William Lisle Bowles

Oh, hadst thou fall'n, brave youth! on that proud day,[1] When our victorious fleet o'er the red surge Rolled in terrific glory, thou hadst fall'n

Oh, no; I would not leave thee, my sweet home, Decked with the mantling woodbine and the rose, And slender woods that the still scene inclose,

Stranger! mark this lovely scene, When the evening sets serene, And starting o'er the silent wood,

To him, who, many a night upon the main, At mid-watch, from the bounding vessel's side, Shivering, has listened to the rocking tide,

I climb the highest cliff; I hear the sound Of dashing waves; I gaze intent around; I mark the gray cope, and the hollowness

There is strange music in the stirring wind, When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone,

How shall I cheat the heavy hours, of thee Deprived, of thy kind looks and converse sweet, Now that the waving grove the dark storms beat,

As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side, Much musing on the track of terror past, When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,

Age, thou the loss of health and friends shalt mourn! But thou art passing to that night-still bourne, Where labour sleeps. The linnet, chattering loud

How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide First came, and on the Coomb's romantic side

As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds, Still on that vision which is flown I dwell, On images I loved, alas, too well!

Thou, whose stern spirit loves the storm, That, borne on Terror's desolating wings, Shakes the high forest, or remorseless flings

I shall behold far off thy towering crest, Proud mountain! from thy heights as slow I stray Down through the distant vale my homeward way,

Bereave me not of Fancy's shadowy dreams, Which won my heart, or when the gay career Of life begun, or when at times a tear

How soothing sound the gentle airs that move The innumerable leaves, high overhead, When autumn first, from the long avenue,

Ye holy Towers that shade the wave-worn steep, Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime, Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time

PREFACE.[1] The estimation of a Poem of this nature must depend, first, on its arrangement, plan, and disposition; secondly, on the judgment, propriety, and feeling with which - in just and proper succession and relief - picture, pathos, moral and religious reflections, historical notices, or affecting incidents, are interwoven. The reader will, in the next place, attend to the versification, or music, in which the thoughts are conveyed. Shakspeare and Milton are the great masters of the verse I have adopted. But who can be heard after them? The reader, however, will at least find no specimens of sonorous harmony ending with such significant words as "of," "and," "if," "but," etc of which we have had lately some splendid examples. I would therefore only request of him to observe, that when such passages occur in this poem as "vanishing," "hush!" etc. it was from design, and not from want of ear.[2] An intermixture of images and characters from common life might be thought, at first sight, out of keeping with the higher tone of general colouring; but the interspersion of the comic, provided the due mock-heroic stateliness be kept up in the language, has often the effect of light and shade, as will be apparent on looking at Cowper's exquisite "Task," although he has often "offended against taste." The only difficulty is happily to steer "from grave to gay."

PART FIFTH. LANG SYNE - VISION OF THE DELUGE - CONCLUSION The music of "Lang Syne!" Oh! long ago

PREFACE.[1] The estimation of a Poem of this nature must depend, first, on its arrangement, plan, and disposition; secondly, on the judgment, propriety, and feeling with which - in just and proper succession and relief - picture, pathos, moral and religious reflections, historical notices, or affecting incidents, are interwoven. The reader will, in the next place, attend to the versification, or music, in which the thoughts are conveyed. Shakspeare and Milton are the great masters of the verse I have adopted. But who can be heard after them? The reader, however, will at least find no specimens of sonorous harmony ending with such significant words as "of," "and," "if," "but," etc of which we have had lately some splendid examples. I would therefore only request of him to observe, that when such passages occur in this poem as "vanishing," "hush!" etc. it was from design, and not from want of ear.[2] An intermixture of images and characters from common life might be thought, at first sight, out of keeping with the higher tone of general colouring; but the interspersion of the comic, provided the due mock-heroic stateliness be kept up in the language, has often the effect of light and shade, as will be apparent on looking at Cowper's exquisite "Task," although he has often "offended against taste." The only difficulty is happily to steer "from grave to gay."

