoots his arrows chill,
The icy rigour spreads with stiffening force,
Dims its clear surface, and arrests its course;
So through his veins Death's freezing languor steals,
And the closed eye a leaden slumber seals;
Aloft his spirit mounts the viewless wind,
And leaves his form a lifeless corse behind.

Around their bleeding prince, the mournful band
Of Caledonian heroes weeping stand;—
While o'er his youthful charge, who breathless lies,
As England's monarch hangs with pensive eyes,
To his swoll'n bosom Fancy's tablets bring
A groaning country, and a childless King;
And sad Reflection in its mirror shows,
Alfred the source of Caledonia's woes,
Shows, for his life, the life of Donald paid,
A great, a glorious, but a dreadful aid.

But soon the rising tempest of the field
Bids useless grief to bold exertion yield;
For Scandinavia's sons once more engage,
Renew the fight, and closer combat wage.
They mark'd confusion mid the conquering host,
And Valour hoped to win what Flight had lost.
O'er their thrice-vanquish'd foes they thought again
To spread the horrors of Oppression's reign.
They deem'd that race by mightier force dismay'd,
Whom Guile had sever'd, and whom Fraud betray'd;
Nor knew, when join'd beneath their legal lord,
How dread, of Albion's sons, the avenging sword.

'Enough of woe,' exclaims the royal chief,
'The soldier's sword should speak the soldier's grief.
See, of yon baffled host, the last essay,
The 'vantage valour gain'd to tear away.
Ye native bands! the boon of parent Heaven!
Ye brothers of the war, by Donald given!
Dear, as my brave, my dying friend's bequest,
Dear, for your inborn worth, to Alfred's breast,
Joint heirs of Britain's injured shores, combine
To vindicate, with me, the British line.'

They hear—and, dreadful as the wintry gale,
Their congregated powers the foe assail,
Who peering o'er the field, in loose array,
Yet strive to turn the fortune of the day.
In haughty guise, exulting, mid the rest,
Known by his gilded arms, and waving crest,
Proud of his recent act, stern Hinguar stood,
His pointed javelin red with Donald's blood.

Soon as the King the insulting chief descries,
Dread flames vindictive valour from his eyes;
Through the thick press, and all the rage of fight,
He seeks, with ceaseless course, the Danish knight.
Intrepid, Hinguar views the foe advance,
Grasps his broad shield, and shakes his threat'ning lance.
Then, proudly, thus:—'Chief of a vanquish'd race,
Scaped from defeat, by fraud, and foul disgrace,
The hour of vengeance comes;—Your tribe again
Shall crouch beneath the rod of Denmark's reign.
Struck by this arm, lo! youthful Donald paid
His worthless life to Hubba's angry shade.
Base and unequal vengeance! to destroy,
For an illustrious chief, a beardless boy.
But Alfred! thou, shalt tread the dreary coast
Of Hela's black abode, a wandering ghost.'

Scorning reply, against the vaunting foe
The indignant Briton drives the avenging blow;
Nor shield, nor corselet, stay the javelin's force,
Through the strong mail it speeds its deadly course:
Low on the earth the injurious boaster lies,
And cursing adverse Heaven, remorseless dies.

Fired by the example of the godlike man,
Redoubled ardour through the squadrons ran.
Dreadful in grief, brave Caledonia's band,
With beating bosom, and with eager hand,
In threat'ning phalanx 'gainst the foe advance,
The fate of Donald pointing every lance.
Here Oddune's mail-clad foot, in firm array,
Force, through the waves of war, their steady way.
Swift and resistless, as the whirlwind's course,
There thunder by their side the Mercian horse.—
Lost each brave leader of the warlike Dane,
Forced from the fight, or breathless on the plain;
The floating ranks, confused, and crowded, yield,
And measure back, in faint retire, the field.
As the strong mole, by labour rear'd to brave
The stormy inroad of the mountain wave,
Though firm, through many a circling year, it stood,
A steady barrier 'gainst the encroaching flood,
If sapp'd by chance, or time's revolving hour,
Dread, through the flaw, the rushing waters pour,
Ride o'er the deluged lands in wasteful sway,
And sweep the labours of an age away.
Such, and so fierce, through Denmark's wavering force,
The impetuous Britons urge their furious course.—

The line is forced—nor camp nor trenches show
A safe asylum to the astonish'd foe.
Wild in dismay, across the extended plain,
They fly with bloody spur, and sounding rein.
Decisive Victory o'er Alfred's head,
With chearing shout, her crimson pennons spread.
Eager and fierce the conquering bands pursue,
O'er hill, and dale, the desultory crew,
Till Night her sable curtains wide display'd,
And wrap'd the vanquish'd rout in welcome shade.

ARGUMENT. Episode of Ceolph and Emmeline—March of the Army.—Battle of Eddington.


'Mid Selwood's sylvan walks, with martial care,
The king arrays his valiant troops for war.—
As when autumnal vapours dimly rise,
And load, with future storms, the misty skies,
From the surrounding hills and bordering main
The gathering clouds condense, then break in rain;
So, from each green retreat and bowering shade,
The eager warriors crowd to Alfred's aid.
Dark, on the plain, the thick battalion stands,
To burst, tempestuous, on the adverse bands.

As o'er the tented field the squadrons spread,
Stretch'd on the turf the hardy soldier's bed;
While the strong mound, and warder's careful eyes,
Protect the midnight camp from quick surprise,
A voice, in hollow murmurs from the plain,
Attracts the notice of the wakeful train.

'Soldiers! who prowling wide in ceaseless round,
Trace the fenced circuit of the embattled mound,
To Alfred's tent a wandering warrior bring,
Who knows what much concerns your martial king.'

From guard to guard the words in whispers pass'd,
And reach'd the monarch's watchful ear at last;
For on the leader's eye the ambrosial dews
Of balmy slumber scanty drops diffuse.—
Convey'd with caution through the silent bands,
Before the royal tent the stranger stands.—

'Warrior!' the monarch cries; 'whate'er thy birth,
Or Briton born, or rear'd on foreign earth,
Freely thy wish disclose, secure to find,
For pain, and care, a sympathizing mind,
Train'd in Misfortune's rugged school, I know,
A man myself, to pity human woe.'

'Yes, thou may'st pity those,' he stern replied,
'By error plunged in dark Misfortune's tide,
Even to thy proudest foe may'st mercy give,
Spare the fallen head, and bid the suppliant live;
But he, whose traitor heart, by Envy fired
Against his Prince, his Country, has conspired;
Who, to avenge Ambition's baffled aim,
Gave up his native land to sword and flame,
Can hope no guerdon from the brave and good,
But rage repaid by rage, and blood by blood;
Mercy in vain the suppliant's grief may feel,
When public Justice lifts her sacred steel.
Should generous Alfred feel a wretch's woe,
The patriot King must crush his country's foe.
Strike then a breast, whose arteries swell to pour,
To injured Albion's wrongs, a crimson shower,
And, to the manes of thy slaughter'd host,
Send tidings of revenge by Ceolph's ghost.'

He paused—and, as the traitor stood confess'd,
Alternate passions shook the monarch's breast:
Now, tugging at his heart, vindictive ire
Breathes through his heaving form a fatal fire,
While myriads of his bravest warriors slain,
Whose limbs, unburied, strew'd the empurpled plain,
While cries of infancy, and groans of age,
Unhappy victims of apostate rage,
Sit on his sword, and urge the instant blow
Of rigid justice on the treacherous foe.
And now the conscious dignity that leads
The undaunted soldier to heroic deeds,
Aware, though injured right the stroke demand,
That blood, thus shed, must stain the warrior's hand,
Who grasps a sword that never yet had sped
Its force resistless on a prostrate head,
Arrests his arm, by cruel wrongs though strung,
And checks the blow that o'er the victim hung.

Ceolph at once perceived the generous strife,
And thus pursued his tale.—'This forfeit life
Think not I wish to save—to carry hence
A conscience deeply stain'd by foul offence.—
Each avenue to fame and virtue cross'd,
A name dishonour'd, and a daughter lost;
A daughter, by a ruffian's venom'd breath
Condemn'd, alas! to horrors worse than death,
Can Ceolph, wretched Ceolph, wish to live?—
No!—all that he can ask, or thou canst give,
Are means of vengeance.—Set me once again
In the red vaward of the embattled plain.—
I seek not glory—from her radiant roll,
Envy's malicious demons snatch'd my soul;—
But let me hunt, amid the toils of fight,
The fiend who dragg'd me down from Virtue's height.
Perhaps this arm, amid the battle's roar,
With slaughter flush'd, and steep'd in Danish gore,
Through the protective shield and threatening dart,
May reach the foul abode of Oswald's heart:
Then shall, in peace, this tortured spirit fly,
Whose only wish is vengeance, and to die.

'O, Alfred!—coward tears! why dim my sight,
Where dire revenge should glare with lurid light?
O, Alfred! let thine ear my wrongs receive,
Pity that wretch even Mercy can't forgive.

