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IN THE ORDER OF THEIR COMPOSITION OR PUBLICATION.
ON THE SETTING SUN. Whose life's comprised within a span,
To Him his homage raise. [1783.] Those evening clouds, that setting ray, We often praise the evening clouds, And beauteous tints, serve to display And tints so gay and bold, Their great Creator's praise ;
But seldom think upon our God, Then let the short-lived thing call'd man, 1 Who tinged these clouds with gold !
(1797.] It appears from the Life of Scott, vol. i. p. 333, that these lines, first published in the English Minstrelsy, 1810, were written in 1797, on occasion of the Poet's disappointment in love. THE violet in her greenwood bower, I've seen an eye of lovelier blue, Where birchen boughs with hazels More sweet through wat’ry lustre mingle,
shining May boast itself the fairest flower
The summer sun that dew shall dry, In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.
Ere yet the day be past its morrow; Though fair her gems of azure hue, Nor longer in my false love's eye Beneath the dew-drop's weight re Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow. clining;
TO A LADY..
[1797.] Written in 1797, on an excursion from Gillsland, in Cumberland. See Life,
vol. i. p. 365. TAKE these flowers which, purple Warriors from the breach of danger waving,
1 Pluck no longer laurels there; On the ruin'd rampart grew,
| They but yield the passing stranger Where, the sons of freedom braving, Wild-flower wreathes for Beauty's Rome's imperial standards flew.
THE BARD'S INCANTATION. WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804. The forest of Glenmore is drear,
The moon 'looks through the drifting It is all of black pine and the dark
But the troubled lake reflects not her And the midnight wind, to the mountain
For the waves roll whitening to the land, Is whistling the forest lullaby: | And dash against the shelvy strand.
There is a voice among the trees,
Nor through the pines, with whistling That mingles with the groaning oak
change That mingles with the stormy breeze, Mimic the harp's wild harmony ! And the lake-waves dashing against Mute are ye now ?-Ye ne'er were the rock ;
mute, There is a voice within the wood,
When Murder with his bloody foot, The voice of the bard in fitful mood; And Rapine with his iron hand, His song was louder than the blast, Were hovering near yon mountain As the bard of Glenmore through the
strand. forest past.
“O yet awake the strain to tell, “Wake ye from your sleep of death, By every deed in song enroll'd,
Minstrels and bards of other days ! By every chief who fought or fell, For the midnight wind is on the heath, For Albion's weal in battle bold :And the midnight meteors dimly
From Coilgach, first who roll'd his car blaze :
Through the deep ranks of Roman war, The Spectre with his Bloody Hand, To him, of veteran memory dear, Is wandering through the wild wood
Who victor died on Aboukir. land;
“By all their swords, by all their scars, The owl and the raven are mute for By all their names, a mighty spell ! dread,
By all their wounds, by all their wars, And the time is meet to awakethedead! Arise, the mighty strain to tell ! “Souls of the mighty, wake and say,
For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain, To what high strain your harps
More impious than the heathen Dane, were strung,
Moregrasping than all-grasping Rome, When Lochlin plow'd her billowy way,
Gaul's ravening legions hither come!"
The wind is hush'd, and still the lakeAnd on your shores her Norsemen
Strange murmurs fill my tinkling ears, Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake, blood,
At the dread voice of other years, Skill'd to prepare the Raven's food,
“When targets clash'd, and bugles All, by your harpings, doom'd to die On bloody Largs and Loncarty.
And blades round warriors' heads were
flung, “Mute are ye all? Nomurmurs strange The foremost of the band were we, Upon the midnight breeze sail by ; ! And hymn'd the joys of Liberty !"
[1805.] In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.
I CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide;
And starting around me the echoes replied.
When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died.
Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,
Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay,
Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start ?
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart?
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall :
In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming ;
Lamenting a Chief of the people should fall.
To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.
In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.
THE DYING BARD.
Air-Daffydz Gangwen. The Welsh tradition bears, that a Bard, on his death-bed, demanded his harp, and played the air to which these verses are adapted ; requesting that it might be performed at his funeral.
DINAS EMLINN, lament; for the moment is nigh,
Then adieu, silver Teivi ! I quit thy loved scene,
THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE.
Air-The War-Song of the Men of Glamorgan. The Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, were usually unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occasionally, however, they were successful in repelling the invaders; and the following verses are supposed to celebrate a defeat of CLARE, Earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of NEVILLE, Baron of Chepstow, Lords-Marchers of Mon. mouthshire. Rymny is a stream which divides the counties of Monmouth and Glamorgan : Caerphili, the scene of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient castle.
Renglows the forge in Striguil's bounds,
And forth, in banded pomp and pride,
Show'd where hot Neville's charge had
That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian
THE MAID OF TORO.
And weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood,
Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to the flood.
Sweet Virgin ! who hearest the suppliant's cry,
My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die !"
With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail,
And the chase's wild clamour, came loading the gale.
Slowly approaching a warrior was seen ;
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his mien.
O, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low !
And fast through the woodland approaches the foe.”
And scarce could she hear them, benumb'd with despair :
For ever he set to the Brave and the Fair.
Keen blows the northern wind !
And the path is hard to find.
From chasing the King's deer, Though even an outlaw's wretched
state Might claim compassion here.
“A weary Palmer, worn and weak,
I wander for my sin;
A pilgrim's blessing win!
And reliques from o'er the sea, Or if for these you will not ope,
Yet open for charity.
The hart beside the hind ;
No shelter can I find.