PART FOURTH. WALK ABROAD - VIEWS AROUND, FROM THE SEVERN TO BRISTOL - WRINGTON - "AULD ROBIN GRAY." The shower is past - the heath-bell, at our feet,

PART SECOND. REFLECTIONS ON THE MORAL AND RELIGIOUS STATE OF PARISHES, PAST AND PRESENT. A shower, even while we gaze, steals o'er the scene,

PART THIRD. THE MAIDEN'S CURSE. I subjoin the plain narrative of the singular event on which this tale is founded, from Mr Polwhele, that the reader may see how far, poetically, I have departed from plain facts, and what I have thought it best to add for the sake of moral, picturesque, and poetical effect. The narrative is as follows: -

The tide of fate rolls on! heart-pierced and pale, The gallant soldier lies,[1] nor aught avail, The shield, the sword, the spirit of the brave,

Whose was that gentle voice, that, whispering sweet, Promised methought long days of bliss sincere! Soothing it stole on my deluded ear,

With mirth unfeigned the cottage chimney rings, Though only vocal with four fiddle-strings: And see, the poor blind fiddler draws his bow,

If ever sea-maid, from her coral cave, Beneath the hum of the great surge, has loved To pass delighted from her green abode,

Look at those sleeping children; softly tread, Lest thou do mar their dream, and come not nigh Till their fond mother, with a kiss, shall cry,

So ends Childe Harold his last pilgrimage! Above the Malian surge he stood, and cried, Liberty! and the shores, from age to age

Hark! angel voices from the sky Proclaim a Saviour's birth; Glory, they sing, to God on high,

Call the strange spirit that abides unseen In wilds, and wastes, and shaggy solitudes, And bid his dim hand lead thee through these scenes

When anxious Spain, along her rocky shore, From cliff to cliff returned the sea-fight's roar; When flash succeeding flash, tremendous broke

Turn to Britannia's triumphs on the main: See Nelson, pale and fainting, 'mid the slain, Whilst Victory sighs, stern in the garb of war,

Toll Nelson's knell! a soul more brave Ne'er triumphed on the green-sea wave! Sad o'er the hero's honoured grave,

Peace, oh! peace, be to the shade Of him who here in earth is laid: Saints and spirits of the blessed,

Yes! from mine eyes the tears unbidden start, As thee, my country, and the long-lost sight Of thy own cliffs, that lift their summits white

On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood Uprear their shadowing heads, and at their feet Hear not the surge that has for ages beat,

Shouts, and the noise of war! Far o'er the land hath been my flight, O'er many a forest dark as night,

Who comes (my soul no longer doubt), Rising from earth's wormy sod, And whilst ten thousand angels sing,

When I lie musing on my bed alone, And listen to the wintry waterfall;[1] And many moments that are past and gone,

A poor old soldier shall not lie unknown, Without a verse, and this recording stone. 'Twas his in youth o'er distant lands to stray,

Oh! they shall ne'er forget thee, they who knew Thy soul benevolent, sincere, and true; The poor thy kindness cheered, thy bounty fed,

Lay down thy pilgrim staff upon this heap, And till the morning of redemption sleep, Old wayfarer of earth! From youth to age,

Christian! for none who scorns that holy name Can gaze with honest eyes on Southey's fame; Christian! bow down thy head in humble fear,

Evening! as slow thy placid shades descend, Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still, The lonely, battlement, the farthest hill

There was a morrice on the moonlight plain, And music echoed in the woody glade, For fay-like forms, as of Titania's train,

He left us; we, the hour of parting come, To Prasidamus' hospitable home, Myself and Eucritus, together wend,

When the famed Argo now secure had passed The crushing rocks,[1] and that terrific strait That guards the wintry Pontic, the tall ship

Where were ye, nymphs, when Daphnis drooped with love? In fair Peneus' Tempe, or the grove Of Pindus! Nor your pastimes did ye keep,

Pan, Pan, oh mighty hunter! whether now, Thou roamest o'er Lyceus' shaggy brow, Or Moenalaus, outstretched in amplest shade,

Mark, where the beetling precipice appears, The toil of the old fisher, gray with years; Mark, as to drag the laden net he strains,

WRITTEN AFTER VIEWING THE RUINS OF THE ONE, AND HEARING THE CHURCH SERVICE IN THE OTHER. Glory and boast of Avalon's fair vale, How beautiful thy ancient turrets rose!

