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The radiant range of shield and lance
Down Damascus' hills advance:
From Sion's turrets as afar
Ye ken the march of Europe's war!
Saladin, thou paynim king,
From Albion's isle revenge we bring !
On Acon's spiry citadel,
Though to the gale thy banners swell,
Pictur'd with the silver Moon;
England shall end thy glory soon!
In vain, to break our firm array,
Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray:
Those sounds our rising fury fan :
English Richard in the van,
On to victory we go,
A vaunting infidel the foe."
Blondel led the tuneful band,
And swept the wire with glowing hand.
Cyprus, from her rocky mound,
And Crete, with piny verdure crown'd,
Far along the smiling main
Echoed the prophetic strain.
Soon we kiss'd the sacred earth
That gave a murder'd Saviour birth;
Then with ardour fresh endu'd,
Thus the solemn song renew'd.
“Lo, the toilsome voyage past,
Heaven's favour'd hills appear at last!
Object of our holy vow,
We tread the Tyrian valleys now.
From Carmel's almond-shaded steep
We feel the cheering fragrance creep:
O'er Engaddi's shrubs of balm
Waves the date-empurpl’d palm:
See Lebanon's aspiring head
Wide his immortal umbrage spread!
Hail Calvary, thou mountain hoar,
Wet with our Redeemer's gore
Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn,
se stones, by tears of pilgrims worn;
Your ravish'd honours to restore,
Fearless we climb this hostile shore
And thou, the sepulchre of God;
By mocking pagans rudely trod,
Bereft of every aweful rite,

And quench'd thy lamps that beam'd so bright;

For thee, from Britain's distant coast,
Lo, Richard leads his faithful host
Aloft in his heroic hand,
Blazing like the beacon's brand,
O'er the far-affrighted fields,
Resistless Kaliburn" he wields.
Proud Saracen, pollute no more
The shrines by martyrs built of yore!
From each wild mountain's trackless crown
In vain thy gloomy castles frown:
Thy battering engines, huge and high,
In vain our steel-clad s defy;
And, rolling in terrific state
On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate.
When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp,
Amid the moon-light vapours damp,
Thy necromantic forms, in vain,
Haunt us on the tented plain:

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We bid the spectre-shapes avaunt,
Ashtaroth, and Termagaunt' +
With many a demon, pale of hue,
Doom'd to drink the bitter dew,
That drops from Macon's sooty tree,
Mid the dread grove of ebony.
Nor magic charms, nor fiends of Hell,
The Christian's holy courage quell.
Salem, in ancient majesty
Arise, and lift thee to the skyl
Soon on thy battlements divine
Shall wave the badge of Constantine.
Ye barons, to the Sun unfold
Our cross with crimson wove and gold!"

This

PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT.

WHEN now mature in classic knowledge,
The joyful youth is sent to college,
His father comes, a vicar plain,
At Oxford bred—in Anna's reign,
And thus, in form of humble suitor,
Bowing accosts a reverend tutor:
“Sir, I'm a Glo'stershire divine,
And this my eldest son of nine;
My wife's ambition and my own
Was that this child should wear a gown:
I'll warrant that his good behaviour
Will justify your future favour;
And, for his parts, to tell the truth,
My son's a very forward youth;
Has Horace all by heart–you'd wonder-
And mouths out Homer's Greek like thunder.
If you'd examine— and admit him,
A scholarship would nicely fit him;
That he succeeds "t is ten to one;
Your vote and interest, sir!" — "T is done.
Our pupil's hopes, though twice defeated,
Are with a scholarship completed:
A scholarship but half maintains,
And college-rules are heavy chains:
In garret dark he smokes and puns,
A prey to discipline and duns;
And now, intent on new designs,
Sighs for a fellowship—and fines.
When nine full tedious winters pasti,
That utmost wish is crown'd at last :
But the rich prize no sooner got,
Again he quarrels with his lot:
“These fellowships are pretty things,
We live indeed like petty kings:
But who can bear to waste his whole age
Amid the dullness of a college,
Debarr'd the common joys of life,
And that prime bliss—a loving wife!
O! what's a table richly spread,
Without a woman at its head?

