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Could the act of madness innate for guilt be accounted. The act of suicide is very far from being so certain an indication of insanity as it is usually considered by our inquests. But in the case of Chatterton, it was the manifestation of an hereditary disease. There was a madness in his family. His only sister, during one part of her life, was under confinement.

The law respecting suicide is a most barbarous one; and of late years has never been carried into effect without exciting horror and disgust. It might be a salutary enactment, that all suicides should be given up for dissection. This would certainly preveut many women from committing self-murder, and possibly might in time be useful to physiology.

Note 12, page 597, col. 2.

The gentle Amelia.

In one of his few intervals of sanity, after the death of this beloved daughter, the late King gave orders, that a monument should be erected to the memory of one of her attendants, in St George's Chapel, with the following inscription:

King GEORGE III

caused to be interred near this place the body of Mary Gascoigne, Servant to the Princess AMELIA;

and this stone

to be inscribed in testimony of his grateful

sense

of the faithful services and attachment
of an amiable Young Woman to his beloved
Daughter,

whom she survived only three months.
She died 19th of February 1811.

This may probably be considered as the last act of his life; a very affecting one it is, and worthy of re

membrance. Such a monument is more honourable to the King, by whom it was set up, than if he had erected a pyramid.

SPECIMENS, ETC.

Where proofs justly do teach, thus matcht, such worth to be nought worth;

Let rot a Puppet abuse thy sprite, Kings' Crowns do not help them
From the cruel headach, nor shoes of gold do the gout heal;
And precious Couches full oft are shak't with a feaver.
If then a bodily evil in a bodily gloze be not hidden,
Shall such morning dews be an ease to the heat of a love's fire?

Sidney's pentameters appear even more uncouth than his hexameters, as more unlike their model; for, in our pronunciation, the Latin pentameter reads as if it ended with two trochees.

Fortune, Nature, Love, long have contended about me,
Which should most miseries cast on a worm that I am.

Fortune ibus gan say, misery and misfortune is all one,
And of misfortune, fortune bath only the gift.
With strong foes on land, on sea with contrary tempests,
Still do I cross this wretch what so he taketh in hand.
Tush, tush, said Nature, this is all but a trifle, a man's self,
Gives haps or mishaps, even as he ordereth his heart.
But so his humor I fram, in a mould of choler adusted,
That the delights of life shall be to him dolorous.
Love smiled, and thus said; What joyn'd to desire is unhappy:
But if he nought do desire, what can Heraclitus ail?
None but I work by desire: by desire have I kindled in his soul
Infernal agonies into a beauty divine:

Where thou poor Nature left'st all thy due glory, to Fortune
fler vertue is soveraign, Fortune a vassal of bers.
Nature al asht went back: Fortune blusht: yet she replied thus:
And even in that love shall I reserve him a spite.
Thus, thus, alas! woful by Nature, unhappy by Fortune;
But most wretched I am, now love awakes my desire.

Sidney has also given examples in his Arcadia of Anacreontic, Phaleucian, Sapphic, and Asclepiad verse, all written upon the same erroneous principle. Those persons who consider it ridiculous to write English verses upon any scheme of Latin versification, may perhaps be surprised to learn that they have read, as blank verse, many lines which are perfect Sapphics or Phaleucians. Rowe's tragedies are full of such lines.

The Censura Literaria supplies me with two choice samples of Stanihurst's Virgil.

Neere joynctlye brayeth with rufflerye 1 rumboled Ætna.
Soomtyme owt it boleketh from bulck clowds grimly bedimmed
Like fyerd pitche skorching, or flash flame sulphurus heating:
Flownce to the stars towring thee fire like a pellet is burled,
Ragd rocks, up raking, and guts of mounten yrented
From roote up he jogleth: stoans hudge slag molten he rowseth,
With route snort grumbling, in bottom flash furie kindling.

Ding'd with this squising and massive burthen of Æina,
Which pres on him nailed, from broached chimneys stil heateth:
As oft as the giant his brold syds croompeled altreth,
So oft Sicil al shivereth, therewith flaks smoakye be sparckled

THE annexed Specimens of Sir Philip Sidney's hexa-Men say that Enceladus, with bolt haulf blasted, here barbrought, meters will sufficiently evince that the failure of the attempt to naturalize this fine measure in his days, was Owing to the manner in which the attempt was made, not to the measure itself.

