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When he, these favour'd shades appears to bless,
Whose guardian counsels guide a nation's fate,
And with superior toils for Europe's state
Mixes the thought of Granta's happiness.

Hail seats rever'd! where thoughtful pleasures dwell, And hovering Peace extends her downy wings, Where musing Knowledge holds her humble cell, And Truth divine unlocks her secret springs;

This verse with mild acceptance deign
To hear; this verse yourselves inspire,
Ere yet within your sacred fane

The Muse suspends her votive lyre.

Thee, Granta, thus with filial thanks I greet,

With smiles maternal thou those thanks receive, For Learning's humble wealth, for friendship sweet, For every calmer joy thy scenes could give.

While thus I sport upon thy peaceful strand,
The storms of life at awful distance roar ;
And still I dread, still lingering on the shore,
To launch my little bark, and quit the land.

ODE XIX.

A

FRAGMENT.

Supposed to have been found in a dark Passage in the
TOWER OF LONDON.

BY

MISS HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

RISE, winds of night! relentless tempests, rise! Rush from the troubled clouds, and o'er me roll; In this chill pause a deeper horror lies,

A wilder fear appals my shuddʼring soul.'Twas on this day, this hour accurst,

That Nature starting from repose

Heard the dire shrieks of murder burst-
From infant innocence they rose,
And shook these solemn towers!-

I shudd'ring pass that fatal room
For ages wrapt in central gloom ;-
I shudd'ring pass that iron door

Which Fate perchance unlocks no more;

Death smear'd with blood o'er the dark portal lowesrs.

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How fearfully my step resounds
Along these lonely bounds:

Spare, savage blast! the taper's quiv'ring fires,
Deep in these gath'ring shades its flame expires.
Ye host of heaven! the door recedes-
It mocks my grasp-what unseen hands
Have burst its iron bands?

No mortal force this gate unbarr'd
Where danger lives, which terrors guard—
Dread powers! its screaming hinges close
On this dire scene of impious deeds—
My feet are fix'd!-Dismay has bound
My step on this polluted ground-
But lo! the pitying moon, a line of light

Athwart the horrid darkness dimly throws, And from yon grated window chases night.—

Ye visions that before me roll,

That freeze my blood, that shake my

Are ye the phantoms of a dream?
Pale spectres! are ye what ye seem?

They glide more near

Their forms unfold!

Fix'd are their eyes, on me they bend

Their glaring look is cold!

And hark!-I hear

soul!

Sounds that the throbbing pulse of life suspend.

• No wild illusion cheats thy sight
With shapes that only live in night-

• Mark the native glories spread

Around my bleeding brow!

"The crown of Albion wreath'd my head,
'And Gallia's lilies twin'd below-
When my father shook his spear,
"When his banner sought the skies,
'Her baffled host recoil'd with fear,
'Nor turn'd their shrinking eyes:-
Soon as the daring eagle springs

• To bask in heav'ns empyreal light, • The vultures ply their baleful wings,

'A cloud of deep'ning colour marks their flight,

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Staining the golden day :

But see! amid the rav'nous brood

A bird of fiercer aspect soar―

The spirits of a rival race,

Hang on the noxious blast, and trace,

With gloomy joy, his destin'd prey;

'Inflame th' ambitious wish that thirsts for blood, And plunge his talents deep in kindred gore.

• View the stern form that hovers nigh,
Fierce rolls his dauntless eye

"In scorn of hideous death;
'Till starting at a brother's name,
Horror shrinks his glowing frame,
Locks the half-utter'd groan,
And chills the parting breath:
Astonish'd nature heav'd a moan!

When her affrighted eye beheld the hands
She form'd to cherish rend her holy bands.

'Look where a royal infant kneels,
Shrieking, and agoniz'd with fear,
'He sees the dagger pointed near
A much lov'd brother's breast,

And tells an absent mother all he feels:-
His eager eye he casts around;

Where shall her guardian form be found,
'On which his eager eye would rest!

'On her he calls in accents wild,

And wonders why her step is slow

To save her suff'ring child !—

Rob'd in the regal garb, his brother stands

In more majestic woe

And meets the impious stroke with bosom bare, Then fearless grasps the murd’rer's hands,

And asks the minister of hell to spare

The child whose feeble arms sustain

His bleeding form from cruel Death.

• In vain fraternal fondness pleads,

For cold is now his livid cheek

And cold his last aspiring breath:

And now with aspect meek,

The infant lifts his mournful eye,

'And asks, with trembling voice, to die,

"If death will cure his heaving heart of painHis heaving heart now bleeds

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