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, 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, '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 VII. Hark, from yon misty cairn their answer tost: Since our gray cliffs the din of conflict knew, |