Eneas, upon Thracia's shore, The ghost of murder'd Polydore ; At every turn, locutus Bos. As grave and duly speaks that ox, All nations have their omens drear, Their legends wild of woe and fear. To Cambria look-the peasant see, Bethink him of Glendowerdy, And shun "the spirit's Blasted Tree." Will, on a Friday morn, look pale, He fears the vengeful Elfin King, Who leaves that day his grassy ring: Invisible to human ken, He walks among the sons of men. Didst e'er, dear Heber, pass along Beneath the towers of Franchémont, Which, like an eagle's nest in air, Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair ?— Amass'd through rapine and through wrong By the last Lord of Franchémont. The iron chest is bolted hard, A Huntsman sits, its constant guard ; Around his neck his horn is hung, His hanger in his belt is slung; Before his feet his bloodhounds lie: As true a huntsman doth he look, As bugle e'er in brake did sound, Or ever hollow'd to a hound. To chase the fiend, and win the prize, In that same dungeon ever tries An aged Necromantic Priest; It is an hundred years at least, Since 'twixt them first the strife begun, And oft the Conjuror's words will make The stubborn Demon groan and quake; And oft the bands of iron break, Or bursts one lock, that still amain, That magic strife within the tomb May last until the day of doom, The very word that clench'd the spell, Such general superstition may Excuse for old Pitscottie say; Whose gossip history has given My song the messenger from Heaven, That warn'd, in Lithgow, Scotland's King, Nor less the infernal summoning; May pass the Monk of Durham's tale, Whose Demon fought in Gothic mail; May pardon plead for Fordun grave, But why such instances to you, Your treasured hoards of various lore. And furnish twenty thousand more? Hoards, not like their's whose volumes rest Thy volumes, open as thy heart, Yet who, of all who thus employ them, The day of Flodden field is come. Adieu, dear Heber! life and health, And store of literary wealth. |