+ Ashtaroth is mentioned by Milton as a general name of the Syrian deities: Par. Lost, i. 422. And Termagaunt is the name given in the old romance to the god of the Saracens. See Percy's Reliques, vol. i. p. 74.

# The scholars of Trinity are superannuated, if they do not succeed to fellowships in nine years after their election to scholarships.

Would some snug benefice but fall, Ye feasts, ye dinners farewell all! To offices I'd bid adieu, Of dean, vice praes. – of bursar too; Come joys, that rural quiet yields, Come, tythes, and house, and fruitful fields!” Too fond of freedom and of ease A patron's vanity to please, Long time he watches, and by stealth, Each frail incumbent's doubtful health; At length, and in his fortieth year, A living drops — two hundred clear ! With breast elate beyond expression, He hurries down to take possession, With rapture views the sweet retreat – “What a convenient house ! how neat! For fuel here's sufficient wood : Pray God the cellars may be good! The garden—that must be new-plann'dShall these old-fashion'd yew-trees stand? O'er yonder vacant plot shall rise The flow'ry shrub of thousand dyes: — Yon wall, that feels the southern ray, Shall blush with ruddy fruitage gay : While thick beneath its aspect warm O'er well-rang'd hives the bees shall swarm, From which, ere long, of golden gleam Metheglin's luscious juice shall stream: This awkward hut, o'ergrown with ivy, We'll alter to a modern privy: Up yon green slope, of hazels trim, An avenue so cool and dim Shall to an arbour at the end, In spite of gout, entice a friend. My predecessor lov'd devotion— But of a garden had no notion.” Continuing this fantastic farce on, He now commences country parson. To make his character entire, He weds—a cousin of the 'squire; Not over-weighty in the purse, But many doctors have done worse: And though she boasts no charms divine, Yet she can carve and make birch winc. Thus fixt, content he taps his barrel, Exhorts his neighbours not to quarrel; Finds his church-wardens have discerning Both in good liquor and good learning; With tythes his barns replete he sees, And chuckles o'er his surplice fees; Studies to find out latent dues, And regulates the state of pews; Rides a sleek mare with purple housing, To share the monthly club's carousing; Of Oxford pranks facetious tells, And—but on Sundays—hears no bells; Sends presents of his choicest fruit, And prunes himself each sapless shoot; Plants cauliflowers, and boasts to rear The earliest melons of the year; Thinks alteration charming work is, Keeps Bantam cocks, and feeds his turkies; Builds in his copse a fav'rite bench, And stores the pond with carp and tench. – But ah! too soon his thoughtless breast By cares domestic is opprest; And a third butcher's bill, and brewing, Threaten inevitable ruin: For children fresh expenses yet, And Dicky now for school is fit.

“Why did I sell my college life,”
He cries, “for benefice and wife?
Return, ye days, when endless pleasure
I found in reading, or in leisure I
When calm around the common room
I puff"d my daily pipe's perfume!
Rode for a stomach, and inspected,
At annual bottlings, corks selected:
And din'd untax'd, untroubled, under
The portrait of our pious founder
When impositions were supply'd
To light my pipe—or soothe my pride—
No cares were then for forward peas,
A yearly-longing wife to please;
My thoughts no christ'ning dinners crost,
No children cry'd for butter'd toast;
And ev’ry night I went to bed,
Without a modus in my head "
Oh! trifling head, and fickle heart
Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art;
A dupe to follies yet untry'd,
And sick of pleasures, scarce enjoy'd
Each prize possess'd, thy transport ceases,
And in pursuit alone it pleases.

INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE.

at Ansley Hall, IN WAR Wickshikr.

BENEATH this stony roof reclin'd,
I soothe to peace my pensive mind;
And while, to shade my lowly cave,
Embowering elms their umbrage wave;
And while the maple dish is mine,
The beechen cup, unstain'd with wine;
I scorn the gay licentious crowd,
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.

