No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fied? 65 Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 70 Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 75 Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm : Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey. "Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare ; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : Close by the regal chair 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? 80 84 Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And thro' 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. 90 94 Now, brothers, bending o'er the accurséd loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 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, O stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn : 100 In yon bright track that fires the western skies 104 But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, 109 Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! Girt with many a baron bold In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line : 115 What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play? Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; 121 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. The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move 125 Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 130 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. 134 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 nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: with joy I see The different doom our fates assign: 140 Be thine Despair and sceptred Care; He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. T. GRAY. 124 ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI How sleep the Brave who sink to rest By fairy hands their knell is rung, 5 9 125 LAMENT FOR CULLODEN The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; And ay the saut tear blin's her ee : My father dear, and brethren three. Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves are growing green to see : 10 10 And by them lies the dearest lad 126 15 R. BURNS. LAMENT FOR FLODDEN I've heard them lilting at the ewe-milking, But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning— At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, 5 Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. 10 In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the fore most, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking ; Women and bairns are heartless and wae ; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. J. ELLIOT. 19 127 THE BRAES OF YARROW Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, When first on them I met my lover; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover! For ever now, O Yarrow stream, Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. 'He promised me a milk-white steed To bear me to his father's bowers ; He promised me a little page To squire me to his father's towers Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow ! 'Sweet were his words when last we met ; That I should never more behold him! 'His mother from the window look'd With all the longing of a mother ; His little sister weeping walk'd 5 10 15 20 25 The green-wood path to meet her brother They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; 30 They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow. |