"When stubborn Russ, and metal'd Swede, "On the warp'd wave their death-game play'd; "Or that, where Vengeance and Affright "Howl'd round the father of the fight, "Who snatch'd, on Alexandria's sand, "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 roll'd o'er; "When she, the bold Enchantress, came, "With fearless hand and heart on flame! "From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure, "And swept it with a kindred measure, "Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove "With Monfort's hate and Basil's love, 66 Awakening at the inspired strain, "Deem'd their own Shakespeare lived again." Thy friendship thus thy judgment wronging, With praises not to me belonging, In task more meet for mightiest powers, Whether an impulse, that has birth Of habit, form'd in early day? Beneath Batavia's sultry sky, He seeks not eager to inhale The freshness of the mountain gale, Content to rear his whiten'd wall Beside the dank and dull canal? He'll say, from youth he loved to see Whose sluggish herds before him wind, His northern clime and kindred speak; At ease in these gay plains to dwell, Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen, And spires and forests intervene, And the neat cottage peeps between ? No! not for these will he exchange His dark Lochaber's boundless range; Nor for fair Devon's meads forsake Bennevis grey, and Garry's lake. Thus, while I ape the measure wild Of tales that charm'd me yet a child, Rude though they be, still with the chime And feelings, roused in life's first day, Then rise those crags, that mountain tower, To claim, perchance, heroic song; Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed, By the green hill and clear blue heaven. It was a barren scene, and wild, Where naked cliffs were rudely piled; But ever and anon between Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; And honey-suckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruin'd wall. I deem'd such nooks the sweetest shade And still I thought that shatter'd tower The mightiest work of human power; And marvell'd as the aged hind With some strange tale bewitch'd my mind, Of forayers, who, with headlong force, Down from that strength had spurr'd their horse, Their southern rapine to renew, Far in the distant Cheviots blue, And, home returning, fill'd the hall With revel, wassell-route, and brawl. |