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Though martial Austria, and though all
The might of Russia, and the Gaul,
Though banded Europe stood her foes—
The Star of Brandenburgh arose!
Thou couldst not live to see her beam
For ever quenched in Jena's stream.
Lamented chief!—it was not given,
To thee to change the doom of heaven,
And crush that dragon in its birth,
Predestined scourge of guilty earth.
Lamented chief!—not thine the power,
To save in that presumptuous hour,
When Prussia hurried to the field,
And snatched the spear, but left the shield;
Walour and skill 'twas thine to try,
And, tried in vain, 'twas thine to die.
Ill had it seemed thy silver hair
The last, the bitterest pang to share,
For princedoms rest, and scutcheons riven,
And birthrights to usurpers given;
Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to feel,
And witness woes thou could'st not heal;
On thee relenting heaven bestows
For honoured life an honoured close;
And when revolves, in time's sure change,
The hour of Germany's revenge,
When, breathing fury for her sake,
Some new Arminius shall awake, ,
Her champion, ere he strike, shall come
To whethis sword on Brunswick's tomb.

“Or of the Red Cross hero teach, Dauntless in dungeon as on breach: Alike to him the sea, the shore, The brand, the bridle, or the oar; Alike to him the war that calls Its votaries to the shattered walls, Which the grim Turk besmeared with blood, Against the Invincible made good; Or that whose thundering voice could wake The silence of the polar lake, When stubborn Russ, and metal’d Swede, On the warped wave their death-game played, Or that where vengeance and affright Howled round the father of the fight, Who snatched on Alexandria's sand The conqueror's wreath with dying hand.

“Or if to touch such chord be thine, Restore the ancient tragic line, And emulate the notes that rung From the wild harp which silent hung, By silver Avon's holy shore, Till twice an hundred years rolled o'er; When she, the bold Enchantress, came, With fearless hand and heart on flame, From the pale willow snatched the treasure, And swept it with a kindred measure, Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove With Monfort's hate and Basil's love, Awakening at the inspired strain, Deemed their own Shakspeare lived again.”

Thy friendship thus thy judgment wronging, With praises not to me belonging, In task more meet for mightiest powers, Would'st thou engage my thriftless hours. But say, my Erskine, hast thou weighed That secret power by all obeyed, Which warps not less the passive mind, Its source concealed or undefined; Whether an impulse, that has birth Soon as the infant wakes on earth, One with our feelings and our powers, And rather part of us than ours; Or whether fitlier termed the sway Of habit formed in early day 2 Howe'er derived, its force confessed Rules with despotic sway the breast, And drags us on by viewless chain, While taste and reason plead in vain. Look east, and ask the Belgian why, Beneath Batavia's sultry sky, He seeks not, eager to inhale, The freshness of the mountain gale, Content to rear his whitened wall Beside the dank and dull canal? He'll say, from youth he loved to see The white sail gliding by the tree. Or see yon weather-beaten hind, Whose sluggish herds before him wind, Whose tattered plaid and rugged cheek His northern clime and kindred speak; *

Through England's laughing meads he goes,
And England's wealth around him flows;
Ask, if it would content him well,
At ease in these gay plains to dwell,
Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen,
And spires and forests intervene,
And the meat cottage peeps between 2
No, not for these will he exchange
His dark Lochaber's boundless range;
Nor for fair Devon's meads forsake
Bennevis gray and Garry's lake.
Thus, while Iape the measure wild
Of tales that charmed me yet a child,
Rude though they be, still with the chime
Return the thoughts of early time;
And feelings roused in life's first day,
Glow in the line, and prompt the lay.
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower,
Which charmed my fancy's wakening hour:
Though no broad river swept along
To claim perchance heroic song;
Though sighed no groves in summer gale
To prompt of love a softer tale;
Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed
Claimed homage from a shepherd's reed;
Yet was poetic impulse given,
By the green hill and clear blue heaven.
It was a barren scene, and wild,
Where naked cliffs were rudely piled;

But ever and anon between
Lay velvet turfs of loveliest green;
And well the lonely infant knew
Recesses where the wall-flower grew,
And honey-suckle loved to crawl
Up the low crag and ruined wall.
I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade
The sun in all his round surveyed;
And still I thought that shattered tower
The mightiest work of human power;
And marvelled, as the aged hind
With some strange tale bewitched my mind,
Of forayers, who, with headlong force,
Down from that strength had spurred their horse,
Their southern rapine to renew,
Far in the distant Cheviot's blue,
And, home returning, filled the hall
With revel, wassell-rout, and brawl—
Methought that still with tramp and clang
The gate-way's broken arches rang;
Methought grim features, seamed with scars,
Glared through the window's rusty bars.
And ever by the winter hearth,
Old tales I heard of wo or mirth,
Of lovers' sleights, of ladies' charms,
Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms;
Of patriot battles, won of old
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;
Of later fields of feud and fight,
When, pouring from the highland height,

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