Come to these peaceful seats, and think no more Of cold, of midnight watchings, or the roar Of Ocean, tossing on his restless bed!

See, sister, where the chickens trip, All busy in the morn! Look how their heads they dip and dip,

Oh! hide those tempting eyes, that faultless form, Those looks with feeling and with nature warm; The neck, the softly-swelling bosom hide,

As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard Unmoved the carol of the matin bird

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delightful measure? COLLINS.

Look, Christian, on thy Bible, and that glass That sheds its sand through minutes, hours, and days, And years; it speaks not, yet, methinks, it says,

Perish! Almighty Justice cried, And struck the avenging blow, And Europe shouts from side to side,

Lo! where youth and beauty lie, Cold within the tomb! As the spring's first violets die,

God of the battle, hear our prayer! By the lifted falchion's glare; By the uncouth fane sublime,

And art thou he, now "fall'n on evil days," And changed indeed! Yet what do this sunk cheek, These thinner locks, and that calm forehead speak!

Stranger! a while beneath this aged tree Rest thee, the hills beyond, and flowery meads, Surveying; and if Nature's charms may wake

How blessed with thee the path could I have trod Of quiet life, above cold want's hard fate, (And little wishing more) nor of the great

Milton, our noblest poet, in the grace Of youth, in those fair eyes and clustering hair, That brow untouched by one faint line of care,

O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on Sorrow's wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)

Go to assemblies of the rich and gay, The blazing hall of grandeur, and the throng Of cities, and there listen to the song

The morning wakes in shadowy mantle gray, The darksome woods their glimmering skirts unfold, Prone from the cliff the falcon wheels her way,

Come, and where these runnels fall, Listen to my madrigal! Far from all sounds of all the strife,

ON A TREE COMMANDING A VIEW OF THE WHOLE EXTENT OF BOWOOD. When in thy sight another's vast domain Spreads its long line of woods, dost thou complain?

How shall I praise thee, Beaumont, whose nice skill Can mould the soft and shadowy scene at will; Chastise to harmony each gaudy ray,

I stood upon the stone where ELA lay, The widowed founder of these ancient walls, Where fancy still on meek devotion calls,

How clear a strife of light and shade is spread! The face how touched with nature's loveliest red! The eye, how eloquent, and yet how meek!

Dear Mary, if thy little bird Should, all the winter long, Pleased from the window to be heard,

Pure fount, that, welling from this wooded hill, Dost wander forth, as into life's wide vale, Thou to the traveller dost tell no tale

Through the wood's maze our eyes delighted stray, To mark the rustics on the market-day. Beneath the branches winds the long white road;

To every gentle Muse in vain allied, In youth's full early morning HEADLEY died! Too long had sickness left her pining trace,

Oh! I should ill thy generous cares requite Thou who didst first inspire my timid Muse, Could I one tuneful tear to thee refuse,

Matlock! amid thy hoary-hanging views, Thy glens that smile sequestered, and thy nooks Which yon forsaken crag all dark o'erlooks;

TO KENNA. England, a long farewell! a long farewell, My country, to thy woods, and streams, and hills!

Up! for the morning shines with welcome ray, And to the sunny seabeach let us stray. What orient hues proclaim the master's hand!

O harmony! thou tenderest nurse of pain, If that thy note's sweet magic e'er can heal Griefs which the patient spirit oft may feel,

O Music! if thou hast a charm That may the sense of pain disarm, Be all thy tender tones addressed

My father's grave, I heard her say, And marked a stealing tear; Oh, no! I would not go away,

Fall'n pile! I ask not what has been thy fate; But when the winds, slow wafted from the main, Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain,

From the vast and desert deeps, Where the lonely Kraken sleeps, Where fixed the icy mountains high

Beautiful landscape! I could look on thee For hours, unmindful of the storm and strife, And mingled murmurs of tumultuous life.

