The tuneful Nine (so sacred legends tell) First waked their heavenly lyre these scenes among; Still in your greenwood bowers they love to dwell; Still in your vales they swell the choral song! But there the tuneful, chaste, Pierian fair, The guardian nymphs of green Parnassus, now Sprung from Harmonia, while her graceful hair Waved in bright auburn o'er her polish'd brow! ANTISTROPHE I. Where silent vales, and glades of green array, The murmuring wreaths of cool Cephisus lave, There, as the muse hath sung, at noon of day, The Queen of Beauty bow'd to taste the wave; And blest the stream, and breathed across the land The soft sweet gale that fans yon summer bowers; And there the sister Loves, a smiling band, Crown'd with the fragrant wreaths of rosy flowers! "And go," she cries, "in yonder valleys rove, With Beauty's torch the solemn scenes illume; Wake in each eye the radiant light of Love, Breathe on each cheek young Passion's tender bloom! "Entwine, with myrtle chains, your soft control, To sway the hearts of Freedom's darling kind! With glowing charms enrapture Wisdom's soul, And mould to grace ethereal Virtue's mind." STROPHE II. The land where Heaven's own hallow'd waters play, Where friendship binds the generous and the good, Say, shall it hail thee from thy frantic way, Unholy woman! with thy hands imbrued In thine own children's gore? Oh! ere they bleed, Let Nature's voice thy ruthless heart appal! Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed The mother strikes-the guiltless babes shall fall! Think what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall sting. When dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear! Where shalt thou sink, when lingering echoes ring The screams of horror in thy tortured ear? No! let thy bosom melt to Pity's cry,— In dust we kneel-by sacred Heaven imploreO! stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die, Nor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore! ANTISTROPHE II. Say, how shalt thou that barbarous soul assume, Charm thee to pensive thought—and bid thee weep? When the young suppliants clasp their parent dear, Heave the deep sob, and pour the artless prayer,— Ay, thou shalt melt;-and many a heart-shed tear Gush o'er the harden'd features of despair! Nature shall throb in every tender string,- CHORUS. Hallow'd Earth! with indignation Watch the damned parricide! Shall thy hand, with murder gory, In the vales of placid gladness Let no rueful maniac range; Chase afar the fiend of Madness, Wrest the dagger from Revenge! Say, hast thou, with kind protection, Hast thou on the troubled ocean Braved the tempest loud and strong, Where the waves, in wild commotion, Roar Cyanean rocks among? Didst thou roam the paths of danger, Pledges of thy sacred love! Shall not Heaven, with indignation, Watch thee o'er the barbarous deed? Shalt thou cleanse, with expiation, Monstrous, murd'rous parricide? ODE TO WINTER. WHEN first the fiery-mantled Sun The young Spring smiled with angel grace; Rosy Summer next advancing, Rush'd into her sire's embrace: Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep On Calpe's olive-shaded steep, On India's citron-cover'd isles: More remote and buxom-brown The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne; But howling Winter fled afar, And loves on deer-borne car to ride, Howls his war-song to the gale; And trampling on her faded form :- The shaft that drives him to his polar field, O sire of storms! whose savage ear Spells to touch thy stony heart? Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear;- But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! Pour on yonder tented shores, Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, To many a deep and dying groan; Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas! But, Britain! now thy chief, thy people mourn, And loftiest principles of England's breast! At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. To paint-yet feel it, Britons, in your hearts! Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath May spare the victim fallen low; But man will ask no truce to death,- LINES Spoken by Mr. **** Princess Charlotte, 1817. BRITONS! although our task is but to show 1 This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities. LINES ON THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. By strangers left upon a lonely shore, For child to weep, or widow to deplore, There never came to his unburied head: Launch on that water by the witches' tow'r, They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate! Whose crime it was, on life's unfinish'd road And render back thy being's heavy load. In thy devoted bosom-and the hand That smote its kindred heart might yet be prone To deeds of mercy. Who may understand Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown?— He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone. REULLURA.' STAR of the morn and eve, Reullura shone like thee, And well for her might Aodh grieve, Peace to their shades! the pure Culdees By foot of Saxon monk was trode, In Iona preach'd the word with power, And Reullura, beauty's star, Was the partner of his bower. But, Aodh, the roof lies low, And the thistle-down waves bleaching, And the bat fits to and fro Where the Gael once heard thy preaching; And fallen is each column'd aisle Where the chiefs and the people knelt. The veil of fate uplifted. Her soul in that hour was gifted- Fame said it once had graced The Pictish men, by St. Columb taught, And cried, "It is he shall come, Even he, in this very place, "For, woe to the Gael people! Ulvfagre is on the main, And Iona shall look from tower and steeple 1 Reullura, in Gaelic, signifies "beautiful star." 2 The Culdees were the primitive clergy of Scotland, and apparently her only clergy from the sixth to the eleventh century. They were of Irish origin; and their monastery, on the island of Iona or Icolmki!l, was the seminary of Christianity in North Britain. Presbyterian writers have wished to prove them to have been a sort of Presbyters, strangers to the Roman Church and Episcopacy. It seems to be established that they were not enemies to Episcopacy; but that they were not slavishly subjected to Rome, like the clergy of later periods, appears by