CHAP. XLII. Let those go see who will-I like it not— Old Play CHAP. XLIII. Fortune, you say, flies from us-She but circles, Like the fleet sea-bird round the fowler's skiff,— Lost in the mist one moment, and the next Brushing the white sail with her whiter wing, As if to court the aim.-Experience watches; And has her on the wheel. Old Play. CHAP. XLIV. Nay, if she love me not, I care not for her: Shake at each nod that her caprice shall dictate. FROM ROB ROY. (1.) TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE. O FOR the voice of that wild horn, That told imperial Charlemagne, Sad over earth and ocean sounding, How Britain's hope, and France's fear, In Bourdeaux dying lay. "Raise my faint head, my squires," he said, "And let the casement be display'd, That I may see once more The splendour of the setting sun Gleam on thy mirror'd wave, Garonne, "Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep, So soft shall fall the trickling tear, "And though my sun of glory set, Nor France nor England shall forget The terror of my name; And oft shall Britain's heroes rise, New planets in these southern skies, Through clouds of blood and flame.' Chap. ii. (2.) TRANSLATION FROM ARIOSTO. LADIES, and knights, and arms, and love's fair flame, Deeds of emprize and courtesy, I sing; What time the Moors from sultry Africk came, Led on by Agramant, their youthful king— He whom revenge and hasty ire did bring O'er the broad wave, in France to waste and war; Such ills from old Trojano's death did spring, Which to avenge he came from realms afar, And menaced Christian Charles, the Roman Em. peror. Of dauntless Roland, too, my strain shall sound, In import never known in prose and rhyme, How He, the chief of judgment deem'd profound, For luckless love was crazed upon a time Chap. xvi. (3.) MOTTOES. CHAP. X. In the wide pile, by others heeded not, Whose gloomy aisles and bending shelves contain, CHAP. XIII. Dire was his thought, who first in poison steep d To fill the veins with death instead of life. CHAP. XXII. Anonymous. Look round thee, young Astolpho: Here's the place Which men (for being poor) are sent to starve in Rude remedy, I trow, for sore disease. Within these walls, stifled by damp and stench, Doth Hope's fair torch expire; and at the snuff, Ere yet 'tis quite extinct, rude, wild, and wayward, The desperate revelries of wild despair, Kindling their hell-born cressets, light to deeds That the poor captive would have died ere prac tised, Till bondage sunk his soul to his condition. The Prison, Scene iii. Act i. CHAP. XXXI. "Woe to the vanquish'd!" was stern Brenno's word, When sunk proud Rome beneath the Gallic sword "Woe to the vanquish'd!" when his massive blade Bore down the scale against her ransom weigh'd, And on the field of foughten battle still, War knows no limits save the victor's will. The Gaulliad. CHAP. XXXII. And be he safe restored ere evening set, Old Play |