Fountain, that sparklest through the shady place, Making a soft, sad murmur o'er the stones That strew thy lucid way! Oh, if some guest

Nay, let us gaze, ev'n till the sense is full, Upon the rich creation, shadowed so That not great Nature, in her loftiest pomp

When last we parted, thou wert young and fair How beautiful let fond remembrance say! Alas! since then old Time has stol'n away

Up, up, into the vast extended space, Thou art ascending in thy majesty, Beautiful moon, the queen of the pale sky!

Oh, Mary, when distress and anguish came, And slow disease preyed on thy wasted frame; When every friend, ev'n like thy bloom, was fled,

Languid, and sad, and slow, from day to day I journey on, yet pensive turn to view, Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue,

Spirit of beauty, and of heavenly song! No longer seek in vain, 'mid the loud throng, 'Mid the discordant tumults of mankind,

Oh, stay, harmonious and sweet sounds, that die In the long vaultings of this ancient fane! Stay, for I may not hear on earth again

The orient beam illumes the parting oar; From yonder azure track, emerging white, The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight,

If I could bid thee, pleasant shade, farewell Without a sigh, amidst whose circling bowers My stripling prime was passed, and happiest hours,

Clysdale! as thy romantic vales I leave, And bid farewell to each retiring hill, Where musing memory seems to linger still,

The spring shall visit thee again, Itchin! and yonder ancient fane,[1] That casts its shadow on thy breast,

"And wept to see the paths of life divide." - Shenstone. Here the companions of our careless prime, Whom fortune's various ways have severed long,

Yes, Pamela, this infant tree Planted in sacred earth by thee, Shall strike its root, and pleasant grow

Oh! still, as with a seraph's voice, prolong The harmonies of that enchanting song, Till, listening, we might almost think we hear,

Mortal! who, armed with holy fortitude, The path of good right onward hast pursued; May HE, to whose eternal throne on high

Farewell! a long farewell! O Poverty, Affection's fondest dream how hast thou reft! But though, on thy stern brow no trace is left

Alas, poor Sheridan! when first we met, 'Twas 'mid a smiling circle, and thine eye, That flashed with eloquent hilarity

There is but one stage more in life's long way, O widowed women! Sadly upon your path Hath evening, bringing change of scenes and friends,

Sainted old man, for more than eighty years, Thee - tranquilly and stilly-creeping - age, Led to the confines of the sepulchre,

Thou camest with kind looks, when on the brink Almost of death I strove, and with mild voice Didst soothe me, bidding my poor heart rejoice,

Poor Linley! I shall miss thee sadly, now Thou art not in the world; for few remain Who loved like thee the high and holy strain

The castle clock had tolled midnight: With mattock and with spade, And silent, by the torches' light,

When will the grave shelter thy few gray hairs, O aged man! Thy sand is almost run, And many a year, in vain, to meet the sun,

I never hear the sound of thy glad bells, Oxford, and chime harmonious, but I say, Sighing to think how time has worn away,

O Lord, in sickness and in health, To every lot resigned, Grant me, before all worldly wealth,

When I was sitting, sad, and all alone, Remembering youth and love for ever fled, And many friends now resting with the dead,

Old man, I saw thee in thy garden chair Sitting in silence 'mid the shrubs and trees Of thy small cottage-croft, whilst murmuring bees

[Greek: Ady ti to psthyrisma], etc. Goat-herd, how sweet above the lucid spring The high pines wave with breezy murmuring!

Old Andrews of the hut is dead, And many a child appears, Whilst slowly "dust to dust" is read,

Monastic and time-consecrated fane! Thou hast put on thy shapely state again, Almost august as in thy early day,

I turn these leaves with thronging thoughts, and say, Alas! how many friends of youth are dead; How many visions of fair hope have fled,

Not that thy name, illustrious dome! recalls The pomp of chivalry in bannered halls, The blaze of beauty, and the gorgeous sights

The Sabbath bells are knolling slow, The summer morn how fair! Whilst father, mother, children go,

Here stood the city of the dead; look round - Dost thou not mark a visionary band, Druids and bards upon the summits stand,

Come, let us, ere we go to bed, O'er the decaying embers chat, Though little Mary hangs her head,

