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The radiant range of shield and lance

We bid the spectre-shapes avaunt, Down Damascus' hills advance :

Ashtaroth, and Termagaunt! + From Sion's turrets as afar

With many a demon, pale of hue, Ye ken the march of Europe's war!

Doom'd to drink the bitter dew, Saladin, thou paynim king,

That drops from Macon's sooty tree, From Albion's isle revenge we bring!

Mid the dread grove of ebony. On Acon's spiry citadel,

Nor magic charms, nor fiends of Hell, Though to the gale thy banners swell,

The Christian's holy courage quell. Pictur’d with the silver Moon;

Salem, in ancient majesty England shall end thy glory soon!

Arise, and lift thee to the sky ! In vain, to break our firm array,

Soon on thy battlements divine Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray:

Shall wave the badge of Constantine. Those sounds our rising fury fan :

Ye barons, to the Sun unfold English Richard in the van,

Our cross with crimson wove and gold !"
On to victory we go,
A vaunting infidel the foe."

Blondel led the tuneful band,
And swept the wire with glowing hand.

THE
Cyprus, from her rocky mound,
And Crete, with piny verdure crown'd,

PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT.
Far along the smiling main
Echoed the prophetic strain.

When now mature in classic knowledge,
Soon we kiss d the sacred earth

The joyful youth is sent to college,
That gave a murder'd Saviour birth;

His father comes, a vicar plain, Then with ardour fresh endu'd,

At Oxford bred - in Anna's reign, Thus the solemn song renew'd.

And thus, in form of humble suitor, “ Lo, the toilsome voyage past,

Bowing accosts a reverend tutor : Heaven's favour'd hills appear at last !

“ Sir, I'm a Glo'stershire divine, Object of our holy vow,

And this my eldest son of nine; We tread the Tyrian valleys now.

My wife's ambition and my own From Carmel's almond-shaded steep

Was that this child should wear a gown : We feel the cheering fragrance creep:

I'll warrant that his good behaviour O'er Engaddi's shrubs of balm

Will justify your future favour; Waves the date-empurpl'd palm:

And, for his parts, to tell the truth, See Lebanon's aspiring head

My son 's a very forward youth; Wide his immortal umbrage spread!

Has Horace all by heart - you'd wonder Hail Calvary, thou mountain hoar,

And mouths out Homer's Greek like thunder. Wet with our Redeemer's gore !

If you 'd examine - and admit him, Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn,

A scholarship would nicely fit him ; Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn;

That he succeeds 't is ten to one; Your ravish'd honours to restore,

Your vote and interest, sir !" -'T is done. Fearless we climb this hostile shore !

Our pupil's hopes, though twice defeated, And thou, the sepulchre of God;

Are with a scholarship completed : By mocking pagans rudely trod,

A scholarship but half maintains, Bereft of every aweful rite,

And college-rules are heavy chains: And quench'd thy lamps that beam'd so bright; In garret dark he smokes and puns, For thee, from Britain's distant coast,

A prey to discipline and duns ; Lo, Richard leads his faithful host !

And now, intent on new designs, Aloft in his heroic hand,

Sighs for a fellowship -- and fines. Blazing like the beacon's brand,

When nine full tedious winters past, O'er the far-affrighted fields,

That utmost wish is crown'd at last : Resistless Kaliburn* he wields.

But the rich prize no sooner got, Proud Saracen, pollute no more

Again he quarrels with his lot: The shrines by martyrs built of yore !

“ These fellowships are pretty things From each wild mountain's trackless crown We live indeed like petty kings: In vain thy gloomy castles frown :

But who can bear to waste his whole age Thy battering engines, huge and high,

Amid the dullness of a college, In vain our steel-clad steeds defy;

Debarr'd the common joys of life, And, rolling in terrific state

And that prime bliss - a loving wife! On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate.

O! what 's a table richly spread,
When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp,

Without a woman at its head ?
Amid the moon-light vapours damp,
Thy necromantic forms, in vain,

+ Ashtaroth is mentioned by Milton as a general Haunt us on the tented plain :

name of the Syrian deities : Par. Lost, i. 492. And

Termagaunt is the name given in the old romana * Kaliburn is the sword of king Arthur ; which, to the god of the Saracens. See Percy's Reliques, as the monkish historians say, came into the posses- vol. i. p. 74. sion of Richard I., and was given by that monarch, The scholars of Trinity are superannuated, if in the Crusades, to Tancred king of Sicily, as a royal they do not succeed to fellowships in nine years present of inestimable value, about the year 1190. I after their election to scholarships.

