With more than mortal powers endow'd, 170 Look'd up the noblest of the land, Till through the British world were known 175 Spells of such force no wizard grave These spells are spent, and, spent with these, 180 The wine of life is on the lees. Genius, and taste, and talent gone, For ever tomb'd beneath the stone, Where-taming thought to human pride !— The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. 185 'Twill trickle to his rival's bier; O'er PITT'S the mournful requiem sound, 190 'Here let their discord with them die. Speak not for those a separate doom, Whom Fate made Brothers in the tomb; 195 Rest, ardent Spirits! till the cries Of dying Nature bid you rise; Not even your Britain's groans can pierce Then, O, how impotent and vain This grateful tributary strain! Though not unmark'd from northern clime, 200 His Gothic harp has o'er you rung; The Bard you deign'd to praise, your deathless names has sung. Stay yet, illusion, stay a while, My wilder'd fancy still begúile! From this high theme how can I part, Ere half unloaded is my heart! For all the tears e'er sorrow drew, And all the raptures fancy knew, That throbs through bard in bard-like mood, Though all their mingled streams could flow- 205 210 215 In one spring-tide of ecstasy !— It will not be-it may not last- Prompt on unequal tasks to run, Thus Nature disciplines her son: Meeter, she says, for me to stray, And waste the solitary day, In plucking from yon fen the reed, 220 225 230 235 And watch it floating down the Tweed; With which the milkmaid cheers her way, Marking its cadence rise and fail, But thou, my friend, canst fitly tell, 240 245 250 255 265 He sought proud Tarquin in his den, The mightiest chiefs of British song And Dryden, in immortal strain, 270 275 But that a ribald King and Court Fit for their souls, a looser lay, The world defrauded of the high design, Warm'd by such names, well may we then, Though dwindled sons of little men, In the fair fields of old romance; 280 285 Shield, lance, and brand, and plume, and scarf, Fay, giant, dragon, squire, and dwarf, And wizard with his wand of might, And errant maid on palfrey white. 300 Pure Love, who scarce his passion tells; That loves the tale she shrinks to hear; 305 Well has thy fair achievement shown, A worthy meed may thus be won; Ytene's oaks-beneath whose shade Their theme the merry minstrels made, 310 Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold, 315 For thou hast sung, how He of Gaul, 320 For Oriana, foil'd in fight The Necromancer's felon might; And well in modern verse hast wove 325 Hear, then, attentive to my lay, A knightly tale of Albion's elder day. |