'Short are the joys malignant passions yield.—
Scarce were the horrors cold of Wilton's field,
When, Envy's sanguinary frenzy o'er,
The pangs of conscious guilt my bosom tore.
I saw my pride had urged Destruction's band,
To sate their vengeance on my native land;
Saw Rapine, Lust, and Murder's furious brood,
Their footsteps drench in carnage and in blood;
Saw Innocence and Beauty plead, in vain,
To the wild license of a cruel train,
Who, scorning sweet Endearment's 'suasive breath,
The shrieking virgin woo with threats of death.
Vainly I strove, with ineffectual aim,
To damp wild Devastation's spreading flame;
They mock'd the worthless friend by Envy made,
And scorn'd the soldier who his Prince betray'd.—

Lives there a horde so rude as not to know
The ills from violated faith that flow?
As not to hate the wretch who arms the hand
Of foreign vengeance, 'gainst his native land?
Despised by those my treason fail'd to gain,
Reviled and hated by my feudal train,
Whom my base arts had lured, from virtuous fame,
To scenes of insult, misery, and shame,
Still was I doom'd by righteous Heaven to know
The biting anguish of a nearer woe.—
My Emmeline!—unbend that brow severe,
O, curse the traitor, but the parent hear!
My Emmeline—sweet as the opening rose,
Pure as the gale o'er violet banks that blows,
Attracted Oswald's eye; a chief allied
To Guthrum's line, his mate in power and pride.
The wretch whose specious breath, with fiend-like art,
Blew the dire embers lurking in my heart,
Raised to gigantic shape my fancied wrong,
And drew my recreant soul to Denmark's throng.
Of me he ask'd the maid,—my anxious thought
Saw his design with foul dishonour fraught.
With feign'd respect I strove to soothe his pride,
And undervalued what my fears denied.
Sullen he stalk'd away, nor deign'd reply;
I mark'd his lowering brow and fiery eye;
Full well I knew how, in the impatient heart,
Rankles of disappointed hope the smart.
Short the suspense—the hand of lawless power
Tore my sad daughter from her peaceful bower.
In vain to Guthrum's feet I suppliant came,
The sword of Justice in my cause to claim.
While tears, and prayers, and threats, alternate strove,
As the wild gust of veering passion drove.
Alas! a traitor's tears unpitied flow,
And weak the threats of a dishonour'd foe.
Then late Remorse, with all a Fury's tongue,
In my stunn'd ears ‘Woe to the vanquish'd,’ rung.

'Contemn'd, neglected, as an outcast vile
I pass'd, unnoticed, by the warder's file.—
Alfred, to thee I come!—on thy decree
Thy faithless vassal's fate depending see;
Give me, 'tis all I ask, with pitying breath,
The means of vengeance, or the stroke of death.'

'O, far from me,' replies the King, 'to tread,
Remoreseles, on repentant Misery's head,
Draw heavier vengeance from the thundering cloud,
And break the wretched heart that Heaven has bow'd.
Backward to trace Rebellion's path be thine,
To aid returning Virtue's effort mine.
Even now the troops, impatient of delay,
Chide night's slow march, and pant for rising day;
Already neigh their steeds, their banners fly,
While shouts, and shrill-toned clarions rend the sky.
Frowning through tears, indignant Mercia's host
Burn to avenge their prince, their leader, lost.
Now youthful Leofric guides them to the plain,
Breathing defiance 'gainst the treacherous Dane.
Amid their ranks the award of battle wait,
And vindicate an injured rival's fate.
Redeem, by manly vengeance on the foe,
The stroke that laid unhappy Burthred low.
Who, forced by fate, new climates to explore,
A wretched wanderer, sought the Italian shore;

Where, sunk by toil and grief, imperial Rome
Rear'd, o'er his sainted head, the hallow'd tomb.'
'And is he fall'n?—the virtuous and the brave!—
Sleeps Burthred?—sleeps he in a foreign grave?—
O, glorious martyr in thy country's cause!
O'er thee no veil of shame Reflection draws.—
With indignation o'er my recreant head
While every friend to patriot faith shall tread,
With grief eternal o'er thy sacred bier
Shall injured Albion shed the votive tear.
Yes!—in the foremost ranks of war I'll stand,
And point the path to thy avenging band,
First of thy squadron will I dare the plain,
Lead them o'er streams of blood, and hills of slain;
Dread as the baleful meteor of the night,
My sword shall guide them through the thickest fight:
No plated buckler's ample fold I need,
To guard a wretched breast resolved to bleed.
Yet, when returning from the fatal field,
Borne, a pale corse, upon the soldier's shield,
Even Ceolph shall be pardon'd when they tell
How brave he fought, how penitent he fell.'

Now in the east the morn's gray banner floats,
Loud breathe the inspiring clarion's martial notes.
The impatient warriors instant at the sound,
Spread, in refulgent phalanx, o'er the ground.—
Again the clarion blows—in bright array
The dazzling columns win their winding way.
As now the mountain's airy brow they scale,
Pace the smooth plain, or thrid the woodland dale,
From their refulgent helms, and glittering shields,
A flood of radiant glory gilds the fields.
From morn's first orient blush, till dewy eve,
Nor food nor rest the ardent host relieve.
But when, in rising Luna's silver beam,
The towering summits of Æcglea gleam,

The warriors' limbs, forespent with constant toil,
In needful slumber press the grassy soil,
Their march renewing with the morning light,
New strung their nerves, and panting for the fight.

Passing the borders of the forest drear,
A shriek of female anguish pierced the ear,
And, starting from the shade, a figure wan,
With piteous plaint arrests the wondering van.
Loose flow'd her careless robe, her streaming hair
Floated, in ruffled tangles, to the air,
And on her livid cheek and haggard eye,
Throned in imperial state, sat misery.

With voice by weeping choked, convulsed her breast,
The woe-lorn form the passing host address'd.
'O, see before you, humbled to the dust,
A victim sad of cruelty and lust.—
When in the battle's doubtful shock ye join,
Think of the horrors of a fate like mine;
The curses of a violated maid
Shall nerve each arm, shall sharpen every blade.
For me—conceal'd my lineage and my name—
Ah, once my country's glory! now its shame!—
One only way remains from deep disgrace
To clear the offspring of a noble race.'—
She ceased—and instant in her struggling breast
Her fatal poniard sheath'd, and sunk to rest.

Half petrified around the warriors stand,
When, sudden darting from the astonish'd band,
Rush'd Ceolph forth—and as his eye survey'd
The breathless reliques of the murder'd maid,
'My Emmeline!'—with frantic tone, he cried,
Then sunk in death-like torpor by her side.—
Now starting from the trance,—his maniac eye
Fix'd on the pale remains that bleeding lie.—

From the pierced heart he drew the reeking blade,
With frantic look the ensanguined point survey'd,
While from his eye-balls darts, with horrid glare,
The enfuriate wildness of supreme despair.—
The impulse checking, ere he gave the wound,
Furious he dash'd the weapon to the ground,
And, clasping to his breast, with frenzied force,
The mangled bosom of the beauteous corse,
'O, injured Emmeline!—O, ill-starr'd maid!
Sad victim of a father's crimes;' he said,
'Awhile this loath'd existence I endure,
To make the deadly blow of vengeance sure.
Ye ruthless ministers of hell! I come,
The author of my own and Oswald's doom!'

While grief and rage in every bosom strove,
Breathing revenge, the generous warriors move.
Conceal'd by forests deep, whose ample shade

Spread gloom impervious o'er the twilight glade,
Through many a silvan glen the silent throng,
Unseen, unheard, vindictive march along,
Till, issuing on the plain, the verdant height
Of Eddington breaks sudden on their sight;
Conspicuous waving on whose breezy brow,
Proud Scandinavia's threatening banners flow,
Wide spreads the dread array, with ruddy gleam
Their bright arms glittering in the evening beam.

Fired at the view, instinctive ardour runs
Through every band of Britain's mingled sons;
On England's plains the flash of foreign arms
By Conquest crown'd, the coldest bosom warms;
While the brave leader of the British name,
With kindling accents fans the rising flame.

'My faithful subjects, and my brave allies,
All equal heirs of Albion's fostering skies,
Nor peace, nor liberty, can Britain know,
But from the fall of yon injurious foe.
The paths through yon embattled barrier lie,
That lead to freedom and to victory.—

On civil strife what horrid ills await,
Of foreign servitude the grievous state,
No words of mine need paint—for lo! it stood,
Drawn in the red charactery of blood
Full in your sight—what time the hapless maid,
Sad victim! fell, self-murder'd, on the glade.—
Is there a father, lover, husband, here,
Holds female charms, and female honour dear?
Let indignation urge each fatal blow,
With more than mortal vengeance on the foe.
Is there a warrior, 'mid this valiant train,
Who mourns a parent, son, or brother slain?
O, let him speak the sorrows of his breast
In strokes of thunder on the Danish crest.
If there be one, by guilty wiles misled,
Who 'gainst his native land his force has sped,
O, let him expiate now the dire disgrace,
By tenfold vengeance on yon hostile race;
And, in the blood of Scandinavia's horde,
Wash off the stain from his polluted sword.

'And ye from Cambria's hills who join our band,
From Caledonia's rocks, and Erin's strand,
Generous and brave compeers! O, now be shewn
The only strife that future times shall own.
A glorious strife of Britain's isles the pride,
The friendly contest ne'er may time decide;
Eternal be the conflict which shall fight,
First in their monarch's, and their country's right!'

Though now, in mellower tint, the orb of day
Sheds o'er the hostile camp a golden ray,
Yet each bold leader of the associate bands
The expected sign of instant war demands;
But Alfred checks their zeal, till morning's light,
Dispelling all the vapoury shades of night,
Shall pour new ardour through the warrior's breast,
Gay, as the laughing hour, and fresh from rest.
Long was the march, and all the rugged way
Through thorny brakes, and tangled thickets lay.
Conscious that soft repose their limbs require,
The prudent chief restrains their generous fire;
For though, when high the flames of battle rise,
Valour's impatient fury strength supplies;
Firm and unfailing sinews must sustain
The lengthen'd labours of the bloody plain.

But while the soldiers, on the tented ground,
The sweets of slumber and reflection found,
The balmy cordial of refreshing rest
Ne'er soothed to peace the princely leader's breast.
Now through the silent camp his footsteps steal,
To wake the wearied centry's drooping zeal;
Now anxious on his sleepless couch reclined,
He calls forth all the treasures of his mind,
His thoughts the various forms of battle weigh,
And plan the conflict of the coming day.

