And ever swells again as fast, When the ear deems its murmur past; Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream. Weaving its maze irregular ; And pleased, we listen as the breeze Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees. Then wild as cloud, or stream, or gale, Flow on, flow unconfined, my tale..... Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell, I love the license all too well, In sound now lowly, and now strong, To raise the desultory song? Oft, when mid such capricious chime, Some transient fit of loftier rhyme, To thy kind judgment seemed excuse For many an error of the muse; Oft hast thou said, "If still mis-spent, Go, and to tame thy wandering course, Quaff from the fountain at the source; Immortal laurels ever bloom: Instructive of the feebler bard, Still from the grave their voice is heard ; From them, and from the paths they shew'd, Chuse honoured guide and practised road; Nor ramble on through brake and maze, With harpers rude of barbarous days. "Or deem'st thou not our later time Yields topic meet for classic rhyme? Hast thou no elegiac verse For Brunswick's venerable hearse? What! not a line, a tear, a sigh, When valour bleeds for liberty? Oh, hero of that glorious time, When, with unrivalled light sublime, Though martial Austria, and though all The might of Russia, and the Gaul, Thou could'st not live to see her beam For ever quenched in Jena's stream. Lamented chief!-it was not given, To thee to change the doom of heaven, To save in that presumptuous hour, When Prussia hurried to the field, And snatched the spear, but left the shield; Valour and skill 'twas thine to try, And, tried in vain, 'twas thine to die. Ill had it seemed thy silver hair The last, the bitterest pang to share, For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven, And birthrights to usurpers given; Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to feel, On thee relenting heaven bestows For honoured life an honoured close; And when revolves, in time's sure change, The hour of Germany's revenge, When, breathing fury for her sake, Some new Arminius shall awake, Her champion, ere he strike, shall come To whet his sword on BRUNSWICK's tomb. "Or of the Red-Cross hero teach, Dauntless in dungeon as on breach: Alike to him the sea, the shore, The brand, the bridle, or the oar; Alike to him the war that calls It's votaries to the shattered walls, Which the grim Turk besmeared with blood, Against the Invincible made good; Or that, whose thundering voice could wake The silence of the polar lake, When stubborn Russ, and metal'd Swede, On the warped wave their death-game played; Or that, where vengeance and affright Howl'd round the father of the fight, The conqueror's wreath with dying hand. "Or, if to touch such chord be thine, Restore the ancient tragic line, And emulate the notes that rung From the wild harp which silent hung, By silver Avon's holy shore, Till twice an hundred years rolled o'er; From the pale willow snatched the treasure, And swept it with a kindred measure, Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, Awakening at the inspired strain, Deemed their own Shakespeare lived again." |