'Silence!' cried the frowning master, Gurgling in ambrosial lustre Flows the purple-eddying wine : O'er the yard-arms trail and cluster Tendrils of the mantling vine: Grapes, beneath the broad leaves springing, Blushing as in vintage-hours, Droop, while round the tall mast clinging Fast with graceful berries blackening :- Then in fear the cordage slackening, Bacchus changed his shape, and glaring Roared the pirate-crew, despairing, Plunged amid the foaming tide. Through the azure depths they flitted Saved, and made him rich and great. 1 THE WAR-SONG OF DINAS VAWR. [From The Misfortunes of Elphin.] The mountain sheep are sweeter, We made an expedition; We met an host and quelled it; On Dyfed's richest valley, Where herds of kine were browsing, To furnish our carousing. Fierce warriors rushed to meet us; But we conquered them, and slew them. As we drove our prize at leisure, The king marched forth to catch us: His rage surpassed all measure, But his people could not match us. He fled to his hall-pillars; And, ere our force we led off, Some sacked his house and cellars, We there, in strife bewildering, We brought away from battle, And much their land bemoaned them, Two thousand head of cattle, And the head of him who owned them: Ednyfed, King of Dyfed, His head was borne before us; His wine and beasts supplied our feasts, And his overthrow, our chorus. THE MEN OF GOTHAM. [From Nightmare Abbey.] Seamen three! What men be ye? To rake the moon from out the sea. And our ballast is old wine; And your ballast is old wine. Who art thou, so fast adrift? In a bowl Care may not be. Fear ye not the waves that roll? No in charmed bowl we swim. What the charm that floats the bowl? Water may not pass the brim. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine; And your ballast is old wine. [From Melincourt.] THE FLOWER OF LOVE. 'Tis said the rose is Love's own flower, But ah! the fragrance lingering there Why did not Love the amaranth choose, THE GRAVE OF LOVE. I dug, beneath the cypress shade, I pressed them down the sod beneath; Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead, MR. CYPRESS'S SONG IN RIDICULE OF LORD BYRON. [From Nightmare Abbey.] There is a fever of the spirit, The brand of Cain's unresting doom, Which in the lone dark souls that bear it Unlike that lamp, its subtle fire Burns, blasts, consumes its cell, the heart, Till, one by one, hope, joy, desire, Like dreams of shadowy smoke depart. When hope, love, like itself, are only And by that dreary illumination, Till time its clay-built home has rent, Thought broods on feeling's desolationThe soul is its own monument. |