Though each resource of martial art he tried,
Not on his skill alone the chief relied;
Not on his host, though every bosom, fired
With patriot zeal, a patriot soul inspired.
Not always in the lists of life belong
The wreaths of conquest to the swift and strong;
A Power beyond the span of human souls,
The wisest plans of erring man controuls.
To that tremendous Power, whose awful will
Swells the loud storm, bids the wild roar be still,
Fires the red bolt, or moulds the crystal hail,
Or breathes soft fragrance in the vernal gale;—
Who, o'er the wretched outcast's houseless head,
His adamantine shield can favouring spread;
The cause forlorn of suffering Virtue own,
Or hurl Oppression from his guilty throne;
To that dread Power he bows, with heart sincere,
'And, fearing Heaven, despises earthly fear.'
Nor was exempt from nearer, humbler grief,
The pious votary and the royal chief.
Too oft of selfish pride the poisonous taint,
Rankling, infects the patriot and the saint.
Not Alfred such—his generous feelings prove
Each charity of friendship and of love;
From warm benevolence each germ that sprung,
With shoot congenial, round his bosom clung:
And that divine ambition fill'd his mind
Which grasps the happiness of human kind.

Soon as the harbinger of morn, on high
Beat Heaven's blue vault, and caroll'd through the sky;
When now the first pale streaks of rising day
Oped, on the steaming hills, their eyelids gray,
Collected from the tents, the impatient band,
Waiting the word, in listening silence stand.
Then, as his eye along the embattled van,
Fill'd with the pleasing hope of conquest, ran,
A pensive languor in the monarch's breast
Damp'd fame's keen ardour, and that hope repress'd.—
Full many a youth, in manhood's prime, he knew,
Who now the balmy breath of morning drew,
Would, ere the dewy shades of eve descend,
On Earth's cold breast a lifeless corse extend:
O'er them, of Glory's amaranthine flowers,
Their country's hands shall shed perennial showers,
Secure alike of honour's purest meed,
For her who conquer, or for her who bleed.—
And now before the warrior's melting eyes,
The peerless beauties of Elsitha rise,—
While round him float the clarion's loud alarms,
He clasps the lovely matron in his arms;
With manly fondness chides her anxious cares,
Or sportive mocks the sorrows that he shares,
Nor quits the endearing fold with tearless eye,
Though war's vindictive clangor rends the sky.—
When threatening round the fearless warrior's head,
The rising thunders of the battle spread,
When clouds of iron-tempest o'er him lower,
And pour unnumber'd deaths in arrowy shower,
Unmoved he stands, in zeal heroic warm,
A breathing bulwark 'gainst the furious storm;
As the firm-rooted oak the tempest braves,
As the steep cliff defies the angry waves;
But the soft magic of Affection's tear
Wakes in the bravest heart a transient fear:
Though love, heroic ardour may inspire,
Its object weeping damps the hero's fire;
O'er Valour's cheek, Affliction's moisture steals,
A chief he combats, but a man he feels.

From fair Elsitha's chaste, and fond embrace,
The monarch speeds, to join the warrior race.
Darting his eye along the radiant files,
The firm array he views, with cheerful smiles;
Breathes bold resolve through every soldier's breast,
And ardent zeal by discipline repress'd.
Sudden the ensigns move.—As in the vale,
When from the irriguous marsh the dews exhale,
The floating mists from eve's dank breath that spread,
In whitening volume, o'er the level mead,
Appearing, through the glimmering shades of night,
A waste of waters to the traveller's sight,
At morn roll up the mountain steep, and crown,
With clouds of dim expanse, the upland down;
So, from the hollows of the winding dale,
Slow, the ascent the British warriors scale;
So, wide extended on the breezy height,
Tremendous frown the threatening clouds of fight,
Where the wan twilight of the opening dawn
Shews, throng'd with hostile spears, the aërial lawn.

Loud blows the clarion shrill!—with thundering sound
Roars the tremendous peal of battle round.
Full in the front the English archers stand,
The bent bow drawing home with sinewy hand,
Scarcely the shining barbs the tough yew clear,
The ductile nerve stretch'd to the bowman's ear.
Not from the foe by sheltering ranks conceal'd,
Boldly they dare the foreward of the field;
With deadly point the levell'd arrows shine,
Pierce the cuirass, and check the close-wedged line:
Here Caledonia's hardy mountaineers
Lift the broad targe, there mark her lowland spears;
While Cambria's and Ierne's warriors brave,
With lighter arms, the war's destructive wave;
Spread o'er their agile limbs the osier shield,
The shorten'd sword, and biting pole-axe wield;
Strike, with swift aim, the desultory blow,
And tire, with varied shock, the wavering foe.
Clad in rich panoply, each high-born knight
Impels his barbed courser to the fight;
The burnish'd arms a bright refulgence shed,
White waves the plumage o'er the helmed head;
And on the ample shield, and blazon'd crest,
Shines, of each chief, the known device impress'd.
Swift as the rapid bird of Summer flies,
Cleaving, with agile wing, the tepid skies,
The warlike squadrons on the spur advance,
With seat unshaken, and protended lance.—
Ampler in numbers, Denmark's sons oppose
The dreadful onset of their rushing foes:
With lowering front the northern warriors stand,
In deep array, a firm, and fearless band:
And, as where Scandinavia's mountains rear
The accumulated snows of many a year,
The enormous masses undissolved remain,
And summer suns roll over them in vain;
So the unshaken squadrons, firm, defy
The lightnings of the war that round them fly.—
Loud blows the brazen tube's inspiring breath,
With shouts of triumph mix'd, and groans of death;
With horrid shock the infuriate hosts engage,
And Slaughter stalks around with fiend-like rage.

Fierce Ceolph views the field with fiery eye,
And marks where haughty Oswald's banners fly:
Then swift and dreadful, as the whirlwind's force
Speeds o'er the ruin'd fields its fatal course,
Through all the horrors of the raging fray
He cuts, with furious arm, his eager way;
Before the Danish chief his circling train,
Their spears and sheltering shields oppose in vain;
Breathless and bleeding, onward still he press'd
Through groves of iron pointed at his breast;
'Gainst Oswald's heart his rapid sword he drives,
The thundering stroke the solid corslet rives;
Prone falls the injurious tyrant on the ground,
His life-blood streaming from the fatal wound;
Pierced by a thousand spears, on earth laid low,
The expiring victor spurns his prostrate foe;
O'er the warm corse in fatal triumph lies,
And, sated with revenge, exulting dies!

Around the banners of their bleeding lords,
With shock impetuous, close the adverse hordes,
Each squadron emulous to bear away
The blazon'd trophies of the doubtful fray.

While here the war in equal balance hung,
And loud the peal of death terrific rung,
With happier fortune Albion's force was sped
His veteran bands where royal Alfred led.
There, like a torrent, o'er the yielding Dane,
With force resistless, pour the Saxon train,
For every soldier, in his monarch's sight,
With all a hero's ardour dared the fight.
The rising shout of triumph Guthrum hears,
His chiefs receding from the English spears,
Then gathers round him all his scatter'd force,
Points to the spot, and urges on their course;
The increasing numbers, by his summons drawn,
In swift career pour o'er the dusty lawn.
As on the deep, when driving winds afar,
Swell the blue surge, and rouse the billowy war,
The wary mariner the ocean sees
Scowling and black before the approaching breeze;
As o'er the champaign wide the dark clouds sail,
The ripen'd harvest waving in the gale;
So watchful Alfred saw, condensed and strong,
The threatening storm of battle sweep along;
His scatter'd files, by instant order closed,
To the fierce foe a steady front opposed:
In vain the troops, by rage impetuous arm'd,
In numbers strong, by recent conquest warm'd,
Press round on every side—with eagle glance
Alfred beholds the intrepid band advance.
The furious onset checks with martial care,
And stems the fiery deluge of the war,
While swifter than his eye his fatal sword
Strikes from his courser many a Danish lord.
The troops, dismay'd, behold their chieftains bleed,
Turn in amaze, and from the fight recede;
Indignant Guthrum views the recreant train,
And chides them to the front of war in vain.

'Dastards!' he cries, 'is this your vaunted boast?—
Flies from a single sword your coward host?
Mine be the task to wipe away your shame,
And vindicate the sullied Danish name.'

He said, and stung at once by rage and grief,
Impels his courser toward the British chief;
With sinewy arm, and rising to the blow,
His ponderous spear he aims against his foe;
Opposed, the king his shield oblique extends,
On the wide orb the thundering stroke descends,
But, from the polish'd surface sidelong cast,
The steely point with erring fury pass'd;—
Not innocent of blood—for Mercia's pride,
Leofric the brave, who fought by Alfred's side,
Leofric of youthful bloom, and royal race,
From Burthred sprung, and Ellen's chaste embrace,
Who braved the combat, urged by generous fire,
Pious avenger of his exiled sire,
Received the lance, and life its purple showers,
Down his white vest and shining armour, pours;
His nerveless arm forsakes the useless rein,
And low he sinks, war's victim, on the plain.

In Alfred's breast the fires of vengeance rise,
Red glows his cheek, and ardent flash his eyes.
'Gainst Guthrum's heart, the ample shield above,
His weighty spear the royal Briton drove;
But from the corslet's plated scales rebounds
The blunted weapon, nor the bosom wounds;
By the strong fury of the ponderous stroke
Shiver'd, the strong-grain'd ash to atoms broke,
And the stunn'd warrior, tottering with the force,
Stoop'd from the blow, and scarce retain'd his horse;
On rush'd the hero, shining in his hand
The broad refulgence of his threatening brand;
Full on the Danish crest the blow descends,
Beneath the mighty shock the warrior bends,
Though the proved helm the trenchant steel disarms,
Prone on the dust he falls, with clanging arms;
Then o'er the extended chief as Alfred stood,
Soon had he paid the forfeit price of blood,
Or, led in triumph by the victor's side,
Changed, for a captive's chains, a tyrant's pride;
When generous Hardiknute rush'd through the strife,
And ransom'd, with his own, his monarch's life.
Quitting his courser, while the attending horde
Placed on the steed their bruised and vanquish'd lord,
Opposed to Alfred's sword, he dauntless stands
A rampire to the chief of Denmark's bands,
Victim of true allegiance' generous call,
By Alfred's arm ennobled in his fall.
Now to the close-fenced camp, with needful care,
Their wounded prince the Danish chieftains bear.
Mix'd with the flying rout, the Saxon horse,
With bleeding warriors, mark their fatal course;
Give to vindictive rage the loosen'd rein,
And the wide field with hostile carnage stain.

