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;


[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.


[ocr errors]




The moon 'looks through the drifting It is all of black pine and the dark

storm, oak-tree;

But the troubled lake reflects not her And the midnight wind, to the mountain

form, deer,

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;
All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,

And starting around me the echoes replied.
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,
And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,

When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

flung ?



Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,

Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd to weather, .

Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defended,

And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?

When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start ?
How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
And, oh! was it meet, that—no requiem read o'er him
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him-

Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart?
When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded,

The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

And pages stand mute by the canopied pall :
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming ;

In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming ;
Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,

Lamenting a Chief of the people should fall.
But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,
When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in stature,

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.
And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying

In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.



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,
When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die :
No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall rave,
And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing wave.

II. '
In spring and in autumn thy glories of shade
Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd shall fade;
For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue,
That view'd them with rapture, with rapture that sung.

Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride,
And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's side;
But where is the harp shall give life to their name?
And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame?

And oh, Dinas Emlinn ! thy daughters so fair,
Who heave the white bosom, and wave the dark hair;
What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their eye,
When half of their charms with Cadwallon shall die?

Then adieu, silver Teivi ! I quit thy loved scene,
To join the dim choir of the bards who have been;
With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin the Old,
And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold.

And adieu, Dinas Emlinn! still green be thy shades,
Unconquer'd thy warriors, and matchless thy maids !
And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell,
Farewell, my loved Harp! my last treasure, farewell !



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 hammers din, and anvil sounds,
And armourers, with iron toil,
Barb many a steed for battle's broil.
Foul fall the hand which bends the steel
Around the courser's thundering heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground !

From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of

Was heard afar the bugle-horn;

And forth, in banded pomp and pride,
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride.
They swore, their banners broad should

In crimson light, on Rymny's stream ;
They vow'd, Caerphili's sod should feel
The Norman charger's spurning heel.

And sooth they swore—the sun arose,
And Rymny's wave with crimson glows;
For Clare's red banner, floating wide,
Roll'd down the stream to Severn's tide!
And sooth they vow'd—the trampled


Show'd where hot Neville's charge had

been :
In every sable hoof-tramp stood
A Norman horseman's curdling blood !

Old Chepstow's brides may curse the


That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian

broil ;
Their orphans long the art may rue,
For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe.
No more the stamp of armed steed
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead;
Nor trace be there, in early spring,
Save of the Fairies' emerald ring.


O, Low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro,

And weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood,
All as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow,

Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to the flood.
O, saints ! from the mansions of bliss lowly bending;

Sweet Virgin ! who hearest the suppliant's cry,
Now grant my petition, in anguish ascending,

My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die !"
All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle,

With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail,
Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dread rattle,

And the chase's wild clamour, came loading the gale.
Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary ;

Slowly approaching a warrior was seen ;
Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so weary,

Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his mien.
“O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying !

O, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low !
Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave Henry is lying,

And fast through the woodland approaches the foe.”
Scarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow,

And scarce could she hear them, benumb'd with despair :
And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro,

For ever he set to the Brave and the Fair.


O, OPEN the door, some pity to show,

Keen blows the northern wind !
The glen is white with the drifted snow,

And the path is hard to find.
“No outlaw seeks your castle gate, .

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;
O, open, for Our Lady's sake!

A pilgrim's blessing win!
“I'll give you pardons from the Pope,

And reliques from o'er the sea, Or if for these you will not ope,

Yet open for charity.
“The hare is crouching in her form,

The hart beside the hind ;
An aged man, amid the storm,

No shelter can I find.

« 前へ次へ »