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Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-echo with affright
The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing king!

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs
That tearst the bowels of thy mangled mate,

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 !
No pitying heart, no eye, afford

A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the sable warrior fled ?
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 :

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
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.
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'l 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

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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
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 gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ;
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

W. Collins

CLXI

LAMENT FOR CULLODEN

The lovely lass o' Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ;
For e’en and morn she cries, Alas!
And aye the saut tear blins 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 :
And by them lies the clearest lad
That ever blest a woman's ee !
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidly man I trow thou be;
For mony a heart thou hast made sair
That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.

R. Burns

CLXII

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.

L

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. Elliott

CLXIII

THE BRAES OF YARROIT
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 to-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 shrick 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’l
The green-wood path to meet her brother;
They sought him east, they sought him west,
They sought him all the forest thorough ;
They only saw the cloud of night,
They only heard the roar of Yarrow.

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