Foremost and leaning from her golden cloud
The venerable Margret see!
"Welcome, my noble son," she cries aloud,
"To this, thy kindred train, and me:
Pleas'd in thy lineaments we trace
A Tudor's + fire, a Beaufort's grace.
Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye,
The flower unheeded shall descry,
And bid it round Heaven's altars shed
The fragrance of its blushing head:
Shall raise from Earth the latent gem,
To glitter on the diadem.

"Lo, Granta waits to lead her blooming band. Not obvious, not obtrusive, she

No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings;
Nor dares with courtly tongue refin'd
Profane thy inborn royalty of mind:
She reveres herself and thee.

With modest pride to grace thy youthful brow
The laureat wreath, that Cecil wore, she brings,
And to thy just, thy gentle hand
Submits the fasces of her sway,
While spirits blest above and men below

Join with glad voice the loud symphonious lay.
Through the wild waves as they roar
With watchful eye and dauntless mien
Thy steady course of honour keep,
Nor fear the rocks, nor seek the shore:
The star of Brunswick smiles serene,
And gilds the horrours of the deep."

ODE

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES.

'Twas on a lofty vase's side,

Where China's gayest art had dy'd

The azure flowers that blow;

Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima reclin'd,
Gaz'd on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declar'd;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,

Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,

She saw; and purr'd applause.

Still had she gaz'd; but 'midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The Genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view

Betray'd a golden gleam.

Countess of Richmond and Derby; the mother of Henry the Seventh, foundress of St. John's and Christ's Colleges.

f The Countess was a Beaufort, and married to a Tudor; hence the application of this line to the Duke of Grafton, who claims descent from both these families.

Lord-treasurer Burleigh was chancellor of the University in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.

While some on earnest business bent
Their murmuring labours ply

'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty;

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry:
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed,

Less pleasing, when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue; Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas, regardless of their doom,

The little victims play!

No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day.

Yet see how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train, Ah, show them where in ambush stand To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them, they are men!

These shall the fury passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind;

Or pining Love, shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,

And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow; And keen Remorse, with blood defil'd, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath
A grisly troop are seen,

The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen :

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every labouring sinew strains,

Those in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,
And slow-consuming Age.

To each his sufferings: all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan;
The tender for another's pain,
The unfeeling for his own.

Yet ah! why should they know their fate?
Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies.
Thought would destroy their Paradise.
No more; where ignorance is bliss,
'T is folly to be wise.

THE BARD.

A PINDARIC ODE.

I.

"RUIN seize thee, ruthless king!
Confusion on thy banners wait!
Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!"
Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glo'ster + stood aghast in speechless trance:
To arms! cried Mortimer t, and couch'd his qui
vering lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Rob'd in the sable garb of woe,

With haggard eyes the poet stood;

(Loose his beard, and hoary hair

Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air,)
And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

"Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,
Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath!
O'er thee, oh king! their hundred arms they ware,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

That hush'd the stormy main;

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
Mountains, ye mourn in vain
Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head
On dreary Arvon's shore § they lie,
Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail :
The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries —

The hauberk was a texture of steel ringlets, or rings interwoven, forming a coat of mail, that sat close to the body, and adapted itself to every motion.

+ Gilbert de Clare, surnamed the Red, Earl of Gloucester and Hertford, son-in-law to King Edward.

Edmond de Mortimer, Lord of Wigmore. S The shores of Caernarvonshire opposite to the Isle of Anglesea.

"Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,
Low on his funeral couch he lies! §
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the sable warrior || fled?

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm, that in the noon-tide beam were born;
Gone to salute the rising Morn.

Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening-

prey.

“Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare:

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.

Heard ye the din of battle bray ¶,

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destin'd course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius **, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murther fed,

"Edward, lo! to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) Half of thy heart we consecrate.

(The web is wove. The work is done.)'
Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul !
No more our long-lost Arthur ** we bewail. [hail!
All-hail, ye genuine kings ++; Britannia's issue,

"Girt with many a baron bold

Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old,
In bearded majesty, appear.

In the midst a form divine!

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line;
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play;
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin ‡‡, hear;
They breathe a soul to animate thy elay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd
wings.

