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Mark the year, and mark the night,
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs
From thce be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of heaven! What terrors round him
wait! Amazement in his van, with flight combined, And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind. 'Mighty victor, mighty lord,
Low on his funeral couch he lies !
A tear to grace his obsequies.
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
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 baffleit guest, Heard
ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
Long years of havock 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. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his dooiii. • 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, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless’d, unpitied, here to mourn : In yon bright track that fires the western skies They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail :All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail !
'Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear ;
And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old
What strains of vocal transport round her play? Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Fierce war, and faithful love,
In buskin'd measures move
Gales from blooming Eden bear,
And distant warblings lessen on my ear That lost in long futurity expire. 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: Be thine despair and sceptred care,
To triumph and to die are mine.' -He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's
height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.
T. Gray CLX
ODE WRITTEN IN 1746
Ilow sleep the brave, who sink to rest
LAMENT FOR CULLODEN
The lovely lass o' Inverness,
A waefu' day it was to me!
LAMENT FOR TLODDEN
I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a' lilting before dawn o'clay; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning -
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are
scorning, Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. In har’st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray ; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching
The Flowers of the Forest are a' were away. At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play ; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie-
The Flowers of the Forest are wedlecl away. Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the
Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the
foremost, 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.
THE BRAES OF YARROIT