First shall fertile grounds not yield increase of a good seed. First the rivers shall cease to repay their floods to the ocean: First may a trusty greyhound transform himself to a tiger. First shall vertue be vice, and beauty be counted a blemish; Ere that I leave with song of praise her praise to solemnize, Her praise, whence to the world all praise hath his only beginning: But yet well I do find each man most wise in his own case. None can speak of a wound with skill, if he have not a wound felt: Great to thee my state seems, thy state is blest by my judgment: And yet neither of us great or blest deemeth his own self, For yet (weigh this, alas!) great is not great to the greater. What judge you doth a hillock show, by the lofty Olympus? Such my minute greatness doth seem compar'd to the greatest. When Cedars to the ground fall down by the weight of an Emmet, Or when a rich Rubie's price be the worth of a Walnut, Or to the Sun for wonders seem small sparks of a candle: Then by my high Cedar, rich Rubie, and only shining Sun, Vertues, riches, beauties of mine shall great be reputed. Oh, no, no, worthy Shepherd, worth can never enter a title,

T'ward Sicil is seated, to the welkin loftily peaking,

A soyl, ycleapt Liparen, from whence with flounce furye flinging.
Steans and burlye bulets, like tampounds, maynelye betowring.
Under is a kennel, wheare chymneys fyrye be scorching
Of Cyclopan tosters, with rent rocks chamferye sharded,
Lowd rub a dub tabering with frapping rip rap of Etna.
In the den are drumming gads of steele, parchfulye sparckling,
And flam's fierclye glowing, from furnace flashye be whisking.
Vulcan his boate fordgharth, named eke thee Vulcian Island.
Doun from the hev'nlye palace travayled the firye God hither.
In this cave the rakehels yr'ne bars, bigge bulcked ar hamring,
Brontes and Steropes, with baerlym swartie Pyracmon.
These thre nere upbotching, not shapte, but partlye wel onward,

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A clapping fier-bolt (such as oft with rounce rebel hobble,
Jove to the ground clattreth) but yeet not finnished holye.

Three showrs wringly wrythen glimmring, and forciblye sowing,

Thre wateye clowds shymring to the craft they rampired hizzing,
Three wheru's fierd glystring, with south winds ruffered huffling.
Now doe they rayse gastly lightnings, now grislye reboundings
Of ruffe raffe roaring, mens harts with terror agrysing,
With peale meale ramping, with thwick thwack sturdilye thun-
dering.

Stanihurst's Virgil is certainly one of those curiosities in our literature which ought to be reprinted. Yet notwithstanding the almost incredible absurdity of this version, Stanihurst is entitled to an honourable remembrance for the part which he contributed to Holinshed's Collection of Chronicles. None of our chroniclers possessed a mind better stored, nor an intellect more perpetually on the alert.

Sidney, who failed so entirely in writing hexameters, has written concerning them, in his Defence of Poesie, with the good sense and propriety of thought by which that beautiful treatise is distinguished. Let me not be thought to disparage this admirable man and delightful writer, because it has been necessary for me to show the cause of his failure in an attempt 'wherein I have now followed him. I should not forgive myself, were I ever to mention Sidney without an expression of reverence and love.

side, hath both the male, as Bon Son; and the Female, as Plaise, Taise, but the Sdrucciola he hath not, where

the English hath all three, as Due, True, Father, Rather, Motion, Potion, with much more, which might be said, but that already I find the trifling of this discourse is too much enlarged.»

The French attempted to introduce the ancient metres some years before the trial was made in England. Pasquier says, that Estienne Jodelle led the way in the year 1553, by this distich upon the poems of Olivier de Maigny, «lequel,» he adds, « est vrayement une petit chef d'œuvre.»

Phobus, Amour, Cypris, vent sauver, nourrir et orner
Ton vers et chef, d'umbre, de flamme, de fleurs.
Pasquier himself, three years afterwards, at the soli- '
citation of a friend, produced the following «essay de
plus longue haleine.»

Rien ne me plaist sinon de te chanter, et servir et orner;
Rien ne te plaist mon bien, rien ne te plaist que ma mort.
Plus je requiers, et plus je me tiens seur d'estre refusé,
Et ce refus pourtant point ne me semble refus.
O trompeurs attraicts, desir ardent, prompte volonté,
Espoir, non espoir, ains miserable pipeur.
Discours mensongers, trahistreux oeil, aspre cruauté,
Qui me ruine le corps, qui me ruine le cœur.
Pourquoy tant de faveurs t'ont les Cieux mis à l'abandon,
Ou pourquoy dans moy si violente fureur?