Different the scene where, o'er the extended field,
The Danish squadrons to the auxiliars yield;
In swift pursuit the ranks their order lose,
The turning foes again their columns close;
And while of ebbing fight the refluent course,
Checks, in its mid career, the victor's force,
Increasing numbers from the encampment near,
Hang on his scatter'd flank, and sever'd rear:
Press'd on each side, Scotia's bold sons in vain
The rising labours of the war sustain;
Fierce as the Danes in loose array, advance,
Useless the ample targe, and lengthen'd lance,
While Cambria's and Ierne's warriors pour
Of feathery darts an ineffectual shower:
Not like the shaft sent from the English bow,
The corslet riving with resistless blow,
As the dread fury of the thunder's stroke
Shivers, with fearful shock, the mountain oak;
The missile reed that lightly flies along,
Thrown from the cross-bow, or the sounding thong,
Bounds, with vain effort, from the temper'd mail,
As from the rocky cliff the pelting hail.

Around the field, as with attentive gaze,
Alfred the fortune of the day surveys,
He marks where Caledonia's banner flows
At distance, circled by a cloud of foes;
With eagle swiftness o'er the crimson'd glade,
He leads his victor squadrons to their aid,
The chase forsaking of a flying foe,
To rush where bold resistance deals the blow.
More pleased the shock of adverse hosts to dare,
And the proud wreath from Valour's helmet tear,
Than snatch a trophy from a yielding crowd,
Unbought by peril, and unstain'd by blood.
The cautious Danes behold the approaching storm,
Close their loose files, and firm their battle form.
Swift as the arrow from the elastic yew,
To youthful Donald's aid, the hero flew,
With sudden shock he breaks the opposing bands,
And by his side an aid terrific stands,
His guardian shield extends, and scatters far,
With godlike arm, the threatening ranks of war.
As lightning swift around his faulchion flies,
At every stroke a Danish warrior dies.
In vain fresh numbers to the fight succeed,
Trembling they fly, or combating, they bleed.

Brave Donald, fired by emulative pride,
Spurs on his steed, contending by his side:
Such emulation as the generous feel,
Such contest as is roused by warlike zeal;
Which only in the virtuous bosom glow,
Nor jealous hatred raise, nor envy know:
The active springs that Donald's bosom move,
Are steady friendship and unsullied love.
Friendship that, fearless, in the battle's strife,
Would sacrifice his own for Alfred's life;
Love, that no hope of selfish bliss would buy
With one sad tear from chaste Elsitha's eye.

Press'd and confused, recede the Danish bands,
To where their camp a rampired fortress stands.—
It chanced that wintry rains, with constant force,
Through the resisting mound had worn a course;
This the proud race, of strength and courage vain,
Unheeding pass, or, heeding, they disdain,
But 'scaped not Alfred's wary search, when round

The midnight camp he raised the minstrel's sound;
Hither his arm the storm of battle guides—
Loud roar, of closing fight, the straiten'd tides.
When Hinguar, brother of the imperious lord,
Hubba, who fell by valiant Oddune's sword,
Against the King, with spear protended, flies
Swift, and unheeded by the monarch's eyes.
Young Donald saw, and met his subtle foe,
His shield presenting to the threat'ning blow.
Passing the buckler, on the prince's breast
Lights the fell stroke, with skilful arm address'd,
Rives, with dire force, the plated corselet's joint,
And drinks his vital blood with fatal point;
On his wan cheek the rose of beauty dies,
And swimming vapours dim his closing eyes;
Drops from his hand his unavailing sword,
And his sad train receive their dying lord.

''Tis past,' he cried, 'the toil of war is o'er,
This heart, at Glory's call must beat no more;
Yet, ruthless tyrant of the darksome grave,
Thy form terrific ne'er alarms the brave!
But, O! my friends, a father's grief control,
Speak comfort to his agonizing soul.
Tell him, though swift his Donald's earthly race,
Yet not inglorious was its short-lived space;
One hour of Fame more lasting trophies rears,
Than wait on coward Sloth's protracted years.
Mature he dies, who dies when Glory calls,
Who falls with honour ne'er untimely falls,
Graced in my obsequies, since Alfred's tear
Will shed its kindly dew o'er Donald's bier.
O, glorious prince! my leader and my friend,
On me the eye of virtuous pity bend;
In me, extended on this fatal plain,
You see, alas! a wretched rival slain.—
Start not—for though, in youthful fancy warm,
My heart drank love from chaste Elsitha's form,
Yet was that more than angel form enshrined
With sanctimonious reverence in my mind.
No pilgrim e'er, with toil and watching faint,
Paid purer homage to his patron saint.—
A flame, from aught of grosser passion free,
Dying, I boast, and dying boast to thee,
O, should thy virtuous consort deign to throw,
On Donald's fate, one drop of pitying woe,
Tell her I glorious fell, in battle's pride,
Stemming her Alfred's foes, and by his side.—
And, ah! with Kindness' lenient balm, assuage
My father's grief, and smooth the couch of age.
Childless, unfriended,—should Rebellion raise
Its bloody storms to cloud his closing days,
My dying breath points out, in Alfred's care,
His people's guardian, and his Donald's heir.'

He ceased, and as along the lucid rill,
When wintry Eurus shoots his arrows chill,
The icy rigour spreads with stiffening force,
Dims its clear surface, and arrests its course;
So through his veins Death's freezing languor steals,
And the closed eye a leaden slumber seals;
Aloft his spirit mounts the viewless wind,
And leaves his form a lifeless corse behind.

Around their bleeding prince, the mournful band
Of Caledonian heroes weeping stand;—
While o'er his youthful charge, who breathless lies,
As England's monarch hangs with pensive eyes,
To his swoll'n bosom Fancy's tablets bring
A groaning country, and a childless King;
And sad Reflection in its mirror shows,
Alfred the source of Caledonia's woes,
Shows, for his life, the life of Donald paid,
A great, a glorious, but a dreadful aid.

But soon the rising tempest of the field
Bids useless grief to bold exertion yield;
For Scandinavia's sons once more engage,
Renew the fight, and closer combat wage.
They mark'd confusion mid the conquering host,
And Valour hoped to win what Flight had lost.
O'er their thrice-vanquish'd foes they thought again
To spread the horrors of Oppression's reign.
They deem'd that race by mightier force dismay'd,
Whom Guile had sever'd, and whom Fraud betray'd;
Nor knew, when join'd beneath their legal lord,
How dread, of Albion's sons, the avenging sword.

'Enough of woe,' exclaims the royal chief,
'The soldier's sword should speak the soldier's grief.
See, of yon baffled host, the last essay,
The 'vantage valour gain'd to tear away.
Ye native bands! the boon of parent Heaven!
Ye brothers of the war, by Donald given!
Dear, as my brave, my dying friend's bequest,
Dear, for your inborn worth, to Alfred's breast,
Joint heirs of Britain's injured shores, combine
To vindicate, with me, the British line.'

They hear—and, dreadful as the wintry gale,
Their congregated powers the foe assail,
Who peering o'er the field, in loose array,
Yet strive to turn the fortune of the day.
In haughty guise, exulting, mid the rest,
Known by his gilded arms, and waving crest,
Proud of his recent act, stern Hinguar stood,
His pointed javelin red with Donald's blood.

Soon as the King the insulting chief descries,
Dread flames vindictive valour from his eyes;
Through the thick press, and all the rage of fight,
He seeks, with ceaseless course, the Danish knight.
Intrepid, Hinguar views the foe advance,
Grasps his broad shield, and shakes his threat'ning lance.
Then, proudly, thus:—'Chief of a vanquish'd race,
Scaped from defeat, by fraud, and foul disgrace,
The hour of vengeance comes;—Your tribe again
Shall crouch beneath the rod of Denmark's reign.
Struck by this arm, lo! youthful Donald paid
His worthless life to Hubba's angry shade.
Base and unequal vengeance! to destroy,
For an illustrious chief, a beardless boy.
But Alfred! thou, shalt tread the dreary coast
Of Hela's black abode, a wandering ghost.'

Scorning reply, against the vaunting foe
The indignant Briton drives the avenging blow;
Nor shield, nor corselet, stay the javelin's force,
Through the strong mail it speeds its deadly course:
Low on the earth the injurious boaster lies,
And cursing adverse Heaven, remorseless dies.

