Pleasing, without skill to please; Yet too innocent to blush ; And thou shalt in thy daughter see, A. Philips CLVIII RULE BRITANNIA When Britain first at Heaven's command Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of her land, And guardian angels sung the strain : Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves Britons never shall be slaves. The nations not so blest as thee Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free The dread and envy of them all. Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ; To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; The Muses, still with Freedom found, Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd And manly hearts to guard the fair :Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves ! Britons never shall be slaves! J. Thomson CLIX THE BARD Pindaric Ode Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!' -Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride He wound with toilsome march his long array :Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: 'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe With haggard eyes the Poet stood; Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air) 'Hark, how each giant-oak and desert-cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; 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: Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; 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 cries— No more I weep; They do not sleep; On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, I see them sit; They linger yet, With me in dreadful harmony they join, 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, The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring, She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, 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, 'Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born? Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 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, Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havock urge their destined course, 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, 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 : But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 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 : 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. 'The verse adorn again Fierce war, and faithful love, And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale grief, and pleasing pain, With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice as of the cherub-choir |