Within my limits lone and still
The blackbird pipes in artless trill;
Fast by my couch, congenial guest,
The wren has wove her mossy nest;
From busy scenes, and brighter skies,
To lurk with innocence, she flies:
Here hopes in safe repose to dwell,
Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.

At morn I take my custom'd round,
To mark how buds yon shrubby mound,
And every opening primrose count,
That trimly paints my blooming mount:
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy solitude,
I teach in winding wreaths to stray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.

At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossed book,
Pourtray'd with many a holy deed
of martyrs, crown'd with heavenly meed:
Then as my taper waxes dim,
Chant, ere I sleep, my measur'd hymn 5
And at the close, the gleams behold
Of parting wings bedropt with gold.

While such pure joys my bliss co, Who but would smile at guilty state?

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The hinds how blest, who ne'er beguil'd To quit their hamlet's hawthorn wild; Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main, For splendid care, and guilty gain! When morning's twilight-tinctur'd beam Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, They rove abroad in ether blue, To dip the scythe in fragrant dew; The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell, That nodding shades a craggy dell. Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear, Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear: On green untrodden banks they view The hyacinth's neglected hue: In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds, They spy the squirrel's airy bounds, And startle from her ashen spray, Across the glen, the screaming jay: Each native charm their steps explore Of Solitude's sequestered store. For them the Moon with cloudless ray Mounts, to illume their homeward way: Their weary spirits to relieve, The meadows' incense breathe at eve. No riot mars the simple fare, That o'er a glimmering hearth they share: But when the curfew’s measur’d roar Duly, the darkening valleys o'er, Has echoed from the distant town, They wish no beds of cygnet-down, No trophied canopies, to close Their drooping eyes in quick repose. Their little sons, who spread the bloom Of health around the clay-built room, Or through the primros'd coppice stray, Or gambol in the new-mown hay; Or quaintly braid the cowslip twine, Or drive afield the tardy kine; Or hasten from the sultry hill, To loiter at the shady rill; Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest, To rob the raven's ancient nest. Their humble porch with honied flow'rs The curling woodbine's shade imbow'rs: From the small garden's thymy mound Their bees in busy swarms resound: Nor fell Disease, before his time, Hastes to consume life's golden prime: But when their temples long have wore The silver crown of tresses hoar; As studious still calm peace to keep, Beneath a flowery turf they sleep.

* Gray clothing, from the Latin verb amicio, to clothe.

ODE SENT TO A FRIEND, . on his leaving A Favoukirk village is Hannant

Ah mourn, thou lov'd retreat! No more
Shall classic steps thy scenes explore! o
When morn's pale rays but faintly peep
O'er yonder oak-crown'd airy steep, :
Who now shall climb its brows to view
The length of landscape, ever new,
Where Summer flings, in careless pride, *
Her varied vesture far and wide?
Who mark, beneath, each village-cham,
Or grange, or elm-encircled farm:
The flinty dove-cote's crowded roof,
Watch'd by the kite that sails aloof:
The tufted pines, whose umbrage tall
Darkens the long-deserted hall:
The veteran beech, that on the plain
Collects at eve the playful train:
The cot that smokes with early fire,
The low-roof’d fane's embosom'd spire? o

Who now shall indolently stray o
Through the deep forest's tangled way; -
Pleas'd at his custom'd task to find o
The well-known hoary-tressed hind,
That toils with feeble hands to glean
Of wither'd boughs his pittance mean? o
Who mid thy nooks of hazel sit, *
Lost in some melancholy fit; -
And listening to the raven's croak,
The distant flail, the falling oak”
Who, through the sunshine and the showeh

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Descry the rainbow-painted tower? Who, wandering at return of May, Catch the first cuckow’s vernal lay? Who musing waste the summer hour, Where high o'er-arching trees embower The grassy lane, so rarely pac'd,