Fired by the example of the godlike man,
Redoubled ardour through the squadrons ran.
Dreadful in grief, brave Caledonia's band,
With beating bosom, and with eager hand,
In threat'ning phalanx 'gainst the foe advance,
The fate of Donald pointing every lance.
Here Oddune's mail-clad foot, in firm array,
Force, through the waves of war, their steady way.
Swift and resistless, as the whirlwind's course,
There thunder by their side the Mercian horse.—
Lost each brave leader of the warlike Dane,
Forced from the fight, or breathless on the plain;
The floating ranks, confused, and crowded, yield,
And measure back, in faint retire, the field.
As the strong mole, by labour rear'd to brave
The stormy inroad of the mountain wave,
Though firm, through many a circling year, it stood,
A steady barrier 'gainst the encroaching flood,
If sapp'd by chance, or time's revolving hour,
Dread, through the flaw, the rushing waters pour,
Ride o'er the deluged lands in wasteful sway,
And sweep the labours of an age away.
Such, and so fierce, through Denmark's wavering force,
The impetuous Britons urge their furious course.—

The line is forced—nor camp nor trenches show
A safe asylum to the astonish'd foe.
Wild in dismay, across the extended plain,
They fly with bloody spur, and sounding rein.
Decisive Victory o'er Alfred's head,
With chearing shout, her crimson pennons spread.
Eager and fierce the conquering bands pursue,
O'er hill, and dale, the desultory crew,
Till Night her sable curtains wide display'd,
And wrap'd the vanquish'd rout in welcome shade.

ARGUMENT. Success of Oddune, Earl of Devon, against a new Danish Armament from Ireland.—Irish join Oddune.—Measures of Alfred to profit from the turn of Fortune.—Alfred's difficulties, and extraordinary Adventure to obviate them.—Relief of the Queen Elsitha.—Fortunate junction of Donald, and the Scotish Troops, with Alfred.—Assistance from Wales.


And now the westering sun's declining ray,
Shot faintly forth the fading light of day,
Shed o'er the waving trees a golden gleam,
And the high mountains tinged with mellower beam;
When, near the rock, emerging from the wood,
Clad in refulgent arms, a warrior stood.—
As firmly stood the king, his ready sword
Shone in his hand, a safeguard to its lord.
When thus the bard.—'Your threats of war forbear;—
With pious reverence breathe this hallow'd air.
No arms of mortal temper triumph here,
Heaven's mighty aid, protects Heaven's chosen seer.'

'I come,' the stranger said, 'from fields of fame,
A Saxon born, and Aribert my name.
I come from Devon's shores, where Devon's lord
Waves o'er the prostrate Dane the British sword.—
Freedom might yet revisit Britain's coast,
Did Alfred live to lead her victor host.'

'He lives,' the prophet cries, 'lo, here he stands!
Alfred! preserved from Denmark's conquering bands;
Preserved from scenes where England's warriors yield,
And all the bleeding woes of Wilton's field;
From the pursuit of Treason's fiend-like train,
From warring tempests, and a dangerous main.
Preserved by Heaven, in this propitious hour,
To save his country from the oppressor's power.'

'O, moment of delight!' the youth replies;
'Again the Genius of the land shall rise;
Again shall Albion's dauntless warriors fight
For Glory's guerdon, in their monarch's sight.—
I will not Expectation's ear delay;
Short be my tale, though glorious was the day.—
By Hubba led, from Erin's subject coast,
In barks unnumber'd, came the invading host,
For, o'er each breezy hill and fertile plain,
There spread the tyrant empire of the Dane.
Shut up in Kenwith's towers, the indignant Earl
Saw Rapine wide its harpy vengeance hurl:
Saw, far as Fear could throw her trembling eye,
The region round one smoking ruin lie;
Circling the fortress, with insulting boast,
The stern invader draws his numerous host.
From the embattled summit's craggy brow
We mock awhile his idle rage below.—
Short was our triumph,—soon the warrior's breast
Shrunk from the toil, by famine dire oppress'd.
The exulting Danes, by fancied victory crown'd,
With bitter taunts their prey devoted wound.
‘Perish by want, or fall beneath our swords,
‘Or kneel,’ they cry, ‘submissive, to your lords.’

Silent, and sad, we stand.—Our gallant chief
Heaves the deep groan of mingled rage and grief;
Points to the scene of ruin, stretch'd afar,
Adds not a word, but gives the sign for war.
Not with more fury down the rock's steep side,
Rolls the wide cataract its thundering tide,
Than Devon's hardy sons resistless pour'd
War's fiery torrent on the barbarous horde.
Hosts following hosts, in vain our band engage,
With giant sinews, and with lion rage;
Through their thinn'd files our arms despairing force,
While piles of carnage mark our crimson course.
Hubba, in vain, his scatter'd ranks unites,
Prone, on the plain, the ensanguined dust he bites.
And that famed standard which the accursed loom
Of hags malignant wove in midnight gloom,
The sable raven, weiard art imbues
With drops distill'd from Hell's unwholesome dews,
Which often o'er the enthusiast troops had hung,
And, 'mid the foe, infernal horror flung;
For, in the magic folds, terrific glare
Pale Fear, and shameful Flight, and black Despair;
Torn, and defaced, amid the victor bands,
A monument of rescued freedom stands.

'Yet Erin's sons their banners still display,
Firm stand their squadrons, and dispute the day.—
Connel, the gallant chief, whose arms, of yore,
From the fierce Pict the spoils of conquest bore,
I mark'd conspicuous 'mid the warlike band,
Elate, and graced with ensigns of command.
With social voice, my ancient friend I sought,
And, in mild speech, with gentle chidings fraught,
I shew'd of broken faith the foul disgrace,
And base submission to an alien race;
Shew'd how it dimm'd Ierne's wonted fame,
Sullied the former honours of her name,
To aid the inroad of a foreign brood,
Of spoil rapacious, prodigal of blood.
Rising in warmth, of Alfred's deeds I told,
And Albion's friendly force, in days of old.—
I saw the glow of shame ingenuous rise,
Paint the flush'd cheek, and bend to earth the eyes.—
‘Enough, my friend! thy warning voice,’ he cried,
‘Shall bring Ierne's sons to Alfred's side.
‘Easy their hearts, in Honour's cause, to gain,
‘Manly and kind a brave and artless train.’
Instant along the line, from man to man,
With lightning speed, the generous impulse ran,
Each long'd to draw, on Albion's side, his sword,
Each vow'd destruction on the Danish horde;
Whose baleful sway had warp'd their kindred band,
And 'gainst a brother aim'd a brother's hand.

'At once the spears, with hostile arm address'd,
In stern defiance, at the opposing breast,
Lift high their steely points, and social join'd,
The mingling ensigns wanton in the wind.

'By recent victory warm'd, and Erin's aid,
Now plans of bold emprize the chief essay'd:
At his command, to Wessex' southmost shore
I go, the wasted region to explore,
If haply still some valiant breasts remain,
To arm, and vindicate their suffering reign;
When lo, the guidance of protecting Heaven,
More than a host in Alfred's name has given.'

'Bless'd omen! hail!' exclaims the seer divine,
'O, hail, of happier fate the unerring sign!
Alfred, to thee a pledge the Immortal Power
Gives, of approaching Glory's radiant hour.
As the event of this auspicious day
Fulfils the promise of my closing lay,
So shall each wondrous scene my verse foretold,
Its gorgeous tints, in lapse of time, unfold,
And mighty ages, as they roll along,
Shall spread thy name, shall realize my song.
Go forth, my Prince, at Fame's, at Duty's call,
Before thy sword shall Rage and Treachery fall;
Thy victor march, while favouring angels guide,
And Heaven approving, thunders on thy side.'

Confirming what the Bard prophetic spoke,
O'er the blue vault the distant thunder broke;
With awe and pleasure mix'd, the monarch heard,
And, 'rapt, his silent orisons preferr'd.

Down through the gloomy shade, along the stream,
Whose silver waves, in the dim twilight gleam,
To Athelney the king his course directs,
Where anxious love his wish'd return expects,
Whence many an eager look, at setting day,
Thrown o'er the waters, chides his tedious stay.

The night in council, and in slumber, worn,
Soon as the ruddy streaks of rising morn
Glow in the east, toward Kenwith's rescued towers
They march, to join victorious Oddune's powers.
With hasty step the exulting band advance,
Wave high the plumed crest, and shake the lance;
For little reck they now the baffled Dane,
His vanquish'd numbers scatter'd o'er the plain,
Eager the war with Albion's foes to wage,
Fired by reviving hope, and stung with generous rage.

Onward they move, o'er many a barren field,
Her stores where Plenty once was wont to yield;
Alas! neglected lay the weedy soil,
Untouch'd by ploughs, or aught of human toil,
'Mid empty cotes, and ruin'd hamlets round,
The stagnant marsh usurps the uncultured ground.
Touch'd with the scene, now Pity melts in tears,
Now the stern arm avenging Valour rears.

When, with meridian force, the orb of day
Hung high in Heaven's blue vault his sultry ray,
In pleasing prospect to the warriors' eyes,
The embattled heights of trophied Kenwick rise.
Here, proudly waving in the noontide beam,
Triumphant Oddune's Saxon banners stream;
There, on each painted fold, and blazon'd shield,
A golden harp shines on an azure field.

Meanwhile, in Kenwith's towers, the chiefs debate
Of Albion's better hopes, and happier fate;
Doubtful if Fortune, to her sea-girt shore,
Would Freedom's sway, and Concord's smiles, restore,
Or that her wayward fancy but beguiles
Their sanguine wish, with transitory smiles.
When lo, the warder's bugle loudly calls
The attentive warriors to the topmost walls,
Whence, far advancing o'er the extended glade,
They see a band in radiant arms array'd.
Speeding before the rest, a knightly train,
Spurring their fiery steeds, devour the plain.
And now the floating pennons meet their eyes,
Where, in bright fold, the Saxon courser flies.
Of friendly greeting now the shouts they hear,
And Alfred! Alfred! pierces every ear;
Now, lighting from his steed, before his bands,
Full in their sight their long-lost monarch stands.
Eager, as clustering bees on sounding wing
Pour from their hive around their idol king,
So crowd the impatient Saxons round their lord,
To life, to liberty, to arms, restored.

With generous transport godlike Alfred press'd
The happy victor to his grateful breast,
Nor did he grasp with cold or thankless hand,
The gallant leader of Ierne's band.