Si vaine est ma fureur, si vain est tout ce que des cieux

Tu tiens, s'en toy gist cette cruelle rigeur:
Dieux patrons de l'amour bannissez d'elle la beauté,
Ou bien l'accouple d'une amiable pitié;
Ou si dans le miel vous meslez un venimeux fiel,
Vueillez Dieux que l'amour r'entre dedans le Chaos:
Commandez que le froid, l'eau, l'Esté, l'humide, l'ardeur:
Brief que ce tout par tout tende à l'abisme de tous,

Qui me ruino le corps, qui me raine le cœur.
Non helas que ce rond soit tout un sans se rechanger,
Mai. que ma Sourde se change, on de face, ou de façons:

Mais que ma Sourde se change, et plus douce escoute les voix,

Ει

Voix que je seme criant, voix que je seme, riant.
Et que le feu du froid desormais puisse triompher,
que le froid au feu perde sa lente vigeur:
Ainsi s'assopira mon tourment, et la cruauté
Qui me ruine le corps, qui me ruine le cœur.

« Of versifying," he says, «there are two sorts, the one ancient, the other modern; the ancient marked the quantity of each syllable, and, according to that, framed his verse; the modern, observing only number, with some regard of the accent; the chief life of it standeth in that like sounding of the words, which we call Rhyme. Whether of these be the more excellent, Pour finir ma douleur, pour finir cette cruauté, would bear many speeches, the ancient, no doubt, more fit for musick, both words and time observing quantity, and more fit, lively to express divers passions by the low or lofty sound of the well-weighed syllable. The latter likewise with his Rhyme striketh a certain musick to the ear; and, in fine, since it doth delight, though by another way, it obtaineth the same purpose, there being in either sweetness, and wanting in neither majesty. Truly the English, before any vulgar lan« Je ne dy pas,» says the author, « que ces vers soient guage I know, is fit for both sorts; for, for the ancient, de quelque valeur, aussi ne les mets-je icy sur la monthe Italian is so full of vowels, that it must ever bestre en intention qu'on les trouve tels; mais bien estime cumbered with elisions: the Dutch so, of the other je qu'ils sont autant fluides que les Latins, et à tant side, with consonants, that they cannot yield the sweet sliding, fit for a verse. The French, in his whole language, hath not one word that hath his accent in the last syllable, saving two, called Antepenultima; and little more hath the Spanish, and therefore very gracelessly may they use Dactyls; the English is subject to none of these defects. Now for Rhyme, though we do not observe quantity, yet we observe the accent very precisely, which other languages either cannot do, or will not do so absolutely.

Pas

veux-je que l'on pense nostre vulgaire estre aucunement capable de ce subject.» Pasquier's verses were not published till many years after they were written; and in the meantime Jean Antoine de Baif made the attempt upon a larger scale,—« toutesfois,» says quier, «en ce subject si mauvais parrain que non seulement il ne fut suivy d'aucun, mais au contraire des couragea un chacun de s'y employer. D'autant que tout ce qu'il en fit estoit tant despourveu de cette naifveté qui doit accompagner nos œuvres, qu'aussi tost que « That Cæsura, or breathing-place, in the midst of the cette sienne poesie voit la lumière, elle mourut comme verse, neither Italian nor Spanish have; the French and un avorton.» The Abbé Goujet, therefore, had no reawe never almost fail of. Lastly, the very Rhyme itself son to represent this attempt as a proof of the bad taste the Italian cannot put in the last syliable, by the French of the age: the bad taste of an age is proved, when vinamed the Masculine Rhyme, but still in the next to cious compositions are applauded, not when they are the last, which the French call the Female, or the next unsuccessful. Jean Antoine de Baif is the writer of before that, which the Italian call Sdrucciola: the exwhom the Cardinal du Perron said «qu'il étoit bon ample of the former, is Buono Suono: of the Sdruc-homme, mais qu'il étoit méchant poete François. » ciola, is Femina Semina. The French, on the other

I subjoin a specimen of Spanish Hexameters, from an Eclogue by D. Esteban de Villegas, a poet of great and deserved estimation in his own country.