Would some spug benefice but fall,

“ Why did I sell my college life,” Ye feasts, ye dinners ! farewell all!

He cries, “ for benefice and wife? To offices I'd bid adieu,

Return, ye days, when endless pleasure Of dean, vice præs. - of bursar too;

I found in reading, or in leisure ! Come joys, that rural quiet yields,

When calm around the common room Come, tythes, and house, and fruitful fields !” I puft”d my daily pipe's perfume! Too fond of freedom and of ease

Rode for a stomach, and inspected, A patron's vanity to please,

At annual bottlings, corks selected : Long time he watches, and by stealth,

And din'd untax'd, untroubled, under Each frail incumbent's doubtful health ;

The portrait of our pious founder! At length, and in his fortieth year,

When impositions were supply'd A living drops — two hundred clear !

To light my pipe - or soothe my pride With breast elate beyond expression,

No cares were then for forward peas, He hurries down to take possession,

A yearly-longing wife to please; With rapture views the sweet retreat

My thoughts no christ'ning dinners crost, « What a convenient house! how neat!

No children cry'd for butter'd toast; For fuel here's sufficient wood :

And ev'ry night I went to bed, Pray God the cellars may be good!

Without a modus in my head !” The garden — that must be new-plann'd

Oh! trifling head, and fickle heart ! Shall these old-fashion'd yew-trees stand ?

Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art ; O'er yonder vacant plot shall rise

A dupe to follies yet untry'd, The flow'ry shrub of thousand dyes:

And sick of pleasures, scarce enjoy'd! Yon wall, that feels the southern ray,

Each prize possess'd, thy transport ceases, Shall blush with ruddy fruitage gay:

And in pursuit alone it pleases.
While thick beneath its aspect warm
O'er well-rang'd hives the bees shall swarın,
From which, ere long, of golden gleam
Metheglin's luscious juice shall stream:
This awkward hut, o'ergrown with ivy,

INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE.
We 'll alter to a modern privy:
Up yon green slope, of hazels trim,

AT ANSLEY HALL IN WARWICKSHIRE. An avenue so cool and dim Shall to an arbour at the end,

Beneath this stony roof reclin'd, In spite of gout, entice a friend.

I soothe to peace my pensive mind; My predecessor lov'd devotion

And while, to shade my lowly cave, But of a garden had no notion.”

Embowering elms their umbrage wave; Continuing this fantastic farce on,

And while the maple dish is mine, He now commences country parson.

The beechen cup, unstain'd with wine ; To make his character entire,

I scorn the gay licentious crowd, He weds- a cousin of the 'squire ;

Nor heed the toys that deck the proud. Not over-weighty in the purse, But many doctors have done worse :

Within my limits lone and still And though she boasts no charms divine,

The blackbird pipes in artless trill; Yet she can carve and make birch winc.

Fast by my couch, congenial guest, Thus fixt, content he taps his barrel,

The wren has wove her mossy nest; Exhorts his neighbours not to quarrel ;

From busy scenes, and brighter skies, Finds his church-wardens have discerning

To lurk with innocence, she Alies : Both in good liquor and good learning;

Here hopes in safe repose to dwell,
With tythes his barns replete he sees,

Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.
And chuckles o'er his surplice fees;
Studies to find out latent dues,

At morn I take my custom'd round,
And regulates the state of pews;

To mark how buds yon shrubby mound, Rides a sleek mare with purple housing,

And every opening primrose count, To share the monthly club's carousing;

That trimly paints my blooming mount: Of Oxford pranks facetious tells,

Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude, And - but on Sundays -- hears no bells;

That grace my gloomy solitude, Sends presents of his choicest fruit,

I teach in winding wreaths to stray
And prunes himself each sapless shoot ;

Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.
Plants cauliflowers, and boasts to rear
The earliest melons of the year ;

At eve, within yon studious nook,
Thinks alteration charming work is,

I ope my brass-embossed book, Keeps Bantam cocks, and feeds his turkies;

Pourtray'd with many a holy deed Builds in his copse a fav'rite bench,

Of martyrs, crown'd with heavenly meed: And stores the pond with carp and tench. -

Then as my taper waxes dim, But ah ! too soon his thoughtless breast

Chant, ere I sleep, my measur'd hymn; By cares domestic is opprest;

And at the close, the gleams behold
And a third butcher's bill, and brewing,

Of parting wings bedropt with gold.
Threaten inevitable ruin:
For children fresh expenses yet,

While such pure joys my bliss create, And Dicky now for school is fit.

