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II.-1. “Weave the warp, and weave the woof,

The winding-sheet of Edward's race; Give ample room, and verge enough

The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year and mark the night, When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death, through Berkeley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing king!

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear’st the bowels of thy mangled mate,

From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge

of Heaven. What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

II.-2. “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 thy 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 at the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

II.-3. “Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare,
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast,

Close by the regal chair

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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 havock urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way.

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed,

Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,
And spare the meek usurper's holy head.

Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twined with her blushing foe, we spread ;

The bristled Boar in infant gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom,
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

III.-1.

“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 unrol!
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul !
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail :
All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail!

III.-2.

“Girt with many a baron bold,

Sublime their starry fronts they rear;

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And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old

In bearded majesty appear;
In the midst a form divine!
Her eyes proclaim her of the Briton line;
Her lion front, 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 clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd wings.

III.-3.

6. The verse adorn again

Fierce War and Faithful Love,
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dress'd,

In buskin'd measures move
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,

With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
A voice, as of the cherub-choir,

Gales from blooming Eden bear;
And distant warblings lessen on my ear,

That lost in long futurity expire.
Fond, impious man! think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,

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

And warms the nation with redoubled ray. Enough for me; with joy I see

The different dooms our fates assign. Be thine despair and sceptred care;

To triumph, and to die, are mine !" He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

Gray.

НОРЕ. .

UNFADING Hope! when life's last embers burn-
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return,
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour!
Oh! then thy kingdom comes, Immortal Power!
What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey
The morning dream of life's eternal day-
Then, then the triumph and the trance begin,
And all the phenix spirit burns within!
Oh, deep-enchanting prelude to repose,
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes !
Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh,
It is a dread and awful thing to die!
Mysterious worlds, untraveli'd by the sun!
Where time's far-wandering tide has never run,
From your unfathom'd shades and viewless spheres,
A warning comes, unheard by other ears.
'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud !
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,
And shrieks and hovers o'er the dark abyss !

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb!
Melt and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll
Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul !
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay,
Chased, on his night-steed, by the star of day!
The strife is o'er—the pangs of Nature close,
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes.
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,
The noon of Heaven, undazzled by the blaze,

THE WARRIORS OF RODERICK DHU.

241

On heavenly winds, that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;
Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still
Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion hill!

Campbell

THE WARRIORS OF RODERICK DHU.

From crag

He whistled shrill,
And he was answer'd from the hill;
Wild as the scream of the curlew,

to
crag

the signal flew;
Instant, through copse and heath, arose
Bonnets and spears, and bended bows;
On right, on left, above, below,
Sprang up at once the lurking foe.
From shingles grey their lances start,
The bracken-bush sends forth the dart :
The rushes and the willow wand
Are bristling into axe and brand;
And

every tuft of broom gives life
To plaided warrior arm’d for strife.
That whistle garrison'd the glen
At once with full five hundred men,
As if the yawning hill to heaven
A subterranean host had given.
Watching their leader's beck and will,
All silent there they stood and still,
Like the loose crags whose threatening mass
Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass;
As if an infant's touch could urge
Their headlong passage down the verge;
With step and weapon forward flung,
Upon the mountain-side they hung.

R

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