* Margaret of Anjou, a woman of heroic spirit, who struggled hard to save her husband and her

her affection for her lord is well known. The mo

Triumphs of Edward the Third in France. § Death of that king, abandoned by his children, and even robbed in his last moments by his courtiers and his mistress.

Edward the Black Prince, dead some time before his father.

Ruinous civil wars of York and Lancaster. ** Henry the Sixth, George Duke of Clarence, Edward the Fifth, Richard Duke of York, &c. believed to be murdered secretly in the Tower of London. The oldest part of that structure is vulgarly attributed to Julius Cæsar.

her, are still to be seen at Northampton, Geddington, Waltham, and other places.

It was the common belief of the Welsh nation, that King Arthur was still alive in Fairy-land, and should return again to reign over Britain.

++ Both Merlin and Taliessin had prophesied, that the Welsh should regain their sovereignty over this island; which seemed to be accomplished in the house of Tudor.

# Taliessin, chief of the bards, flourished in the sixth century. His works are still preserved, and his memory held in high veneration among his countrymen.

Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,

With Horrour, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

A voice +, as of the cherub-choir,

Gales from blooming Eden bear;

And distant warblings lessen on my car,

That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud,

Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Enough for me: with joy I see

The different dom our Fates assign.
Be thine Despair, and scepter'd Care:
To triumph, and to die, are mine."

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.

THE FATAL SISTERS. §

AN ODE.

[From the Norse-Tongue.]

IN THE ORCADES OF THOR MODUS TORFÆUS; HAFNIE, 1697, FOLIO; AND ALSO IN BARTHOLINUS.

Vitt er oprit fyrir valfalli, &c.

Now the storm begins to lour, (Haste, the loom of Hell prepare,) Iron-sleet of arrowy shower

Hurtles in the darken'd air.

Glittering lances are the loom,

Where the dusky warp we strain, Weaving many a soldier's doom, Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane.

See the griesly texture grow,

('T is of human entrails made,) And the weights that play below, Each a gasping warrior's head.

Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore, Shoot the trembling cords along ; Sword, that once a monarch bore,

Keep the tissue close and strong.

* Shakspeare.

+ Milton.

The succession of poets after Milton's time. The Valkyriur were female divinities, servants of Odin (or Woden) in the Gothic mythology. Their name signifies choosers of the slain. They were mounted on swift horses, with drawn swords in their hands; and in the throng of battle seJected such as were destined to slaughter, and conducted them to Valkalla, the hall of Odin, or paradise of the brave; where they attended the banquet, and served the departed heroes with horns of mead and ale.

Mista, black terrific maid, Sangrida, and Hilda, see, Join the wayward work to aid : 'Tis the woof of victory.

Ere the ruddy Sun be set,

Pikes must shiver, javelins sing,
Blade with clattering buckler meet,
Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.

(Weave the crimson web of war,)
Let us go, and let us fly,
Where our friends the conflict share,
Where they triumph, where they die.
As the paths of Fate we tread,
Wading through th' ensanguin'd field;
Gondula, and Geira, spread

O'er the youthful king your shield.

We the reins to Slaughter give,

Ours to kill, and ours to spare: Spite of danger he shall live:

(Weave the crimson web of war.)

They, whom once the desert-beach Pent within its bleak domain, Soon their ample sway shall stretch O'er the plenty of the plain.

Low the dauntless Earl is laid,

Gor'd with many a gaping wound:

Fate demands a nobler head;
Soon a king shall bite the ground.

Long his loss shall Eirin weep,

Ne'er again his likeness see; Long her strains in sorrow steep, Strains of immortality!

Horrour covers all the heath,

Clouds of carnage blot the Sun. Sisters, weave the web of death; Sisters, cease, the work is done.

Hail the task, and hail the hands!
Songs of joy and triumph sing!
Joy to the victorious bands;

Triumph to the younger king.

Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale, Learn the tenour of our song. Scotland, through each winding vale Far and wide the notes prolong.

Sisters, hence, with spurs of speed; Each her thundering falchion wield; Each bestride her sable steed:

Hurry, hurry to the field.

THE DESCENT OF ODIN.

AN ODE.

[From the same.]