Artist, I own thy genius; but the touch May be too restless, and the glare too much: And sure none ever saw a landscape shine,

O sovereign Master! who with lonely state Dost rule as in some isle's enchanted land, On whom soft airs and shadowy spirits wait,

The sheep were in the fold at night, And now a new-born lamb Totters and trembles in the light,

The sheep were in the fold at night, And now a new-born lamb Totters and trembles in the light,

The wild pear whispers, and the ivy crawls, Along the circuit of thine ancient walls, Lone city of the dead! and near this mound,[200]

How cheering are thy prospects, airy hill, To him who, pale and languid, on thy brow Pauses, respiring, and bids hail again

What various objects strike with various force, Achilles, Hebe, and Sir Watkin's horse! Here summer scenes, there Pentland's stormy ridge,

Oh, shout for Lautaro, the young and the brave! The arm of whose strength was uplifted to save, When the steeds of the strangers came rushing amain,

Stranger, stay, nor wish to climb The heights of yonder hills sublime; For there strange shapes and spirits dwell,[1]

The Norman armament beneath thy rocks, St Valerie, Is moored; and, streaming to the morn, three hundred banners fly, Of crimson silk; with golden cross, effulgent o'er the rest,

The Cid is sitting, in martial state, Within Valencia's wall; And chiefs of high renown attend

By thy habitation dread, In the valley of the dead, Where no sun, nor day, nor night,

What pale and bleeding youth, whilst the fell blast Howls o'er the wreck, and fainter sinks the cry Of struggling wretches ere, o'erwhelmed, they die,

The moonlight is without; and I could lose An hour to gaze, though Taste and Splendour here, As in a lustrous fairy palace, reign!

Smooth went our boat upon the summer seas, Leaving, for so it seemed, the world behind, Its sounds of mingled uproar: we, reclined

The bee is humming in the sun, The yellow cowslip springs, And, hark! from yonder woodland's side

This poem was first published under the name of "One of the Living Poets of Great Britain." I have thought it best to revise and publish it in my own name, and as it is the last written by me, and the last I may ever live to write, I have added, from volumes long out of print, some selected verses of my earliest days of song.[112] Since these were written, I have lived to hear the sounds of other harps, whose masters have struck far more sublime chords, and died. I have lived to see among them females[113] of the highest poetical rank, and many illustrious masters of the lyre, whose names I need not specify, crowned with younger and more verdant laurels, which they yet gracefully wear. Some who now rank high in the poet's art have acknowledged that their feelings were first excited by these youthful strains, which I have now, with melancholy feelings, revised for the last time. It is a consolation that, from youth to age, I have found no line I wished to blot, or departed a moment from the severer taste which I imbibed from the simplest and purest models of classical composition.

While summer airs scarce breathe along the tide, Oft pausing, up the mountain's craggy side We climb, how beautiful, how still, how clear,

I trust the happy hour will come, That shall to peace thy breast restore; And that we two, beloved friend,

Come, lovely Evening! with thy smile of peace Visit my humble dwelling; welcomed in, Not with loud shouts, and the thronged city's din,

As homeward by the evening star I pass along the plain, I see the taper's light afar,

So passes silent o'er the dead thy shade, Brief Time; and hour by hour, and day by day, The pleasing pictures of the present fade,

Let us unfold God's holy book, And by the taper's light, With hearts subdued, and sober look,

When from my humble bed I rise, And see the morning sun, That, glorious in the eastern skies,

Though his words might well deceive me, Though to earth abased I bend, Christian guide, thou wilt not leave me,

Oh, cast every care to the wind, And dry, best beloved, the tear! Secure, that thou ever shalt find,

When rain-drops, glistening from the thatch, Like drops of silver run, Our old blind grandame lifts the latch,

MICHAEL, ARCHANGEL. High on Imaus' solitary van, Which overlooked the kingdoms of the world,

Shout! for the Lord hath triumphed gloriously! Upon the shores of that renowned land, Where erst His mighty arm and outstretched hand

How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal! As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze Breathes on the trembling sense of pale disease,

In yonder brake there is a nest; But come not, George, too nigh, Lest the poor mother, frightened thence,