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No charm of genuine nature pass'd;
Who felt the Muse's purest fires, *
Far from thy favour'd haunt retires;
Who peopled all thy vocal bowers
With shadowy shapes, and airy powers
Behold, a dread repose resumes,
As erst, thy sad sequester'd glooms'
From the deep dell, where shaggy roo
Fringe the rough brink with wreathed"
Th' unwilling genius flies forlorn,
His primrose chaplet rudely torn.
With hollow shriek the nymphs forsako
The pathless copse and hedge-row bro;
where the delvid mountains headlong”
Its chalky entrails opens wide, ...
On the green summit, ambush'd high
No longer Echo loves to lie.
No pearl-crown'd maids with wily lo
Rise beckoning from the reedy

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Around the glow-worm's glimmering bank,
No Fairies run in fiery rank;
Nor brush, half-seen, in airy tread
The violet's unprinted head.
But Fancy, from the thickets brown,
The glades that wear a conscious frown,
The forest oaks, that, pale and lone,
Nod to the blast with hoarser tone,
Rough glens, and sullen waterfalls,
Her bright ideal offspring calls.
So by some sage enchanter's spell,
(As old Arabian fablers tell,)
Amid the solitary wild,
Luxuriant gardens gaily smil'd :
From sapphire rocks the fountains stream'd,
With golden fruit the branches beam'd;
Fair forms, in every wondrous wood,
Or lightly tripp'd, or solemn stood;
And oft, retreating from the view,
Betray'd, at distance, beauties new :
While gleaming o'er the crisped bowers
Rich spires arose, and sparkling towers.
If bound on service new to go,
The master of the magic show,
His transitory charm withdrew,
Away th' illusive landscape flew :
Dun clouds obscur'd the groves of gold,
Blue lightning smote the blooming mould :
In visionary glory rear'd,
The gorgeous castle disappear'd;
And a bare heath's unfruitful plain
Usurp'd the wizard's proud domain.

The PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY.

Praecipe lugubres Cantus, Melpomene ! —

Mother of musings, Contemplation sage,
Whose grotto stands upon the topmost rock
Of Teneriff; 'mid the tempestuous night,
On which, in calmest meditation held,
Thou hear'st with howling winds the beating rain
And drifting hail descend; or if the skies
Unclouded shine, and through the blue serene
Pale Cynthia rolls her silver-axled car,
Whence gazing stedfast on the spangled vault
taptur'd thou sitt'st, while murmurs indistinct
Of distant billows soothe thy pensive ear
With hoarse and hollow sounds; secure, self-blest,
There oft thou listen'st to the wild uproar
Of fleets encount'ring, that in whispers low
Ascends the rocky summit, where thou dwell'st
Remote from man conversing with the spheres :
0 lead me, queen sublime, to solemn glooms
Congenial with my soul; to cheerless shades,
To ruin'd seats, to twilight cells and bow'rs,
Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to muse,
Her fav'rite midnight haunts. The laughing scenes
Of purple Spring, where all the wanton train
Of Smiles and Graces seem to lead the dance
In sportive round, while from their hand they show'r
Ambrosial blooms and flow'rs, no longer charm;
Tempé, no more I court thy balmy breeze,
Adieu green vales | ye broider'd meads, adieu !

