With genial current far and wide,
Flows of benevolence the copious tide,
Grateful the boon, while shouting myriads see,
That dries Affliction's tear, and sets the captive free.
Though looking back through many an age,
Since Egbert first our Saxon sires obey'd,
No king recorded stands on history's page
So long, who England's golden sceptre sway'd;
O yet, through many a rolling year,
Long! long! may Albion's joyful race
Behold a crown, to Freedom sacred, grace
The man they love-the Sovereign they revere.
Though seated on her rocky throne,
Girt by her navy's adamantine zone,
Britannia rears sublime her dauntless head,
Amid the storms of war that round her spread;
Yet by a gen'rous Monarch be possess'd,
The first great object of his patriot breast,
May every baleful vapour fly,
That hangs malignant now o'er Europe's sky;
Infernal Discord's iron tempest cease,
And GEORGE'S sun decline in glory and in peace!
ODE FOR HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY.
WHEN loud the wintry tempest roars,
When dark the exhalations rise,
When dash the billows 'gainst the shores,
And sable clouds obscure the skies;
Cheerful amid the dreary scene,
Hope looks abroad with eye serene,
To happier hours, when Spring again
Shall shew her renovated reign,
And leading on the rosy hours,
Shall strew the teeming earth with flowers;
With young delight each bosom cheer,
And wake to joy again the renovated year.
Or if, it chance, the influence bland
Be check'd by adverse skies awhile,
By Eurus ruder gales if fann'd,
Uncertain April cease to smile:
When Maia's genial breezes blow ;
With richer dyes, and warmer glow,
When June appears; fleets every cloud away,
And all creation hails the animating ray.
Then from Ambition's iron reign,
The embattled wall, th' ensanguin'd plain,
The inmates of this favour'd isle
Look fondly with expectant smile,
To that blest hour when Britons sing
The birth auspicious of a parent King;
And as the clouds of winter fly,
When June illumes the genial sky,
So may the threat'ning storm that lowers
O'er wide Europa's trembling powers,
Like wintry clouds dispersing, fade away,
Before the radiant beams that gild this happy day.
When the proud Persian vainly tried,
In impotence of rage, to chain the tide,
Old Ocean mock'd the impious boast,
And Græcia triumph'd o'er his naval host.
Such Gallia's vaunt, and such the fate
That on such empty vaunt shall wait;
For while she threats, in angry mood,
From every shore our commerce to exclude,
Britannia's arms beyond the Atlantic main
Explore new regions of her golden reign;
And while each isle that studs the western wave,
Yields to her daring prows and warriors brave,
Her barks commercial crowd the azure deep,
Her fleets each hostile sail from Ocean's bosom sweep.
THE STATUE OF THE DYING GLADIATOR.
WILL then no pitying sword its succour lend,
The Gladiator's mortal throes to end;
To free th' unconquer'd mind, whose gen'rous pow'r
Triumphs o'er nature in her saddest hour?
-Bow'd low, and full of death, his head declines;
Yet o'er his brow indignant valour shines,
Still glares his closing eye with angry light,
Now glares, now darkens with approaching night.
Think not with terror heaves that sinewy breast-
'Tis vengeance visible, and pain supprest:
Calm in despair, in agony sedate,
His proud soul wrestles with o'er-mast'ring fate;
That pang the conflict ends-he falls not yet-
Seems ev'ry nerve for one last effort set,
At once, by death, death's ling'ring power to brave-
He will not sink, but plunge into the grave-
Exhaust his mighty heart in one last sigh,
And rally life's whole energy-to die.
Unfear'd is now that cord, which oft ensnared
The baffled rival whom his falchion spar'd;
Those clarions mute, which, on the murd'rous stage,
Roused him to deeds of more than martial rage :
Once pois'd by peerless might, once dear to fame,
The shield, which could not guard, supports his frame;
His fix'd eye dwells upon the faithless blade,
As if in silent agony he pray'd-
"Oh! might I yet, by one avenging blow,
"Not shun my fate, but share it with my foe!"
Vain hope!-the streams of life-blood fast descend;
That giant-arm's upbearing strength must bend;
Yet shall he scorn, procumbent, to betray
One dastard sign of anguish or dismay;
With one weak plaint to shame his parting breath,
In pangs sublime, magnificent in death!
But his were deeds unchronicled: his tomb
No patriot wreaths adorn; to cheer his doom,
No soothing thoughts arise of duties done,
Of trophied conquest for his country won;
And he, whose sculptur'd form gave deathless fame
To Ctesilas-he dies without a name!
Haply to grace some Cæsar's pageant pride
The hero-slave or hireling-champion died,
When Rome, degen'rate Rome, for barb'rous shows
Barter'd her virtue, glory, and repose,
Sold all that freemen prize as great and good,
pomps of death, and theatres of blood!
[From Scorr's LADY OF THE LAKE.]
HARP of the North! that mould'ring long hast hung
On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's spring,
And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,
Till envious ivy did around thee cling,
Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,-
O minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep?
Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring,
Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep?
Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon,
Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, When lay of hopeless love, or glory won, Aroused the fearful, or subdued the proud. At each according pause, was heard aloud Thine ardent symphony sublime and high! Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bow'd; For still the burthen of thy minstrelsy
Was knighthood's dauntless deed, and beauty's matchless eye.
O wake once more! how rude so'er the hand
That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray;
O wake once more! though scarce my skill command
Some feebler echoing of thine earlier lay:
Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away,
And all unworthy of thy nobler strain,
Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway,
The wizard note has not been touched in vain. Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!
THE boat had touch'd this silver strand,
Just as the hunter left his stand,
And stood conceal'd amid the brake,
To view this Lady of the Lake.
The maiden paused, as if again
She thought to catch the distant strain.
With head up-raised, and look intent,
And eye and ear attentive bent,
And locks flung back, and lips apart,
Like monument of Grecian art,
In list'ning mood, she seem'd to stand
The guardian Naiad of the strand.
And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,
Of finer form, or lovelier face!
What though the sun, with ardent frown,
Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,-
The sportive toil, which, short and light,
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright,
Served too in hastier swell to show
Short glimpses of a breast of snow:
What, though no rule of courtly grace
To measured mood had trained her pace,-
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the dew
E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread :
What though upon her speech there hung
The accents of the mountain tongue,
Those silver sounds, so oft, so dear,
The list'ner held his breath to hear.
A chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid;
Her satin snood, her silken plaid,
Her golden brooch such birth betray'd.
And seldom was a snood amid
Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid,
Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing;
And seldom o'er a breast so fair,
Mantled a plaid with modest care,
And never brooch the folds combined
Above a heart more good and kind.
Her kindness and her worth to spy,
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye;
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue,
Gives back the shaggy banks more true,
Than every free-born glance confess'd
The guileless movements of her breast;
Whether joy danced in her dark eye,
Or woe or pity claim'd a sigh,
Or filial love was glowing there,
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer,
Or tale of injury call'd forth
The indignant spirit of the north.
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