How cheerful in the winter's night, As down the lane I stray; The blacksmith's forge shoots out its light,

Though grandfather has long been blind, And his few locks are gray, He loves to hear the summer wind

There is a poor blind man, who, every day, In summer sunshine, or in winter's rain, Duly as tolls the bell, to the high fane

Old soldier! old soldier! the beams of the day, That shone on thy sabre, have long passed away, And thy sun is gone down, and thy few hairs are gray,

Frown ever opposite, the angel cried, Who, with an earthquake's might and giant hand, Severed these riven rocks, and bade them stand

Methought I heard a butterfly Say to a labouring bee, Thou hast no colours of the sky

Oh, who would keep a little bird confined, When cowslip bells are nodding in the wind; When every hedge as with "good morrow" rings,

On God, whose eyes are over all, Who shows to all a father's care, First, with each voice, we children call,

If chance some pensive stranger, hither led, His bosom glowing from majestic views, Temple and tower 'mid the bright landscape's hues,

Luke Andrews is transported! Never more To see his sisters, mother, or the shore Of his own country! Never more to see

READING THE STORY OF JOSEPH TO A SICK FATHER. Brother and sister are a-Maying gone; By my sick father's bed I watch alone;

Faint-gazing on the burning orb of day, When Afric's injured son expiring lay, His forehead cold, his labouring bosom bare,

Pomp of Egypt's elder day, Shade of the mighty passed away, Whose giant works still frown sublime

When now cold winter's snows are fled, And birds sing blithe again, Look where the gipsy's tent is spread,

Oh, what is this which shines so bright, And in the lonely place Hangs out his small green lamp at night,

On yonder heap of earth forlorn, Where Ken his place of burial chose, Peacefully shine, O Sabbath morn!

Spirit of Death! whose outstretched pennons dread Wave o'er the world beneath their shadow spread; Who darkly speedest on thy destined way,

INTRODUCTION. The circumstance of the late critical controversy with Lord Byron having recalled my attention to a poem, sketched some years ago, on a subject of national history, I have been induced to revise and correct, and now venture to offer it to the public. The subject, though taken from an early period of our history, is, so far as relates to the grave of Harold, purely imaginary, as are all the characters, except those of the Conqueror, and of Edgar Atheling. History, I think, justifies me in representing William as acting constantly under strong religious impressions. A few circumstances in his life will clearly show this. When Harold was with him in Normandy, he took an oath of him on two altars, within which were concealed miraculous relics.[88] His banner was sent from Rome, consecrated by the Pope, for the especial purpose of the invasion of England. Without adverting to the night spent in prayer before the battle of Hastings, was not this impression more decidedly shown when he pitched his tent among the dead on that night, and vowed to build an abbey on the spot? The event of the battle was so much against all human probability, that his undertaking it, at the place and time, can only be reconciled by supposing that he acted under some extraordinary impression.

When evening listened to the dipping oar, Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar, By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride,

High on the hill, with moss o'ergrown, A hermit chapel stood; It spoke the tale of seasons gone,

It was a high and holy sight, When Baldwin[2] and his train, With cross and crosier gleaming bright,

Sweet bard, whose tones great Milton might approve, And Shakspeare, from high Fancy's sphere, Turning to the sound his ear,

As by my mother's side I stand, Whose hairs, alas, are few and gray, I watch the hour-glass shed its sand,

The morning shone on Tagus' rocky side, And airs of summer swelled the yellow tide, When, rising from his melancholy bed,

[210] PART FIRST. At Rouen Richard kept his state,

'Twas when, O meekest eve! thy shadows dim Were slowly stealing round, With more impassioned sound

WRITTEN FOR JAMES MONTGOMERY'S CHIMNEY-SWEEPER'S ALBUM. They sing of the poor sailor-boy, who wanders o'er the deep, But few there are who think upon the friendless little sweep!

Argument. Indian festival for victory, Old Warrior brought in wounded, Recognises his long-lost son, and dies, Discovery, Conclusion with the Old Warrior's funeral, and prophetic oration by the Missionary. The morn returns, and, reddening, seems to shed

Argument. Ocean Cave, Spanish Captive, Wild Indian Maid, Genius of Andes, and Spirits. 'Tis dawn: the distant Andes' rocky spires,

Argument. One Day and Part of Night. Valley in the Andes, Old Indian warrior, Loss of his son and daughter.