Licidas y Coridon, Coridon el amante de Filis,
Pastor el uno de cabras, el otro de blancas ovejas,
Ambos à dos tiernos, mozos ambos, Arcades ambos,
Viendo que los rayos del Sol fatigaban al Orbe,
Y que vibrando fuego feroz la Canicula ladra,
Al puro cristal, que cria la fuente sonora,
Llevados del son alegre de su blando susurro,
Las plantas veloces mueven, los pasos animan,
Y al tronco de un verde enebro se sientan amigos.

Tú, que los erguidos sobrepujas del hondo Timavo
Peñones, generoso Duque, con tu inclita frente,
Si acaso tocáre el eco de mi rústica avena
Tus sienes, si acaso lle,,a á tu fértil abono,
Francisco, del acento mio la sonora Talia,
Oye pio, responde grato, censura severo:
No menos al caro hermano generoso retratas,
Que al tronco prudente sigues, generoso naciste
Héroe, que guarde el Cielo dilatando tus años;
Licidas y Coridon, Coridon el amante de Filis,
Pastores, las Musas aman, recrearte desean:
Tu, cuerdo, perdona entretanto la barbara Musa,

Que presto, inspirando Pean con amigo Coturno,
En trompa, que al Olimpo llegue por el abrego suelta,
Tu fama llevarán los ecos del Ganges al Istro,
Y luego, torciendo el vuelo, del Aquilo al Austro.

It is admitted by the Spaniards, that the fitness of their language for the hexameter has been established by Villegas; his success, however, did not induce other poets to follow the example. I know not whom it was that he followed, for he was not the first to make the attempt. Neither do I know whether it was ever made in Portuguese, except in some verses upon St Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins, which are Latin as well as Portuguese, and were written as a whimsical proof of the affinity of the two languages. I have found no specimens in Italian. The complete success of the metre in Germany is well known. The Bohemians have learnt the tune, and have, like their neighbours, a translation of the Iliad in the measure of the original. This I learn accidentally from a Bohemian grammar; which shows me also, that the Bohemians make a dactyl of Achilles, probably because they pronounce the with a strong aspirate. %

Minor Poems.

Nos hæc novimus esse nihil.

TO EDITH SOUTHEY.

WITH way-worn feet, a traveller woe-begone, Life's upward road I journey'd many a day, And framing many a sad yet soothing lay, Beguiled the solitary hours with song. Lonely my heart and rugged was the way, Yet often pluck'd I, as I past along, The wild and simple flowers of poesy ; And sometimes unreflecting as a child Entwined the weeds which pleased a random eye. Take thou the wreath, BELOVED! it is wild And rudely garlanded; yet scorn not thou The humble offering, where dark rosemary weaves Amid flowers its melancholy leaves, gay And myrtle gathered to adorn thy brow.

1796.

TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

THE lily cheek, the « purple light of love,»
The liquid lustre of the melting eye,-
MARY! of these the Poet sung, for these
Did Woman triumph;-Wilt thou with a frown
Regard the theme unworthy ?-At that age
NO MAID OF ARC had snatch'd from coward man
The avenging sword of freedom: woman-kind
Recorded then no ROLAND'S martyrdom;
NO CORDE'S angel and avenging arm
Had sanctified again the Murderer's name,
As erst when Cæsar perish'd: and some strains
Haply may hence be drawn, befitting me
To offer, nor unworthy thy regard.

THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN.

The Subject of the following Poem may be found in the Third and Fourth Chapters of the First Book of Esdras.

GLAD as the weary
traveller tempest-tost
To reach secure at length his native coast,
Who wandering long o'er distant lands has sped,
The night-blast wildly howling round his head,
Known all the woes of want, and felt the storm
Of the bleak winter parch his shivering form;
The journey o'er and every peril past
Beholds his little cottage-home at last,
And as he sees afar the smoke curl slow,
Feels his full with
overflow;
eyes
transport
So from the scene where Death and Anguish reign,
And Vice and Folly drench with blood the plain,
Joyful I turn, to sing the Woman's praise

Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise,

Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,
And freed the nation best beloved of God.

