« AnteriorContinuar »
ON THE PROSPECT OP INVASION.
O For the death of those
How beautiful in death
Their loveliest native earth
But the wild waves shall sweep
No !—they have 'scaped the waves,
By Alfred's Spirit, No!
To arms our heroes fly;
The lowering battle forms
Its terrible array;
Like clashing clouds in mountain-storms,
That thunder on their way.
The rushing armies meet;
Ghosts of the mighty dead!
The dead to life return;
Our fathers' spirits rise!—
My brethren! in your breasts they burt,
They sparkle in your eyes.
Now launch upon the foe
They yield,—they break,—they fly;
Pursue !—they faint—they fall,—they die:
Spirit of Vengeance! rest:
Sweet Mercy cries, " Forbear!"
She clasps the vanquish'd to her breast;
Thou wilt not pierce them there?
—Thus vanish Britain's foes
O'ershadowing laurels deck
The living hero's brows:
But lovelier wreaths entwine his neck,—
His children and his spouse!
Exulting o'er his lot,
The dangers he has braved;
He clasps the dear ones, hails the cot,
Which his own valour saved.
Daughters of Albion! weep;
On this triumphant plain,
Your fathers, husbands, brethren sleep,
For you and freedom slain.
O gently close the eye
THE VIGIL OP ST MARK.
Returning from their evening walk,
On yonder ancient stile,
Two lovers paused awhile:
Edmund, the monarch of the dale,
All-conscious of his powers;
The rose of Auburn's bowers!
In airy Love's delightful bands
He held her heart in vain;
To Hymen's awful chain.
"Ah! why," said he, " our bliss delay!
Mine Ella! why so cold?
From day to day grow old.
"The bounding arrow cleaves the sky,
Nor leaves a trace behind;
They vanish through the wind.
"In wedlock's sweet endearing lot
Let us improve the scene,
To tell—that we have been."
"'Tis now," replied the village belle,
And all that old traditions tell
"How, when the midnight signal tolls,
Along the churchyard green,
In winding-sheets are seen!
"The ghosts of all whom Death shall doom
Within the coming year,
Amid the silence drear!
"If Edmund, bold in conscious might,
By love severely tried,
Ella will be his bride."
She spake,—and, like the nimble fawn,
He sought across the rural lawn,
That silent, solemn, simple spot,
Where human passions are forgot!