Who but would smile at guilty stale ?

Who but would wish his holy lot
In calm Oblivion's humble grot?
Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take iny staff, and amice gray*;
And to the world's tumultuous stage
Prefer the blameless hermitage ?

ODE SENT TO A FRIEND,

OX HIS LEAVING A FAVOURITE VILLAGE IN HAMPSHIL

ODE.

THE HAMLET. WRITTEN IN WHICHWOOD FOREST. The hinds how blest, who ne'er beguild 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 huc:
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 swarins 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.

An mourn, thou lov'd retreat! No more
Shall classic steps thy scenes explore!
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 Alings, in careless pride,
Her varied vesture far and wide ?
Who mark, beneath, each village-charın,
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 plais
Collects at eve the playful train :
The cot that smokes with early fire,
The low-roof d fane's embosom'd spire ?

Who now shall indolently stray
Through the deep forest's tangled way;
Pleas', at his custom'd task to find
The well-known hoary-tressed hind,
That toils with feeble hands to glean
Of wither'd boughs his pittance mean?
Who mid thy nooks of hazel sit,
Lost in some melancholy fit;
And listening to the raven's croak,
The distant Mail, the falling oak ?
Who, through the sunshine and the shower,
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,
With azure flow'rets idly grac'd?
Unnotic'd now, at twilight's dawn
Returning reapers cross the lawn;
Nor fond attention loves to note
The wether's bell from folds reinote :
While, own'd by no poetic eye,
Thy pensive evenings shade the sky!

For lo ! the Bard who rapture found In every rural sight or sound; Whose genius warm, and judgment chaste, 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 shadlowy shapes, and airy powers.

Behold, a dread repose resumes, As erst, thy sad sequester'd glooms! From the deep dell, where shaggy roots Fringe the rough brink with wreathed shoots, Th' unwilling genius flies forlorn, His primrose chaplet rudely torn. With hollow shriek the nymphs forsake The pathless copse and hedge-row brake : Where the delv'd mountains headlong side 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 look, Rise beckoning from the reedy brook.

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

Around the glow-worm's glimmering bank, Beneath yon ruin'd abbey's moss-grown piles No Fairies run in fiery rank;

Oft let me sit, at twilight hour of eve, Nor brush, half-seen, in airy tread

Where through some western window the pale Moon 'The violet's unprinted head.

Pours her long-levellid rule of strearning light; But Fancy, from the thickets brown,

While sullen sacred silence reigns around, The glades that wear a conscious frown,

Save the lone screech-owl's note, who builds his bow'r The forest oaks, that, pale and lone,

Amid the mould'ring caverns dark and damp, Nod to the blast with hoarser tone,

Or the calm breeze, that rustles in the leaves Rough glens, and sullen waterfalls,

Of flaunting ivy, that with mantle green Her bright ideal offspring calls.

Invests some wasted tow'r. Or let me tread So by some sage enchanter's spell,

Its neighb’ring walk of pines, where mus'd of old (As old Arabian fablers tell,)

The cloister'd brothers : through the gloomy void Amid the solitary wild,

That far extends beneath their ample arch Luxuriant gardens gaily smil'd:

As on I pace, religious horrour wraps From sapphire rocks the fountains stream'd, My soul in dread repose. But when the world With golden fruit the branches beam'd;

Is clad in Midnight's raven-colour'd robe, Fair forms, in every wondrous wood,

| 'Mid hollow charnel let me watch the flame Or lightly tripp'd, or solemn stood;

Of taper dim, shedding a livid glare And oft, retreating from the view,

O'er the wan heaps ; while airy voices talk Betray'd, at distance, beauties new :

Along the glimm'ring walls; or ghostly shape While gleaming o'er the crisped bowers

At distance seen, invites with beck’ning hand Rich spires arose, and sparkling towers. My lonesome steps, through the far-winding vaults. If bound on service new to go,

Nor undelightful is the solemn noon The master of the magic show,

Of night, when haply wakeful from my couch His transitory charm withdrew.