their resisting the Papal ordinances respecting the celibacy of religious men, on which account they were ultimately displaced by the Scottish sovereigns to make way for more Popish canons. And, dames and daughters, shall all your locks The waves from Innisfail. And swells to the southern gale." “Ah! knowest thou not, my bride," The holy Aodh said, "That the Saint whose form we stand beside Has for ages slept with the dead?” "He liveth, he liveth," she said again, "For the span of his life tenfold extends Beyond the wonted years of men. He sits by the graves of well-loved friends That died ere thy grandsire's grandsire's birth; The oak is decayed with old age on earth, Whose acorn-seed had been planted by him; And his parents remember the day of dread When the sun on the cross look'd dim, And the graves gave up their dead. "Yet, preaching from clime to clime, His martyrs shall go into bliss for ever. To preach in Innisfail." The sun, now about to set, Was burning o'er Tiriee, And no gathering cry rose yet O'er the isles of Albyn's sea. Whilst Reullura saw far rowers dip Their oars beneath the sun, And the phantom of many a Danish ship, Where ship there yet was none. And the shield of alarm was dumb, Nor did their warning till midnight come, When watch-fires burst from across From Rona and Uist and Skey, To tell that the ships of the Dane And the red-hair'd slayers were nigh. And where is Aodh's bride? Rocks of the ocean flood! Plunged she not from your heights in pride, In the temple lighted their banquet up, Was left on the altar-cup. "Twas then that the Norseman to Aodh said, "Tell where thy church's treasure's laid, "Or I'll hew thee limb from limb." As he spoke the bell struck three, And every torch grew dim That lighted their revelry. But the torches again burnt bright, When an aged man of majestic height They were struck as mute as the dead, And their hearts were appall'd by the very sound Of his footstep's measured tread, Nor word was spoken by one beholder, While he flung his white robe back on his shoulder, And stretching his arms-as eath Unriveted Aodh's bands, As if the gyves had been a wreath Of willows in his hands. All saw the stranger's similitude To the ancient statue's form; The Saint before his own image stood, And grasp'd Ulvfagre's arm. Then uprose the Danes at last to deliver Their chief, and shouting with one accord, They drew the shaft from its rattling quiver, They lifted the spear and sword, And levell'd their spears in rows. But down went axes and spears and bows, When the Saint with his crosier sign'd, The archer's hand on the string was stopt, And down, like reeds laid flat by the wind, Their lifted weapons dropt. The Saint then gave a signal mute, On Ulvfagre's helm it crash'd- "Go back, ye wolves, to your dens," he cried, "And tell the nations abroad, How the fiercest of your herd has died That slaughter'd the flock of God. And take with you o'er the flood A remnant was call'd together, A doleful remnant of the Gael, And the Saint in the ship that had brought him hither Took the mourners to Innisfail. Unscathed they left Iona's strand, When the opal morn first flush'd the sky, For the Norse dropt spear, and bow, and brand, And look'd on them silently; Save from their hiding-places came Orphans and mothers, child and dame: But alas! when the search for Reullura spread, No answering voice was given, For the sea had gone o'er her lovely head, THE TURKISH LADY. "T WAS the hour when rites unholy Call'd each Paynim voice to prayer, And the star that faded slowly Left to dews the freshen'd air. Day her sultry fires had wasted, Calm and sweet the moonlight rose : Ev'n a captive spirit tasted Half oblivion of his woes. Then 't was from an Emir's palace Saw and loved an English knight. "Tell me, captive, why in anguish Foes have dragg'd thee here to dwell, Where poor Christians as they languish Hear no sound of sabbath bell?" ""T was on Transylvania's Bannat, 161 "Say, fair princess! would it grieve thee "Fly we then, while none discover! Clasp'd his blooming Eastern Bride. And led each arm to act, each heart to feel All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried, By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar! From his bosom, that heaved, the last torrent was streaming, And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar! And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war! How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight! How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war! "Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night, To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar?" "Thou shalt live," she replied, "Heaven's mercy, relieving Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn." "Ah, no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving! No light of the morn shall to Henry return! Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true! His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, LINES INSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT LATELY FINISHED BY MR. CHANTREY, Which has been erected by the Widow of Admiral Sir G. To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart, He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band, THE BRAVE ROLAND.1 THE brave Roland!-the brave Roland!-- For the loss of thine own true knight. For her vow had scarce been sworn, Had he come but yester-even: Or meet him but in heaven. It was dear still 'midst his woes; There's yet one window of that pile, Which he built above the Nun's green isle; Thence sad and oft look'd he She died!-He sought the battle-plain! When he fell and wish'd to fall: I The tradition which forms the substance of these stanzas is still preserved in Germany. An ancient tower on a height, called the Rolandseck, a few miles above Bonn on the Rhin, is shown as the habitation which Roland built in sight of a nunnery, into which his mistress had retired, on having heard an unfounded account of his death. Whatever may be thought of the credibility of the legend, its scenery must be recollected with pleasure by every one who has visited the romantic landscape of the Drachenfells, the Rolandseck, and the beautiful adjacent islet of the Rhine, where a nunnery still stands. |