'Friends, brothers of the war,' the hero cried,
'Of these freed plains the bulwark and the pride,
Though, by your arms, to fame, to virtue true,
Much has been done, yet much remains to do.—
From those far borders where pellucid Tweed
Laves, with his silver stream, Northumbria's mead,
To where Sabrina's virgin waves divide
The neighbouring confines with their amber tide.
O'er all the breezy hills and fruitful plains,
The ruthless foe in power tyrannic reigns,
While, in sad exile from their native home,
Wretched, and bare, the houseless wanderers roam;
Or to the earth bent down in servile awe,
Receive, from cruel lords, oppressive law.—
Yet when they see our prosperous ensigns fly,
Hear our victorious shouts ascend the sky,
While England's and Ierne's sons unite,
To wage the war in England's monarch's right,
Soon shall rekindling Valour's embers burn,
The slave be free, the fugitive return.

'Where Druid Coitmaur spreads its leafy zone,

Now by the Saxon name of Selwood known,
To the steep site where, o'er the vale below,
Ægbryhta rears aloft the rocky brow,
Shape we our course, while, with inspiring sound,
Returning Freedom swells her pæan round.'

Not slow the generous train the path to tread,
Where Fame and Duty call'd, and Alfred led.
Soon on Ægbryhta's steep, 'mid Selwood's shade,
Flow'd Alfred's banner to the wind display'd.
Not in the midnight storm (no starry ray
To guide his vessel through the watery way,)
Feels the chill'd mariner more keen delight,
When the bright Pharos blazes to the sight,
Than Albion's sons now feel, to view on high,
This loadstar shine, of peace and victory.

By recent sufferings fired, the indignant train,
Who dragg'd inglorious Slavery's galling chain,
Or, from their home, to wilds and forests driven,
Beneath the inclement cope of Albion's heaven,
Croud, with impatient ardour, to efface
By manly hardihood, their late disgrace;
Prompt to avenge their own, their country's woes,
On the crush'd helmets of their vanquish'd foes.
All who can grasp a sword, for fight prepare,
While age and woman bend in fervent prayer.
From tongue to tongue the animating sound,
Was wafted to remotest Albion's bound,
That Alfred lived again, to dare the fight,
Undaunted champion of his country's right.
From Somerton's wide meads and verdant hills,
Where the rich vat the milky current fills;
From Wilton's champaigns wide, and chalky bourns,
Her slaughter'd sons where weeping Albion mourns;
From fair Berrochia's hills, and uplands green,
Of Saxon conquest late the splendid scene;
Berrochia—deck'd with rural pride her plains,
Lovely and chaste her maids, and brave her swains,
By royal favour graced, her fostering earth
The trophied seat of godlike Alfred's birth,
Her regions still by royal footsteps trod,
Of heroes, and of kings, the loved abode.—
From mild Hantona's soft and genial air,
Her spreading forests, and her pastures fair,
Save, on her southmost borders, where the main
Affords a refuge to the flying train,
All round the monarch crowd in loyal swarms,
Breathing revenge, and sheath'd in threatening arms.
Even from sad Mercia's subjugated seat,
Of Perfidy and Shame the dire retreat,
The gallant Leofric leads a generous few,

True to their banish'd prince, to England true;
Even from the chalky bourn of Cantium's shore,
To Alfred's aid, the favouring billows bore
Bertie, whose daring sires, in search of fame,

To Albion's coasts, from far Boruscia came,
What time his hardy warriors Hengist led
From Elba's brink to Thames' redundant bed;
Whose daring sons 'gainst Norman William stood,
Their Saxon rights maintaining with their blood.—
His trusty bow each manly yeoman draws,
Or bares his shining brand in Freedom's cause;
Freedom, resounds from each determined voice,
Freedom, the first, and death, the second choice.—

Proud of his subjects' faith, the warrior King
Stands forth, encircled by the attentive ring,
While long repeated shouts of rapture prove
That bless'd, unsullied crown, a people's love,
Emerging from Affliction's pale disguise,
His form majestic, to their gazing eyes
Shone, in terrific vengeance awful dress'd,
And all the English Hero stood confess'd.
But soon the dignity of sovereign sway
To Kindness' milder attributes gave way;
Alfred, surrounded by his gallant bands,
A long-lost parent 'mid his children stands,
Who hail, with Transport's tributary tear,
The man they love, the monarch they revere!

Yet, 'mid the squadrons spreading o'er the plain,
Looking for Caledonia's sons in vain,
In mournful tint pourtray'd, his fancy draws,
Blooming in youth, and warm in Virtue's cause,
The brave and generous Donald's hapless doom,
His warlike fire quench'd in a watery tomb;
From his full eye the tears of sorrow start,
And sighs of sever'd friendship swell his heart.

Remorseless War! and harsh Adversity!
Rude and severe instructors though ye be,
Yet, by the precepts of your rugged school,
Imperial greatness learns itself to rule;
'Tis your unflattering mirror that displays
A faithful image to the monarch's gaze.
In Fortune's prosperous hour the silken tribe,
Whose venal reverence hopes of favour bribe,
The sons of selfish Luxury and Guile,
Bask in the sunshine of the royal smile;
But let Misfortune's iron tempest beat,
The insect minions from the storm retreat.
Then Truth and Honour round the insulted throne,
Stand—Loyalty's impenetrable zone,
Unconquer'd guardians of their monarch's cause,
Palladium of their country's rights and laws.—
True Friendship thrives in war's unkindly soil,
Nurtur'd by mutual cares, and mutual toil.
Stern Independence there,—too proud to stand,
Obsequious bowing, 'mid the courtier band—
Flames in the foreward of the embattled field,
His bleeding breast his honour'd sovereign's shield.
And modest Diffidence, whose dazzled eye
Shrinks from the glance of scepter'd majesty,
On the refulgent glare of mail-clad foes
The eagle-look of bold defiance throws;
Presses before him in the battle's strife,
And ransoms, with his own, his monarch's life.
Then, while to union common dangers draw,
Lost in the soldier's love, the subject's awe,
O'er the respect that true allegiance feels,
The kindlier hue of warm affection steals,
And as their tints the social passions blend,
The sword that serves the prince, protects the friend.

Now burning to avenge his country's woes,
On scenes of war his thoughts the hero throws.
Guthrum the strong, of northern kings the heir,
To martial toil inured, and martial care,
Whose giant arm, in War's destructive field,
Scatter'd the files, and made the mighty yield;
Whose veteran skill the storm of fight could guide,
Check its wild rage, or loose its furious tide,
Proud, cruel, fierce, now held the sceptre-sword,
O'er conquer'd Albion, delegated lord.—
Alfred, revolving deep, what future fate
On Albion's persecuted shores must wait,
Should all her foes their scatter'd force combine,
Ruled by one chief, and bent on one design,
With firm demeanour, but with anxious breast,
Thus the brave leaders of his host address'd.

'Strong are our ruthless foes, their station strong,
And warlike skill informs their numerous throng;
Urged by rude force alone, we know too well
How fierce the tempest of their battle fell.—
What now their power, when temperate Valour leads,
And Wisdom guides the blow that Fury speeds?
Flush'd with success, while every bosom glows,
Secure of victory o'er vanquish'd foes;
And the slight 'vantage of the present hour,
Inflames their rage, nor aught impairs their power.
Not ours, with thoughtless confidence, to dare
The venturous shock of such unequal war,
Or, on the hazard of one doubtful day,
Throw the last remnant of our hope away.—
No—let some generous warrior, in whose breast
High courage beats, by prudence calm repress'd,
Unshock'd by peril, unsurprised by change,
Keen to observe, and skilful to arrange,—
If such there be,—with bold, yet wary eye,
The latent station of the foe descry;
Seek, in the guarded camp, the adverse band,
And trace each scheme by hostile cunning plann'd.
His life to fame a people's shouts shall call,
A people's tears immortalize his fall.'

The monarch ceased.—Around, in doubtful mood,
Irresolute and mute, the warriors stood.—
When thus again the King:—'I must not blame
The deep suspense that damps your generous flame.
As to my conduct, by the award of Heaven,
Of Albion's fate the sacred charge is given;
As me it most concerns of all mankind,
That Albion's sons enthrall'd, deliverance find;
As all the joys this bosom e'er can feel
Are solely center'd in my country's weal,—
Mine be the enterprize—'tis mine to go,
And search the secret councils of the foe.
As, to his ranks, this arm your march must guide,
Be, by these eyes, his warlike plans descried.
Following the line which Fame, which Duty draws,
I here devote me to my Country's cause,
Resolved to execute the perilous deed,
To live her guardian, or her martyr bleed.'

He paused.—A murmur spread through all the train,
When thus his words their rising zeal restrain:
'Fix'd as the will of Fate, my purposed course,
I deem him not my friend who checks its force.'

Sudden he quits the band, to thought resign'd,
The venturous scheme revolving in his mind.
In meditation deep, as through the shade,
Devious, his undirected footsteps stray'd,
Straight, from a distant harp, the warbling note,
Across the impervious forest, seem'd to float.
As, through the darkling mist, a transient beam
Of setting day oft throws a golden gleam,
So, o'er the pensive gloom that wrap'd his soul,
A sudden ray of consolation stole.
Well was he skill'd the song sublime to raise,
Or steep the impassion'd soul in melting lays.
Fair Leothete, of Gallia's dames the pride,

Led to his father's couch, a blooming bride,
Oft to his youthful fancy would unfold,
What ancient bards of Anglia's chiefs had told,
What time brave Hengist, from the Cimbrian shore,
To Britain's drooping sons their succour bore;
Hence caught his infant breast the mingled flame,
Of Heaven-descended song, and martial fame,
And, 'mid the toils of empire, still his mind
Had arts of peace, with deeds of prowess join'd.

