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No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fied ? 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.
70 Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o’er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes :
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 baffled guest.
84 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. Now, brothers, bending o’er the accurséd 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 :
In yon bright track that fires the western skies
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. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd
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 theorb 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.
ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI
How sleep the Brave who sink to rest
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ;
And ay the saut tear blin's her ee :
A waefu' day it was to me !
My father dear, and brethren three.
Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see :
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman's ee !
A bluidy man I trow thou be ;
Lasses a' lilting before dawn of day 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 daffing, nae gabbing, 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 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 loaningThe Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
127 THE BRAES OF YARROW Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream,
When first on them I met my lover ; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,
When now thy waves his body cover ! For ever now, O Yarrow stream,
Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I
Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.
' He promised me a milk-white steed
To bear me to his father's bowers ; He promised me a little page
To squire me to his father's towers ; He promised me a wedding-ring,
The wedding-day was fix'd lo-morrow ;Now he is wedded to his grave,
Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow !
Sweet were his words when last we met ;
My passion I as freely told him ; Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought
That I should never more behold him ! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ;
It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,
And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.
· His mother from the window look'd
With all the longing of a mother ; His little sister weeping walk'd
The green-wood path to meet her brother ; They sought him east, they sought him west,
They sought him all the forest thorough; 30 They only saw the cloud of night,
They only heard the roar of Yarrow.