Darius gives the feast; to Persia's court,
Awed by his will, the obedient throng resort:
Attending Satraps swell their prince's pride,
And vanquish'd Monarchs grace the Conqueror's side.
No more the Warrior wears the garb of war,
Girds on the sword, or mounts the scythed car;
No more Judæa's sons dejected go,

And hang the head, and heave the sigh of woe.
From Persia's rugged hills descend the train,
From where Orontes foams along the plain,

From where Choaspes rolls his royal waves,
And India sends her sons, submissive slaves.
Thy daughters, Babylon, for this high feast
Weave the loose robe, and paint the flowery vest,
With roseate wreaths they braid the glossy hair,
They tinge the cheek which nature form'd so fair,
Learn the soft step, the soul-subduing glance,
Melt in the song, and swim adown the dance,
Exalted on the Monarch's golden throne,
In royal state the fair Apame shone;
Her form of majesty, her eyes of fire,
Chill with respect, or kindle with desire.
The admiring multitude her charms adore,
And own her worthy of the rank she bore.

Now on his couch reclined Darius lay,
Tired with the toilsome pleasures of the day;
Without Judæa's watchful sons await,
To guard the sleeping idol of the state.
Three youths were these of Judah's royal race,

Three youths whom Nature dower'd with every grace,
To each the form of symmetry she gave,
And haughty genius curs'd each favourite slave;
These fill'd the cup, around the Monarch kept,
Served when he spake, and guarded while he slept.

Yet oft for Salem's hallow'd towers laid low
The sigh would heave, the unbidden tear would flow;
And when the dull and wearying round of power
Allow'd Zorobabel one vacant hour,

Ile loved on Babylon's high wall to roam,
And lingering gaze toward his distant home;

Or on Euphrates's willowy banks reclined

Hear the sad Harp moan fitful to the wind.

« And while,» his friend replied, « in state alone, Lord of the earth, Darius fills the throne, Be yours the mighty power of Wine to sing, My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's King.»

To them Zorobabel : « On themes like these Seek ye the Monarch of Mankind to please : To Wine superior, or to Power's strong arms, Be mine to sing resistless Woman's charms. To him victorious in the rival lays

Shall just Darius give the meed of praise;
The purple robe his honour'd frame shall fold,
The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold;

A golden couch support his bed of rest,
The chain of honour grace his favour'd breast;
His the rich turban, his the car's array,
O'er Babylon's high wall to wheel its way,
And for his wisdom seated on the throne,

For the KING'S COUSIN shall the Bard be known.

Intent they meditate the future lay,

And watch impatient for the dawn of day.

The morn rose clear, and shrill were heard the flute,
The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute;

To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort,
Swarm through the gates, and fill the festive court.
fligh on his throne Darius tower'd in pride,
The fair Apame graced the Sovereign's side:
And now she smiled, and now with mimic frown
Placed on her brow the Monarch's sacred crown.
In transport o'er her faultless form he bends,
Loves every look, and every act commends.

And now Darius bids the herald call Judæa's Bards to grace the thronging hall.

As now the perfumed lamps stream wide their light, Hush'd is each sound, the attending crowd are mute, And social converse cheers the livelong night,

Thus spake Zorobabel: Too long in vain

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For Zion desolate her sons complain;

All hopelessly our years of sorrow flow,

And these proud heathen mock their captives' woe.
While Cyrus triumphed here in victor state
A brighter prospect cheer'd our exiled fate;
Our sacred walls again he bade us raise,
And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise.
Quickly these fond hopes faded from our eyes,
As the frail sun that gilds the wintry skies,
And spreads a moment's radiance o'er the plain,
Soon hid by clouds which dim the scene again.

Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign,
We vainly pleaded here, and wept in vain.
Now when Darius, chief of mild command,
Bids joy and pleasure fill the festive land,
Still shall we droop the head in sullen grief,
And sternly silent shun to seek relief?
What if amid the Monarch's mirthful throng
Our harps should echo to the cheerful song?>>

«Fair is the occasion,» thus the one replied, «Now then let all our tuneful skill be tried. While the gay courtiers quaff the smiling bowl, And wine's strong fumes inspire the madden'd soul, Where all around is merriment, be mine

To strike the lute, and praise the power of Wine. >>

And then the Hebrew gently touch'd the lute:

When the Traveller on his way,
Who has toil'd the livelong day;
Feels around on every side
The chilly mists of eventide,
Fatigued and faint his weary mind
Recurs to all he leaves behind;
He thinks upon the well-trimm'd hearth,
The evening hour of social mirth.
And her who at departing day
Weeps for her husband far away.
Oh give to him the flowing bowl!
Bid it renovate his soul!