I start : lo! all is motionless around ! Away th' illusive landscape flew :

Roars not the rushing wind; the sons of men Dun clouds obscur'd the groves of gold,

And every beast in mute oblivion lie;
Blue lightning smote the blooming mould : All nature 's hush'd in silence and in sleep.
In visionary glory rear'd,

O then how fearful is it to reflect,
The gorgeous castle disappear'd ;

That through the still globe's aweful solitude, And a bare heath's unfruitful plain

No being wakes but me! till stealing sleep
Usurp'd the wizard's proud domain.

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
PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY.

Th' unshaken Britomart; or Milton knew,

When in abstracted thought he first conceiv'd
Præcipe lugubres

All Heav'n in tumult, and the seraphim
Cantus, Melpomene! -

Come tow'ring, arm'd in adamant and gold.

Let others love soft Summer's evening smiles, MOTHER of musings, Contemplation sage, As list'ning to the distant water-fall, Whose grotto stands upon the topmost rock

They mark the blushes of the streaky west ; Of Teneriff ; 'mid the tempestuous night,

I choose the pale December's foggy glooms. On which, in calmest meditation held,

Then, when the sullen shades of ev'ning close, Thou hear'st with howling winds the beating rain | Where through the room a blindly glimm'ring gleam And drifting hail descend ; or if the skies

The dying embers scatter, far remote [roof Unclouded shine, and through the blue serene From Mirth's mad shouts, that through th' illumin'd Pale Cynthia rolls her silver-axled car,

Resound with festive echo, let me sit, Whence gazing stedfast on the spangled vault Blest with the lowly cricket's drowsy dirge. Raptur'd thou sitt'st, while murmurs indistinct Then let my thought contemplative explore of distant billows soothe thy pensive ear

This fleeting state of things, the vain delights, With hoarse and hollow sounds; secure, self-blest, The fruitless toils, that still our search elude, There oft thou listen'st to the wild uproar

As through the wilderness of life we rove. Of fleets encount'ring, that in whispers low

This sober hour of silence will unmask Ascends the rocky summit, where thou dwell'st False Folly's smile, that like the dazzling spells Remote from man conversing with the spheres ! Of wily Comus cheat the unweeting eye O lead me, queen sublime, to solemn glooms With blear illusion, and persuade to drink Congenial with my soul; to cheerless shades, That charmed cup, which Reason's mintage fair To ruin'd seats, to twilight cells and bow'rs, Unmoulds, and stamps the monster on the man. Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to muse, Eager we taste, but in the luscious draught - Her fav'rite midnight haunts. The laughing scenes Forget the poisonous dregs that lurk beneath. Of purple Spring, where all the wanton train

Few know that elegance of soul refin'd, Of Smiles and Graces seem to lead the dance Whose soft sensation feels a quicker joy In sportive round, while from their hand they show'r | From Melancholy's scenes, than the dull pride Ambrosial blooms and flow'rs, no longer charm ; ! Of tasteless splendour and magnificence Tempé, no more I court thy balmy breeze, Can e'er afford. Thus Eloise, whose mind Adieu green vales ! ye broider'd meads, adieu ! Had languish'd to the pangs of melting love,

THE

More genuine transports found, as on some tomb | Ye youths of Albion's beauty-blooming isle,
Reclin'd, she watch'd the tapers of the dead; Whose brows have worn the wreath of luckless love,
Or through the pillar'd iles, amid pale shrines Is there a pleasure like the pensive mood,
Of imag'd saints, and intermingled graves, Whose magic wont to soothe your soften'd souls:
Mus'd a veil'd votaress; than Flavia feels,

O tell how rapturous the joy, to melt
As through the mazes of the festive ball,

To Melody's assuasive voice; to bend Proud of her conquering charms, and beauty's blaze, Th' uncertain step along the midnight mead, She floats amid the silken sons of dress,

And pour your sorrows to the pitying Moon, And shines the fairest of th' assembled fair. By many a slow trill from the bird of woe

When azure noontide cheers the dædal globe, Oft interrupted; in embow'ring woods And the blest regent of the golden day

By darksome brook to muse, and there forget Rejoices in his bright meridian tower,

The solemn dulness of the tedious world, How oft my wishes ask the night's return,

While Fancy grasps the visionary fair : That best befriends the melancholy mind!

And now no more th' abstracted ear attends Hail, sacred Night! thou too shalt share my song! The water's murm'ring lapse, th' entranced eye Sister of ebon-scepter'd Hecat, hail !