Beneath yon ruin’d abbey's moss-grown piles Oft let me sit, at twilight hour of eve, Where through some western window the pale Moon Pours her long-levell'd rule of streaming light; While sullen sacred silence reigns around, Save the lone screech-owl's note, who builds his bow'r Amid the mould'ring caverns dark and damp, Or the calm breeze, that rustles in the leaves Of flaunting ivy, that with mantle green Invests some wasted tow’r. Or let me tread Its neighb'ring walk of pines, where mus'd of old The cloister'd brothers: through the gloomy void That far extends beneath their ample arch As on I pace, religious horrour wraps My soul in dread repose. But when the world Is clad in Midnight's raven-colour'd robe, "Mid hollow charnel let me watch the flame Of taper dim, shedding a livid glare O'er the wan heaps; while airy voices talk Along the glimm'ring walls; or ghostly shape At distance seen, invites with beck'ning hand My lonesome steps, through the far-winding vaults. Nor undelightful is the solemn noon Of night, when haply wakeful from my couch I start: lo! all is motionless around ! Roars not the rushing wind; the sons of men And every beast in mute oblivion lie; All nature's hush'd in silence and in sleep. O then how fearful is it to reflect, That through the still globe's aweful solitude, No being wakes but me ! till stealing sleep My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews, Nor then let dreams, of wanton folly born, My senses lead through flow'ry paths of joy; But let the sacred genius of the night Such mystic visions send, as Spenser saw, When through bewild'ring F ncy's magic maze, To the fell house of Busyrane, he led Th’ unshaken Britomart; or Milton knew, When in abstracted thought he first conceiv'd All Heav'n in tumult, and the seraphim Come tow'ring, arm'd in adamant and gold. Let others love soft Summer's evening smiles, As list'ning to the distant water-fall, They mark the blushes of the streaky west; I choose the pale December's foggy glooms. Then, when the sullen shades of ev'ning close, Where through the room a blindly glimm'ring gleam The dying embers scatter, far remote |roof From Mirth's mad shouts, that through th' illumin'd Resound with festive echo, let me sit, Blest with the lowly cricket's drowsy dirge. Then let my thought contemplative explore This fleeting state of things, the vain delights, The fruitless toils, that still our search elude, As through the wilderness of life we rove. This sober hour of silence will unmask False Folly's smile, that like the dazzling spells Of wily Comus cheat the unweeting eye With blear illusion, and persuade to drink That charmed cup, which Reason's mintage fair Unmoulds, and stamps the monster on the man. Eager we taste, but in the luscious draught Forget the poisonous dregs that lurk beneath. Few know that elegance of soul refin'd, Whose soft sensation feels a quickerjoy. . From Melancholy's scenes, than the dull pride Of tasteless splendour and magnificence . Can e'er afford. Thus Eloise, whose mind Had languish'd to the pangs of melting love,

More genuine tran found, as on some tomb
Reclin'd, she watch'd the tapers of the dead;
Or through the pillar'd iles, amid pale shrines
Of imag'd saints, and intermingled graves,
Mus'd a veil'd votaress; than Flavia feels,
As threugh the mazes of the festive ball,
Proud of her conquering charms, and beauty's blaze,
She floats amid the silken sons of dress,
And shines the fairest of th’ assembled fair.
When azure noontide cheers the daedal globe,
And the blest regent of the golden day
Rejoices in his bright meridian tower,
How oft my wishes ask the night's return,
That best befriends the melancholy mind!
Hail, sacred Night ! thou too shalt share my song!
Sister of ebon-scepter'd Hecat, hail!
Whether in congregated clouds thou wrapp'st
Thy viewless chariot, or with silver crown
Thy beaming head encirclest, ever hail!
What though beneath thy gloom the sorceress-strain,
Far in obscured haunt of Lapland moors,
With rhymes uncouth the bloody cauldron bless;
Though Murder wan beneath thy shrouding shade
Summons her slow-ey'd vot'ries to devise
Of secret slaughter, while by one blue lamp
In hideous conforence sits the list'ning band,
And start at each low wind, or wakeful sound:
What though thy stay the pilgrim curseth oft,
As all benighted in Arabian wastes
He hears the wilderness around him howl
With roaming monsters, while on his hoar head
The black-descending tempest ceaseless beats;
Yet more delightful to my pensive mind
Is thy return, than blooming Morn's approach,
Ev’n than, in youthful pride of opening May,
When from the portals of the saffron cast
She sheds fresh roses, and ambrosial dews.
Yet not ungrateful is the Morn's approach,
When dropping wet she comes, and clad in clouds,
While through the damp air scowls the louring
South,
Blackening the landscape's face, that grove and hill
In formless vapours undistinguish'd swim :
Th' afflicted songsters of the sadden'd groves
Hail not the sullen gloom ; the waving elms
That, hoar through time and rang'd in thick array,
Enclose with stately row some rural hall,
Are mute, nor echo with the clamours hoarse
Of rooks rejoicing on their airy boughs;
While to the shed the dripping poultry crowd,
A mournful train: secure the village-hind
Hangs o'er the crackling blaze, nor tempts the storm;
Fix'd in th' unfinish'd furrow rests the plough:
Rings not the high wood with enliven'd shouts
Of early hunter: all is silence drear;
And deepest sadness wraps the face of things.
Through Pope's soft song though all the Graces
breathe,
And happiest art adorn his Attic page;
Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow,
As at the root of mossy trunk reclin'd,
In magic Spenser's wildly-warbled song
I see deserted Una wander wide
Through wasteful solitudes, and lurid heaths,
Weary, forlorn ; than when the fated fair
Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames
Lanches in all the lustre of brocade,
Amid the splendours of the laughing Sun.
The gay description palls upon the sense,
And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss.

