Is the sable warrior fled?

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.

The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising morn.

Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm

In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

II. 3.

"Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare;

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:

Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.

Heard ye the din of battle bray,

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head!

Above, below, the rose of snow,

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread;

The bristled boar in infant-gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

66

III. 1.

Edward, lo! to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)

Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done.)

Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:

In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!" No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.

All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!

III. 2.

"Girt with many a baron bold,

Sublime their starry fronts they rear;

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty appear.

In the midst a form divine!

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line;
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play!
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear!

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.

Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour'd wings.

"The verse adorn again

III. 3.

Fierce War, and faithful Love,

And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.

In buskin'd measures move

Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,

With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

A voice, as of the cherub-choir,

Gales from blooming Eden bear;

And distant warblings lessen on my ear,

That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,

Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?

To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: with joy I see

The different doom our fates assign. Be thine despair, and sceptred care;

To triumph, and to die, are mine."

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

ODE VII.

FOR MUSIC.

Irregular.

I.

"Hence, avaunt, ('tis holy ground,)
Comus, and his midnight-crew,
And Ignorance with looks profound,
And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue,
Mad Sedition's cry profane,

Servitude that hugs her chain,

Nor in these consecrated bowers,

Let painted Flattery hide her serpent-train in flowers.

Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain,

Dare the Muse's walk to stain,

While bright-eyed Science watches round:
Hence, away, 'tis holy ground!"

II.

From yonder realms of empyrean day
Bursts on my ear the indignant lay :
There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine,
The few, whom genius gave to shine
Through every unborn age, and undiscover'd clie.
Rapt in celestial transport they;

Yet thither oft a glance from high

They send of tender sympathy

To bless the place, where on their opening soul
First the genuine ardour stole.

'Twas Milton struck the deep-toned shell,

And, as the choral warblings round him swell, Meek Newton's self bends from his state sublime, And nods his hoary head, and listens to the rhyme.

III.

"Ye brown o'er-arching groves,

That Contemplation loves,

Where willowy Camus lingers with delight!

Oft at the blush of dawn

I trod your level lawn,

Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia silver bright