Pierces no longer through th' extended rows Whether in congregated clouds thou wrapp'st Of thick-rang'd trees; till haply from the depth Thy viewless chariot, or with silver crown

The woodman's stroke, or distant tinkling team, Thy beaming head encirclest, ever hail !

Or heifers rustling through the brake, alarms What though beneath thy gloom the sorceress-strain, Th' illuded sense, and mars the golden dream. Far in obscured haunt of Lapland moors,

These are delights that absence drear has made With rhymes uncouth the bloody cauldron bless; Familiar to my soul, e'er since the form Though Murder wan beneath thy shrouding shade Of young Sapphira, beauteous as the Spring, Summons her slow-ey'd vot'ries to devise

When from her vi'let-woven couch awak'd Of secret slaughter, while by one blue lamp By frolic Zephyr's hand, her tender cheek In hideous conf'rence sits the list'ning band, Graceful she lifts, and blushing from her bow'r And start at each low wind, or wakeful sound : Issues to clothe in gladsome-glistering green What though thy stay the pilgrim curseth oft, The genial globe, first met my dazzled sight : As all benighted in Arabian wastes

These are delights unknown to minds profane, He hears the wilderness around him howl

And which alone the pensive soul can taste. With roaming monsters, while on his hoar head The taper'd choir, at the late hour of pray'r, The black-descending tempest ceascless beats ; Oft let me tread, while to th' according voice Yet more delightful to my pensive mind

The many-sounding organ peals on high, Is thy return, than blooming Morn's approach, The clear slow-dittied chant, or varied hymn, Ev’n than, in youthful pride of opening May, Till all my soul is bathed in ecstasies, When from the portals of the saffron cast

| And lapp'd in paradise. Or let me sit She sheds fresh roses, and ambrosial dews.

Far in sequester'd iles of the deep dome,
Yet not ungrateful is the Morn's approach, There lonesome listen to the sacred sounds,
When dropping wet she comes, and clad in clouds, Which, as they lengthen through the Gothic faults,
While through the damp air scowls the louring In hollow murmurs reach my ravish'd ear.
South,

Nor when the lamps expiring yield to night,
Blackening the landscape's face, that grove and hill And solitude returns, would I forsake
In formless vapours undistinguish'd swiin :

The solemn mansion, but attentive mark,
Th' afflicted songsters of the sadden'd groves 1 The due clock swinging slow with sweepy sway,
Hail not the sullen gloom : the waving elms Mcasuring time's flight with momentary sound
That, hoar through time and rang'd in thick array, Nor let me fail to cultivate my mind
Enclose with stately row some rural hall,

With the soft thrillings of the tragic Muse,
Are mute, nor echo with the clamours hoarse Divine Melpomene, sweet Pity's nurse,
Of rooks rejoicing on their airy boughs ;

Queen of the stately step, and flowing pall. While to the shed the dripping poultry crowd, Now let Monimia mourn with strearning eyes A mournful train : sccure the village-hind

Her joys incestuous, and polluted love; Hangs o'er the crackling blaze, nor tempts the storm; Now let soft Juliet in the gaping tomb Fix'd in th' unfinish'd furrow rests the plough: Print the last kiss on her true Romeo's lips, Rings not the high wood with enliven'd shouts His lips yet reeking from the deadly draught : Of early hunter : all is silence drear;

Or Jaffier kneel for one forgiving look. And deepest sadness wraps the face of things. Nor seldom let the Moor on Desdemone Through Pope's soft song though all the Graces Pour the misguided threats of jealous rage. breathe,

By soft degrees the manly torrent steals And happiest art adorn his Attic page;

From my swoln eyes; and at a brother's woe Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow, My big heart melts in sympathizing tears As at the root of mossy trunk reclin'd,

What are the splendours of the gaudy court, In magic Spenser's wildly-warbled song

Its tinsel trappings, and its pageant pomps?
I see deserted Una wander wide

To me far happier seems the banish'd lord,
Through wasteful solitudes, and lurid heaths, Amid Siberia's unrejoicing wilds,
Weary, forlorn; than when the fated fair

Who pines all lonesome, in the chambers boar Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames

Of some high castle shut, whose windows dim Lanches in all the lustre of brocade,

In distant ken discover trackless plains, Amid the splendours of the laughing Sun.

Where Winter ever whirls his icy car! The gay description palls upon the sense,

While still repeated objects of his view, And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss. The gloomy battlements, and ivied spires,

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