Argument. Assembly of Indian warriors, Caupolican, Ongolmo, Teucapel, Mountain-chief, Song of the Indian Wizard, White woman and child.

Argument. The Second Day. Night, Spirit of the Andes, Valdivia, Lautaro, Missionary, The

Argument. Midnight, Valdivia's tent, Missionary, March to the Valley Arauco, First sight of assembled Indians. The watchman on the tower his bugle blew,

Argument. The City of Conception, The City of Penco, Castle, Lautaro, Wild Indian Maid, Zarinel, Missionary. The second moon had now begun to wane,

Argument. Evening and Night of the same Day. Anselmo's story, Converted Indians, Confession of the Wandering

When o'er the Atlantic wild, rocked by the blast, Sad Lusitania's exiled sovereign passed, Reft of her pomp, from her paternal throne

The Missionary. Amor patri' ratione potentior omni. It is not necessary to relate the causes which induced me to publish this poem without a name.

Hark to the mower's whistling blade! How steadily he mows! The grass is heaped, the daisies fade,

Are you not tired, you poor old man! The drops are on your brow; Your labour with the sun began,

When Want, with wasted mien and haggard eye, Retires in silence to her cell to die; When o'er her child she hangs with speechless dread,

'Tis the first primrose! see how meek, Yet beautiful, it looks; As just a lesson it may teach

'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow (Hung with the clusters of the bending vine) Shone in the early light, when on the Rhine

Why mourns the ingenuous Moralist, whose mind Science has stored, and Piety refined, That fading Chivalry displays no more

Cherwell! how pleased along thy willowed edge Erewhile I strayed, or when the morn began To tinge the distant turret's golden fan,

While slowly wanders thy sequestered stream, WAINSBECK, the mossy-scattered rocks among, In fancy's ear making a plaintive song

Poor Robin sits and sings alone When showers of driving sleet, By the cold winds of winter blown,

In this wise the Duke of Gloucester took upon himself the order and governance of the young King, whom, with much honour and humble reverence, he conveyed towards London. But the tidings of this matter came hastily to the Queen, a little before the midnight following; and that, in secret wise, her son was taken, her brother and other friends arrested, and sent no man wist whither, to be done with God wot what. With which tidings the Queen, with great heaviness, bewailed her child's reign, her friend's mischance, and her own misfortune, damning the time that ever she dissuaded the gathering of powers about the King; got herself, in all haste possible, with her young son and her daughter, out of the palace of Westminster, in which they then lay, into the Sanctuary; lodging herself and company there in the Abbott's place. - Speed's "History of England," book ix. SCENE I. Elizabeth, widow of Edward IV., in the palace of Westminster, watching her youngest son, Richard, sleeping.

My dog and I are both grown old; On these wild downs we watch all day; He looks in my face when the wind blows cold,

THE SORROWS OF SWITZERLAND.[188] PART FIRST. Why art thou come, man of despair and blood!

Book The First. The book opens with the resting of the Ark on the mountains of the great Indian Caucasus, considered by many authors as Ararat: the present state of the inhabited world, contrasted with its melancholy appearance immediately after the flood. The poem returns to the situation of our forefathers on leaving the ark; beautiful evening described. The Angel of Destruction appears to Noah in a dream, and informs him that although he and his family alone have escaped, the VERY ARK, which was the means of his present preservation, shall be the cause of the future triumph of Destruction. In his dream, the evils in consequence of the discovery of America, the slave-trade, et cet., are set before him. Noah, waking from disturbed sleep, ascends the summit of Caucasus. An angel appears to him; tells him that the revelations in his dream were PERMITTED BY THE ALMIGHTY; that he is commissioned to explain everything; he presents to his view the shadow of the world as it exists; regions are pointed out; the dispersion of mankind; the rise of superstition; the birth of a SAVIOUR, and the triumph of Charity: that navigation shall be the means of extending the knowledge of GOD over the globe; and though some evils must take place, happiness and love shall finally prevail upon the earth.