'This be my guard,' reflecting, Alfred cried;
'This, through the adverse camp, my steps shall guide,
The sternest bosom, and the rudest arm,
Their savage aim forego, if music charm.'

Through the thick covert of the tangled wood
His listening ear the leading sound pursued,
Till, opening sudden on a verdant glade,
Stretch'd on the turf, he saw the minstrel laid;
Edwin, whose youthful ear, 'mid mountains hoar,
Had learn'd, of Cambrian bards, the tuneful lore,
And, high Plinlimmon's echoing rocks among,
Drunk the bold strains of Thaliessin's song.
From him the monarch ask'd the sacred lyre,
The minstrel's mystic wreath, and loose attire.

In this array, by danger unappal'd,
Onward he moves where Albion's safety call'd;
Yet, cautious of the perils that might rise
Round his lone march, and mar his bold emprise,

From scatter'd squadrons of the adverse power,
Who, bent on spoil, the bordering regions scour,
Brave Ethelwood, and a selected few,
Chiefs of tried virtue, resolute and true,
His course from midnight wanderers to defend,
Array'd in arms, their monarch's steps attend.

Through many a bosky dell their way they keep,
To the green foot of high Æcglea's steep.
When thus the King:—'Here, friends, your task is done,
What else remains to act, I act alone.
Should, from the hostile camp, some vagrant eye
Your plume-crown'd helms and gleaming arms descry,
Inglorious death our lot, or shameful thrall,
England's last hope extinguish'd in our fall.

'For two successive days, beneath this bourn
Conceal'd, with caution wait your friend's return.
If these elapse, conclude your Alfred lost,
The station quit, and seek my faithful host;
There, with our valiant peers, and Erin's chief,
Explore the means of succour and relief:
Either with desperate arm resolve to dare
Again, the bold uncertainty of war;
Or if, alas, fair Albion's shores must bow
Beneath the insults of a cruel foe,
Let him not boast o'er Albion's sons to reign,
But only sway a waste unpeopled plain.
Or verdant Erin's sea-encircled lands
Shall yield a refuge to your exiled bands,
Or Scotia's heights, indented by the wave,
Or Cambria's mountain-rocks your powers may save;
As erst, to Britain's native sons, their seat
Gave, from our conquering sires, a safe retreat;
So may they to their ancient foes afford
A sure asylum from the Danish sword.'

He said, and warmly press'd each friendly hand,
Assumed his minstrel garb, and left the band.

Now, unmolested by the scouts, he pass'd,
For o'er the bard a sacred shield is cast,
Graced, and revered, even by the fiercest throng,
In conscious safety moves the man of song.
By wasted fields and ruin'd farms he hies,
Till, full in sight, the Danish tents arise;
There, fearless mingling with the hostile train,
He pours sweet Melody's enchanting strain;
Entranced, around the listening Pagans stand,
And transient rapture soothes the savage band,
While, with attentive look, amid his foes
A soldier's eye the royal minstrel throws,
Surveys the trenches' depth, the turf-raised bar,
And, as he warbles, meditates the war.

Amid the banquet's glee proud Guthrum heard
The strain melodious of the scepter'd bard.
Summon'd to grace the royal tent he stands,
And sweeps the thrilling strings with skilful hands.
His ardent mind, as struggling passions fire,
Indignant thus to prostitute his lyre,
He pour'd such fervid energy of song,
As roused the fierceness of the boisterous throng:
For fancied fights the tipsy rout prepare,
And grasp imagined arms, and beat the empty air.
Till, as the fumes of foul debauch arise,
With limbs enervate, and with swimming eyes,
To feverish rest the reeling train retire,
And drown in sleep the visionary fire.

With joyful look the wary hero view'd
Stern Vigilance, by long success, subdued;
Saw daring Courage turn'd to frantic heat,
And Victory prepare her own defeat;
But, as along the noisy camp he pass'd,
Listening to Riot's roar in every blast,
Startled with horror and amaze, he hears
The whisper'd sound of 'Alfred!' strike his ears.
Instant he turns, alarm'd—his warlike hand
The useless harp quits for the shining brand,
When thus the voice—'My King! my master! say,
What fiend has tempted here thy dangerous way,
'Mid scenes where ruthless Hate and envious Strife,
Lurk, in dread ambush, for thy sacred life?
O, fly this fatal place, weak all disguise
To hide thy well-known form from Treason's eyes.
Many are here, like me, of Saxon race,
The servile ministers of foul Disgrace,
Prompt to betray, for Treachery's base reward,
That prince whose life my dying arm would guard.'

Soon as these accents reach'd the monarch's ear,
'Edgar!' he cried, 'my faithful Edgar here?
Edgar, to whom, on that destructive day,
Which tore my every hope and joy away,
Elsitha, and my infant son, I gave,
From death, or insult worse than death, to save.
Torture no words can paint, my bosom rives.'—
'She lives, my prince! my friend! Elsitha lives.'

Oft Death's pale image in the battle's storm
Had met the hero in its direst form,
Nor did he e'er in ghastlier shape appear,
Than, when in Edgar's voice, a traitor near,
Show'd him a fate that Valour might appal,
Slain in disguise, unhonour'd in his fall.
Yet, in those scenes, to Duty's claims resign'd,
Nor doubt, nor terror, shook his mighty mind.
Amid distress and danger firm he stood,
As Albion's cliffs defy the stormy flood,
Frown on the raging surf with haughty brow,
And view the idle breakers chafe below.
That mind, nor danger nor distress could tame,
In every hour, and every scene, the same,
Tumultuous trembled at Elsitha's name.
Now, that she lived, was wild impetuous joy;
Now fears and doubts the springing hope destroy.
For she the woes of slavery might prove,
Disgraceful chains, or more disgraceful love.

'Rescued from death, from shame,' the youth exclaims,
'The first and fairest of our English dames,
Deep, in a cloister's holy shelter veil'd,
In safety rests from human search conceal'd,
Where, in pellucid current, Avon laves
The irriguous meadows with her silver waves.—
Precarious safety! for the victor Dane
Awes, with surrounding hosts, the neighbouring plain;
No mansion sacred, no retreat secure,
If plunder tempt, or beauty's charms allure.'

The warrior heard—at once his throbbing breast,
A thousand joys, a thousand fears possess'd.
The glowing image of Elsitha's charms,
With rapturous hope the lover's bosom warms;
The baneful thoughts of former pain subside,
Lost in wild Extacy's tumultuous tide.—
Now torturing Fancy paints the sacred fane,
Forced by the unbridled fury of the Dane,
While Indignation's fiery currents roll,
And all the warrior rushes on his soul.
'My friend! my better genius, come!' he cries,
The avenging hero flashing from his eyes;
'Alone, unfriended, though I seem to stand,
Arms, grasp'd by Faith and Valour, are at hand,
Soldiers resolved to conquer or to fall,
Their succouring force if outraged Virtue call.'

Through the still camp, in sleep lethargic bound,
They pass, and reach, unseen, the turf-raised mound;
Unseen, they guard the pass, for slumbers deep,
In death-like rest, the drunken warders steep.
Through the thick shade they bend their silent way,
Where Ethelwood, and England's warriors lay:
With joy and gratitude they saw restored,
Crown'd with success, and safe, their much-loved lord.
With kind and friendly zeal the faithful train
Heap the full board, and spread the couch in vain;
No thought has he of hunger or of rest,
While fair Elsitha's image fills his breast;
Even with diminish'd lustre Glory shined,
And love, with England, shared the monarch's mind.
Not the wild blaze by feverish passion blown,
For chaste Affection's pure unsullied throne,
Is Alfred's breast, whence those true virtues spring,
Which form a people's friend, a patriot king.

With all their leader's wrongs enflamed, the band,
Elate in arms, a radiant phalanx stand.
By Edgar guided, through the waning night,
Through the first orient streaks of dawning light,
Onward they press,—but when the mounting ray
Profusely pour'd the golden flood of day,
Cautious, and wary, of the neighbouring foe,
Beneath the shade their wearied limbs they throw:
But soon as Eve distills her balmy dew,
Again the chiefs their silent march renew,
Till, urging on the sable noon of night,
As the bright stream reflects a feeble light,
On its green edge, by contrast dim, display'd,
The holy turrets rise in glimmering shade.—
Sudden they halt—when, with terrific clang
Of martial shouts, the echoing arches rang;
Blazes with sudden light the solemn pile,
And torches glide along each fretted ile.
With female shrieks the vaulted roofs resound,
By the loud bell's tremendous pealing drown'd.
The notes of horror strike the valiant train,
Thrill in their ears, and harrow every vein.
Not so their chief—at once his active mind,
In passion cool, each circumstance combined.—
That one neglected moment might destroy
The treasury of all his promised joy
He saw—and bade the clarion's warlike breath
Swell the vindictive strain of war and death;
Through every cell the martial thunder broke,
To each astonish'd Dane defiance spoke.—

Rushing before his troops, with ardent breast,
Full on the foe the gallant Alfred press'd.
The clouds of grief that o'er his exiled head,
So long their melancholy shadow spread,
Now vanish to the winds—he sees once more,
Opposed in arms, the invaders of his shore,
Clad in his people's spoils, and red with Albion's gore.
Amid the ranks, with whirlwind speed he drives,
Unnumber'd breasts the sword of vengeance rives.
Now rushing on, the Saxon troops pursue
The daring line their leader's faulchion drew.
Before the gathering storm the oppressive band,
Already scatter'd by the monarch's hand,
With broken ranks recede, and, vanquish'd, yield
To Alfred, and to England's sons, the field!

The holy inmates of the lone abode,
Virgins, and matrons, consecrate to God,
As with pure zeal, for this unlook'd for aid,
The grateful orison of thanks they paid;
The intrepid warrior bless'd, whose arm was given
To guard the hallow'd votaries of Heaven.