Ye youths of Albion's beauty-blooming isle, Whose brows have worn the wreath of luckless love, Is there a pleasure like the pensive mood, Whose magic wont to soothe your soften’d souls? O tell how rapturous the joy, to melt To Melody's assuasive voice; to bend Th'uncertain step along the midnight mead, And pour your sorrows to the pitying Moon, By many a slow trill from the bird of woe Oft interrupted; in embow'ring woods By darksome brook to muse, and there forget The solemn dulness of the tedious world, While Fancy grasps the visionary fair: And now no more th' abstracted ear attends The water's murm'ring lapse, th' entranced eye Pierces no longer through th' extended rows Of thick-rang'd trees; till haply from the depth The woodman's stroke, or distant tinkling team, Or heifers rustling through the brake, alarms Th’ illuded sense, and mars the golden dream. These are delights that absence drear has made Familiar to my soul, e'er since the form Of young Sapphira, beauteous as the Spring, When from her vi'let-woven couch awak’d By frolic Zephyr's hand, her tender cheek Graceful she lifts, and blushing from her bow'r Issues to clothe in gladsome-glistering green The genial globe, first met my dazzled sight: These are delights unknown to minds profane, And which alone the pensive soul can taste. The taper'd choir, at the late hour of pray'r, Oft let me tread, while to th’ according voice The many-sounding organ peals on high, The clear slow-dittied chant, or varied hymn, Till all my soul is bathed in ecstasies, And lapp'd in paradise. Or let me sit Far in sequester'd iles of the deep dome, There lonesome listen to the sacred sounds, Which, as they lengthen through the Gothic vault In hollow murmurs reach my ravish'd ear. Nor when the lamps expiring yield to night, And solitude returns, would I forsake The solemn mansion, but attentive mark, The due clock swinging slow with sweepy sway, Measuring time's flight with momentary sound. Nor let me fail to cultivate my mind With the soft thrillings of the tragic Muse, Divine Melpomene, sweet Pity's nurse, Queen of the stately step, and flowing pall. Now let Monimia mourn with streaming eyes Her joys incestuous, and polluted love; Now let soft Juliet in the gaping tomb Print the last kiss on her true Romeo's lips, His lips yet reeking from the deadly draught : Or Jaffier kneel for one forgiving look. Nor seldom let the Moor on Desdemone Pour the misguided threats of jealous rage. By soft degrees the manly torrent steals From my swoln eyes; and at a brother's woe My big heart melts in sympathizing tears. What are the splendours of the gaudy court, Its tinsel trappings, and its pageant pomps? To me far happier seems the banish'd lord, Amid Siberia's unrejoicing wilds, Who pines all lonesome, in the chambers boar Of some high castle shut, whose windows dim In distant ken discover trackless plains, Where Winter ever whirls his icy car! While still repeated objects of his view, The gloomy battlements, and ivied spires,

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