I need not perhaps inform the reader, that I had before written a Canto on the subject of this poem; but I was dissatisfied with the metre, and felt the necessity of some connecting idea that might give it a degree of unity and coherence. This difficulty I considered as almost inseparable from the subject; I therefore relinquished the design of making an extended poem on events, which, though highly interesting and poetical, were too unconnected with each other to unite properly in one regular whole. But on being kindly permitted to peruse the sheets of Mr Clarke's valuable work on the History of Navigation, I conceived (without supposing historically with him that all ideas of navigation were derived from the ark of Noah) that I might adopt the circumstance poetically, as capable of furnishing an unity of design; besides which, it had the advantage of giving a more serious cast and character to the whole. To obviate such objections as might be made by those who, from an inattentive survey, might imagine there was any carelessness of arrangement, I shall lay before the reader a general analysis of the several books; and, I trust, he will readily perceive a leading principle, on which the poem begins, proceeds, and ends.

Such are thy views, DISCOVERY! The great world Rolls to thine eye revealed; to thee the Deep Submits its awful empire; Industry

Awake a louder and a loftier strain! Beloved harp, whose tones have oft beguiled My solitary sorrows, when I left

Stand on the gleaming Pharos,[1] and aloud Shout, Commerce, to the kingdoms of the earth; Shout, for thy golden portals are set wide,

Oh for a view, as from that cloudless height Where the great Patriarch gazed upon the world, His offspring's future seat, back on the vale

My heart has sighed in secret, when I thought That the dark tide of time might one day close, England, o'er thee, as long since it has closed

Stern Father of the storm! who dost abide Amid the solitude of the vast deep, For ever listening to the sullen tide,

The swallows, at the close of day, When autumn shone with fainter ray, Around the chimney circling flew,

Look at the swan! how still he goes! His neck and breast like silver gleam; He seems majestic as he rows;

God said, Let there be light, and there was light! At once the glorious sun, at his command, From space illimitable, void and dark,

O Tweed! a stranger, that with wandering feet O'er hill and dale has journeyed many a mile, (If so his weary thoughts he might beguile),

Who does not love the village bells, Their cheerful peal, and solemn toll! One of the rustic wedding tells,

Oh! lend that lute, sweet Archimage, to me! Enough of care and heaviness The weary lids of life depress,

When dark November bade the leaves adieu, And the gale sung amid the sea-boy's shrouds, Methought I saw four winged forms, that flew,

When dark November bade the leaves adieu, And the gale sung amid the sea-boy's shrouds, Methought I saw four winged forms, that flew,

Oh! mark the withered leaves that fall In silence to the ground; Upon the human heart they call,

More sweet thy pipe's enchanting melody Than streams that fall from broken rocks on high. Say, by the nymphs, that guard the sacred scene,

Go, then, and join the murmuring city's throng! Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears; To busy phantasies, and boding fears,

Fair inmate of these ivied walls, beneath Whose silent cloisters Ella sleeps in death, Let loftier bards, in rich and glowing lays,

Since last I saw that countenance so mild, Slow-stealing age, and a faint line of care, Had gently touched, methought, some features there;

Itchin! when I behold thy banks again, Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast, On which the self-same tints still seem to rest,

Oh thou, that prattling on thy pebbled way Through my paternal vale dost stray, Working thy shallow passage to the sea!

If rich designs of sumptuous art may please, Or Nature's loftier views, august and old, Stranger! behold this spreading scene; behold

I thought 'twas a toy of the fancy, a dream That leads with illusion the senses astray, And I sighed with delight as we stole down the stream,

Fair Moon, that at the chilly day's decline Of sharp December through my cottage pane Dost lovely look, smiling, though in thy wane!

Spirit of unwearied wing, From the Baltic's frozen main, From the Russ's bleak domain,

These walls were built by men who did a deed Of blood: terrific conscience, day by day, Followed, where'er their shadow seemed to stay,

When first the fane, that, white, on Kingswood-Pen, Arrests, far off, the pausing stranger's ken, Echoed the hymn of praise, and on that day,