But who the agonies of bliss can paint
When Alfred clasp'd again his widow'd saint!
Clasp'd her, with transport, to a breast adored,
To life, to love, to happiness restored;
Rescued from savage insults, rude alarms,
To joy and safety, by a husband's arms,
The first, sole, passion of her opening youth,
Mirror of constancy, and soul of truth;
Dreadful in fight as Heaven's red bolts of death,
Gentle in peace as May's ambrosial breath;
For whom her brightest laurels Conquest wove,
Twined with the myrtle wreaths of nuptial love.—
Could one condemn'd, alas! to weep in vain,
Virtues he ne'er must hope to meet again,
Behold, for him reversed, the general doom,
And love connubial rescued from the tomb;
As fond Admetus clasp'd Alcestes' charms,

As Eleonora bless'd her Edward's arms,
His mind, to Fancy's eye, might picture well,
Transports which few have felt, which none can tell.

And now his arms his smiling infant press'd,
Now drew his blushing consort to his breast;
From her soft eyes, which chasten'd fondness speak,
A lucid tear steals down her lovely cheek;
So the mild sun-beam of the vernal hour,
Oft watry shines through April's crystal shower.
He read the enquiring thought that tear express'd,
And thus in accent bland his queen address'd.

'Of many a valiant chief, since last we met,
Glory's bright beams in shades of death are set.
Even he, my dear ally, of Mercia's line,
Than brother more, Elsitha, since he's thine,
Burthred, from native Albion wandering far,
The sacrifice of Treason and of War,
On distant shores has breathed the expiring sigh,
No friend to tend his couch, or close his eye.'

'O witness, Heaven!' the royal Dame replied,
'To thee I speak, my husband, and my pride,
That, thus again to thy dear arms restored,
Saved and protected by thy victor sword,
This bosom swells alone with Rapture's sigh,
No tears but those of Transport fill this eye;
Bowing, in gratitude, for favours given,
Shall this weak mind arraign the will of Heaven?'

Here stopp'd her faultering voice, while copious flow
The mingled tides of Pleasure and of Woe.
For while she raised her eye in praise, the tear
Of anxious diffidence still trembled there,
Till her loved consort, with affection true,
Kiss'd, from its lovely source, the pearly dew.—
By mutual fondness every doubt allay'd,
And years of pain in one short moment paid.

When thus brave Ethelwood—'My warning voice
Breaks on this happy scene against my choice—
Short is, alas! the insidious calm;—around
Soon shall again the storm of conflict sound,
Soon the returning foe, in morning's hour,
O'er this retreat his numerous bands will pour.
A troop in arms, so valiant, and so near,
Will wake, at once, his vengeance and his fear.
Toward Selwood's shade, and high Ægbryhta's bourn,
To meet your friends and brave allies, return,
Who many an anxious look impatient fling,
Far o'er the horizon's verge, to seek their king.'

The Monarch heard, and Glory's kindling flame
Shot, with redoubled ardour, through his frame.
When selfish passion clouds the warrior's breast,
Dim shine her mouldering flames, by sloth depress'd,
But from chaste Love, and faithful Beauty's arms,
With heighten'd radiance blaze her heavenly charms.

Instant he gives the sign;—in bright array
The troops obedient measure back their way;
Not as when wild Dismay, and pallid Fear,
Hang on the vanquish'd squadron's flying rear.
With slow and steady foostep they recede,
Yet in retreat look back to Victory's meed,
With eager hope of future conflict burn,
And lingering go, more dreadful to return.—

Now, as in pleasing prospect, to their eyes
The tented summits of Ægbryhta rise,
Wondering they see, upon the aerial brow,
Cambria's and Caledonia's banners flow.
Young Donald's bands, saved from the waves and wind,
On Cambria's coast, by Mervin's warriors join'd,
Mervin, who ruled Dimeta's western plains,
The princely leader of Silurian swains,
March'd, with united squadrons, to his aid,
Their ensigns each in friendly folds display'd.
Here, crown'd with recent conquest, to the skies
The snow-white steed in Saxon banners flies,
There Cambria's griffin, on the azure field,
In snaky volumes writhes around the shield;
And Scotia's lion, proud, erect, and bold,
Rears high his irritable crest in gold.
Gold too her harp, and strung with silver wire,
Erin her arms displays with kindred fire,
And Britain's sister isles in Alfred's cause conspire.

Proud of his native chiefs and brave allies,
In Alfred's breast new hopes of victory rise.
Sincere he clasps, in Friendship's warm embrace,
The warlike chief of each congenial race;
But when he saw the Scotish prince restored,
Donald, whose timeless doom he oft deplored;
Donald, who urged with more than friendly zeal,
Scotia's free sons to arm for England's weal;
Donald, whom oft his pensive thought would form,
Floating, a corse, before the enfuriate storm,
His hoary locks while wretched Gregor tore,
Devoting Alfred's cause, and England's shore,
With love unfeign'd, and gratitude, he press'd
A rescued brother to his throbbing breast,
Anxious to learn what potent arm could save
Him and his gallant warriors from the wave.

When thus the Prince:—'Forced by the billowy roar,
With dreadful impulse, on the craggy shore,
Where rose abrupt the mountain from the tide,
The wild wave dashing on its rugged side,
Onward we rush'd to fate;—when in our sight,
Shewn by the lurid tempest's forked light,
Flash'd sudden gleam of hope,—beneath the brow
Whence high Dimeta's glittering turrets show,
There opes a spacious bay, where Milver's steep

Guards the still harbour from the howling deep,
In peaceful calm, there gently heaves the main,
And round, the angry whirlwind raves in vain.
Keneth, whose watchful eyes the advantage mark,
Steers, through the severing rocks, his shatter'd bark,
The flaming torch then rears aloft, to guide
Our labouring vessals through the placid tide.
The wave-worn bands assembling on the coast,
As anxious we survey our scatter'd host,
That ship alone our sorrowing eyes deplore,
Which royal Alfred through the surges bore.—
What empty rites of funeral woe we paid
To thee, my friend; the generous Cambrian's aid;
And how, when Fame declared that Albion's lord,
From the dire storm to Albion's fields restored,
Waved high the crest, and shook the avenging sword,
By valiant Mervin join'd, from Milver's bay,
To join the bold emprize we sped our way,
Some fitter time shall show—these hours demand
The leader's counsel, and the soldier's hand.'

The generous King now to his consort's charms
Courteous presents his new compeers in arms.
With manly firmness, and with martial tread,
Advancing, Mervin bows his helmed head.
Connal avows himself chaste Beauty's knight,
Her slave in peace, her champion in the fight.
In doubtful awe young Donald's steps advance,
And as his eye, abash'd, with sidelong glance
Caught fair Elsitha's form, with glowing hue,
Low on the ground, a downcast look he threw,
While, in Confusion's blushing tint array'd,
His faultering voice his inward thoughts betray'd.

In royal Burthred's hospitable court,
Of valour and of wit the famed resort,
Ere Scandinavia's sons, with felon sway,
Swept every polish'd charm of life away;
Where many a chief, to win Elsitha's eye,
The manly skill display'd of chivalry,
As once, in friendly sojourn, Donald staid,
He view'd, with passion'd eye, the royal maid;
Though but a stripling, fated then to prove
The inevitable tyranny of Love.
Vain were his vows, his fond pretensions vain,
Nor vows nor prayers her favouring smile could gain;
Already valiant Alfred's courteous art,
Had fix'd his image in her virgin heart,
While deeds of generous worth and high renown,
Virtue's true meed, and laurell'd Glory's crown,
Recorded by a people's general voice,
Fire her pure breast, and consecrate her choice.

Leaving the Mercian court, he sought to foil
His hopeless love, by hardihood and toil;
Till well, he deem'd, that time and absence join'd,
Had chaced the soft invader from his mind.
For when his sire led back from Erin's coast,
By Triumph graced, the Caledonian host,
Drinking each warlike tale with greedy ears,
He burns to emulate the deeds he hears,
Secure that Love had lost his faded flame,
Quench'd in the brighter blaze of martial fame.
Even when he learn'd from Alfred's dreadful tale,
What perils dire his hapless queen assail,
Though in her cause to arm he eager sought,
Fame only edged his sword, he fondly thought.
Love, so he vainly deem'd, had wing'd his flight,
And Fame and Friendship charm'd him to the fight;
For friendship still remain'd when passion fell,
And still he wish'd the fair Elsitha well;
Her image bright, yet cold as Dian's ray,
Through toil and hardship led his venturous way;
Around his bark when roar'd the wintry storm,
Mild Friendship cheer'd him in Elsitha's form;
Elsitha's friendship, like the leading star,
Guided his footsteps through the paths of war.

But as the dew, which oft, at early dawn,
In wintry whiteness, clothes the summer lawn,
Melts, when the orb of day new gilds the plain,
And verdure reassumes its genial reign;
So, from the lustre of Elsitha's eye,
The cold resolves of frozen friendship fly;
The vainly smother'd passion stands confess'd,
And all the lover glows in Donald's breast.
Yet to his heart he shudders to declare,
The thoughts his reason reads indignant there.
On Virtue's solid rock his conduct placed,
By Duty guarded, and by Honour graced,
O'er him the fiery floods of passion roll,
Consume his frame, but ruffle not his soul.
Hence, though his mind her steady seat maintains,
A subtle poison steals through all his veins;
While, in his languid eye, his sorrows speak,
And tear Health's ruddy blossoms from his cheek.
So o'er the early bloom of opening spring,
When Eurus harshly waves the ungenial wing,
Though, rooted deep, the vigorous plant defies
The chilling blasts of unpropitious skies,
Yet the green germs that bursting first appear,
The vernal prelude of the youthful year,
Shrink from the breeze—and Maia's gentle hours
Mourn the bare spray despoil'd of leaves and flowers.