IN BARTHOLINUS, DE CAUSIS CONTEMNENDÆ MORTIS;

HAFNIE, 1689, QUARTO.

Upreis Odinn allda gauir, &c.

UPROSE the King of Men with speed,
And saddled straight his coal-black steed;
Down the yawning steep he rode,
That leads to Hela's drear abode.
Him the Dog of Darkness spied,
His shaggy throat he open'd wide,
While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd,
Foam and human gore distill'd;
Hoarse he bays with hideous din,
Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin;
And long pursues, with fruitless yell,
The father of the powerful spell.
Onward still his way he takes,
(The groaning Earth beneath him shakes,)
Till full before his fearless eyes
The portals nine of Hell arise.

Right against the eastern gate,
By the moss-grown pile he sate;
Where long of yore to sleep was laid
The dust of the prophetic maid.
Facing to the northern clime,
Thrice he trac'd the Runic rhyme;
Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread,
The thrilling verse that wakes the dead;
Till from out the hollow ground
Slowly breath'd a sullen sound.

[sume,

Pr. What call unknown, what charms preTo break the quiet of the tomb? Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite, And drags me from the realms of night? Long on these mouldering bones have beat The winter's snow, the summer's heat, The drenching dews, and driving rain! Let me, let me sleep again. Who is he, with voice unblest, That calls me from the bed of rest?

0. A traveller, to thee unknown,

Is he that calls, a warrior's son.
Thou the deeds of light shalt know;

Tell me what is done below,

For whom yon glittering board is spread,
Drest for whom yon golden bed?

Pr. Mantling in the goblet see
The pure beverage of the bee,
O'er it hangs the shield of gold;
'T is the drink of Balder bold:
Balder's head to death is given,
Pain can reach the sons of Heaven!
Unwilling I my lips unclose:
Leave me, leave me, to repose.

0. Once again my call obey, Prophetess, arise, and say,

Niflheimr, the Hell of the Gothic nations, consisted of nine worlds, to which were devoted all such as died of sickness, old age, or by any other means than in battle: over it presided Hela, the goddess of death.

What dangers Odin's child await,
Who the author of his fate?

Pr. In Hoder's hand the hero's doom:
His brother sends him to the tomb.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me, to repose.

0. Prophetess, my spell obey:
Once again arise, and say,
Who th' avenger of his guilt,

By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt?
Pr. In the caverns of the west,
By Odin's fierce embrace comprest,
A wondrous boy shall Rinda bear,
Who ne'er shall comb his raven-hair,
Nor wash his visage in the stream,
Nor see the Sun's departing beam:
Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile
Flaming on the funeral pile.
Now my weary lips I close :
Leave me, leave me, to repose.

0. Yet awhile my call obey,
Prophetess, awake, and say,
What virgins these, in speechless woe,
That bend to earth their solemn brow,
That their flaxen tresses tear,

And snowy veils, that float in air.
Tell me whence their sorrows rose:
Then I leave thee to repose.

Pr. Ha! no traveller art thou,
King of Men, I know thee now,
Mightiest of a mighty line.

0. No boding maid of skill divine Art thou, nor prophetess of good; But mother of the giant-brood!

Pr. Hie thee hence, and boast at home,
That never shall inquirer come
To break my iron-sleep again;
Till Lok + has burst his ten-fold chain.
Never, till substantial Night

Has re-assum'd her ancient right;
Till wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN. ‡

A FRAGMENT.

FROM MR. EVANS'S SPECIMENS OF THE WELSH POETRY;
LONDON, 1764, QUARTO.

OWEN's praise demands my song,
Owen swift, and Owen strong;
Fairest flower of Roderic's stem,
Gwyneth's § shield, and Britain's gem.

+ Lok is the evil being, who continues in chains till the twilight of the gods approaches, when he shall break his bonds; the human race, the stars, and Sun, shall disappear; the earth sink in the seas, and fire consume the skies: even Odin himself and his kindred deities shall perish. For a further explanation of this mythology, see Mallet's Introduction to the History of Denmark, :755, quarto.

Owen succeeded his father Griffin in the prinThis battle cipality of North Wales, A. D. 112. was fought near forty years afterwards. § North Wales.