Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

That hush'd the stormy main :

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie

Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail ;

The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,

Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,. Ye died amidst your dying country's criesNo more I weep. They do not sleep;

On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,

I see them sit; they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land:

With me in dreadful harmony they join,

30

35

40

45

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.'

"Weave the warp and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Edward's race :
Give ample room and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace.

Mark the year and mark the night
When Severn shall re-echo with affright

50

The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roofs that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing king!

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,

56

From thee 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. 66 Mighty victor, mighty lord,

Low on his funeral couch he lies!

60

No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the sable warrior fled ?

65

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
-Gone to salute the rising morn.

Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes:

70

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm : Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, 75 That, hush'din 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

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.

84

90

94

Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed 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
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

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 ! 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
In bearded majesty, appear.

In the midst a form divine!

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line :
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

115

121

What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play?
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
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.

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;
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.

124

ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest
By all their Country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair

To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!

W. COLLINS.

9

125

LAMENT FOR CULLODEN

The lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!
And ay the saut tear blin's her ee:
Drumossie moor-Drumossie day-
A waefu' day it was to me!
For there I lost my father dear,

My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,

Their graves are growing green to see :

5

10

And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman's ee!
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,

A bluidy man I trow thou be ;
For mony a heart thou hast made sair
That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.

126

R. BURNS.

LAMENT FOR FLODDEN

I've heard them lilting at the ewe-milking,
Lasses a' lilting before dawn of day;

15

But now they are moaning on ilka green loaningThe 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;

5

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,
Bandsters are runkled, and lyart, or grey;
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
'Bout stacks with the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk maid sits dreary, lamenting her dearie- 15
The Flowers of the Forest are weded 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 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