Then shall sorrow sink to sleep,

And he who wept no more shall weep; For his care-clouded brow shall clear, And his glad eye will sparkle through the tear.

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The generous juice with magic power Shall cheat with happiness the hour,

And with each warm affection fill The heart by want and wretchedness made chill.

When, at the dim close of day,
The Captive loves alone to stray
Along the haunts recluse and rude
Of sorrow and of solitude;
When he sits with mournful eye
To mark the lingering radiance die,
And lets distempered Fancy roam
Amid the ruins of his home;-
Oh give to him the flowing bowl!
Bid it renovate his soul!

The bowl shall better thoughts bestow,
And lull to rest his wakeful woe,
And joy shall bless the evening hour,
And make the Captive Fortune's conqueror.

When the wearying cares of state
Oppress the Monarch with their weight,
When from his pomp retired alone
He feels the duties of the throne,
Feels that the multitude below
Depend on him for weal or woe;
When his powerful will may bless
A realm with peace and happiness,

Or with desolating breath

Breathe ruin round, and woe, and death:
Oh give to him the flowing bowl!

Bid it humanize his soul!

He shall not feel the empire's weight, He shall not feel the cares of state, The bowl shall each dark thought beguile, And Nations live and prosper from his smile.

Hush'd was the lute, the Hebrew ceased the song,
Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng;
Each tongue the liberal words of praise repaid,
On every cheek a smile applauding play'd;
The rival Bard approach'd, he struck the string,
And pour'd the loftier song to Persia's King.

Why should the wearying cares of state
Oppress the Monarch with their weight?
Alike to him if peace shall bless
The multitude with happiness;
Alike to him if frenzied War
Careers triumphant on the embattled plain
And rolling on o'er myriads slain,
With gore and wounds shall clog his scythed car.

What though the tempest rage! no sound
Of the deep thunder shakes his distant throne,
And the red flash that spreads destruction round,
Reflects a glorious splendour on the crown.

Where is the Man who with ennobling pride
Beholds not his own nature? where is he
Who without awe can see
The mysteries of the human mind,
The miniature of Deity?

For Man the vernal clouds descending
Shower down their fertilizing rain;
For Man the ripen'd harvest bending

Waves with soft murmur o'er the plenteous plain.
He spreads the sail on high,

The rude gale wafts him o'er the main ; For him the winds of heaven subservient blow, Earth teems for him, for him the waters flow, He thinks, and wills, and acts, a Deity below!

Where is the King who with elating pride Sees not this Man, this godlike Man his slave? Mean are the mighty by the Monarch's side; Alike the wise, alike the brave With timid step and pale, advance,

And tremble at the royal glance; Suspended millious watch his breath, Whose smile is happiness, whose frown is death.

Why goes the Peasant from that little cot, Where PEACE and LOVE have blest his humble life? In vain his agonizing wife

With tears bedews her husband's face,
And clasps him in a long and last embrace;
In vain his children round his bosom creep,
And weep to see their mother weep,
Fettering their father with their little arms!
What are to him the war's alarms?
What are to him the distant foes?
He at the earliest dawn of day
To daily labour went his way;
And when he saw the sun decline,
He sate in peace beneath his vine-
The King commands, the peasant goes,
From all he loved on earth he flies,

And for his monarch toils, and fights, and bleeds, and dies.

What though yon City's castled wall Cast o'er the darken'd plain its crested shade? What though her Priests in earnest terror call On all their host of Gods to aid? Vain is the bulwark, vain the tower! In vain her gallant youths expose Their breasts, a bulwark, to the foes! In vain at that tremendous hour, Clasp'd in the savage soldier's reeking arms, Shrieks to tame Heaven the violated Maid! By the rude hand of Ruin scatter'd round, Their moss-grown towers shall spread the desert ground. Low shall the mouldering palace lie, Amid the princely halls the grass wave high, And through the shatter'd roof descend the inclement sky.

Gay o'er the embattled plain

Moves yonder warrior train,

Their banners wanton on the morning gale! Full on their bucklers beams the rising ray, Their glittering helms give glory to the day; The shout of war rings echoing o'er the vale; Far reaches as the aching eye can strain The splendid horror of their wide array. Ah! not in vain expectant, o'er Their glorious pomp the vultures soar! Amid the Conqueror's palace high Shall sound the song of victory; Long after journeying o'er the plain The traveller shall with startled eye See their white bones then blanched by many a winter

sky.

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