THE

VISION

OF

DON RODERICK.

INTRODUCTION.

I.

LIVES there a strain, whose sounds of mounting

fire

May rise distinguished o'er the din of war, Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre, Who sung beleaguered Ilion's evil star? Such, WELLINGTON, might reach thee from afar, Wafting its descant wide o'er Ocean's range; Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its mood could mar, All as it swelled, 'twixt each loud trumpet-change, That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal revenge!

II.

Yes! such a strain, with all o'erpowering measure, Might melodize with each tumultuous sound, Each voice of fear or triumph, wo or pleasure,

That rings Mondego's ravaged shores around; The thundering cry of hosts with conquest crowned, The female shriek, the ruined peasant's moan, The shout of captives from their chains unbound, The foiled oppressor's deep and sullen groan, A nation's choral hymn for tyranny o'erthrown.

III.

But we, weak minstrels of a laggard day,
Skilled but to imitate an elder page,
Timid and raptureless, can we repay

The debt thou claim'st in this exhausted age! Thou givest our lyres a theme, that might engage Those that could send thy name o'er sea and

land,

While sea and land shall last; for Homer's rage A theme; a theme for Milton's mighty handHow much unmeet for us, a faint degenerate band!

IV.

Ye mountains stern! within whose rugged breast The friends of Scottish freedom found repose; Ye torrents! whose hoarse sounds have soothed their rest,

Returning from the field of vanquished foes; Say, have ye lost each wild majestic close, That erst the choir of bards or druids flung, What time their hymn of victory arose,

And Cattraeth's glens with voice of triumph rung,

And mystic Merlin harped, and gray-haired Lly

warch sung.

V.

O! if your wilds such minstrelsy retain,

As sure your changeful gales seem oft to say,

When sweeping wild and sinking soft again,
Like trumpet-jubilee, or harp's wild sway;
If ye can echo such triumphant lay,

'Then lend the note to him has loved you long! Who pious gathered each tradition gray,

That floats your solitary wastes along,

And with affection vain gave them new voice in

song.

For not till now,

VI.

how oft soe'er the task
Of truant verse hath lightened graver care,
From muse or sylvan was he wont to ask,
In phrase poetic, inspiration fair;
Careless he gave his numbers to the air,-
They came unsought for, if applauses came;
Nor for himself prefers he now the prayer;
Let but his verse befit a hero's fame,
Immortal be the verse!-forgot the poet's name.

VII.

Hark, from yon misty cairn their answer tost:
"Minstrel! the fame of whose romantic lyre,
Capricious swelling now, may soon be lost,
Like the light flickering of a cottage fire;
If to such task presumptuous thou aspire,
Seek not from us the meed to warrior due:
Age after age has gathered son to sire,

Since our gray cliffs the din of conflict knew,
Or, pealing through our vales, victorious bugles blew.