WHO shall awake the Spartan fife, And call in solemn sounds to life The youths, whose locks divinely spreading, Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue, At once the breath of Fear and Virtue shedding, Applauding Freedom loved of old to view? What new Alcæus ', fancy-bless'd,
Shall sing the sword, in myrtles dress'd,
At Wisdom's shrine a while its flame concealing, (What place so fit to seal a deed renown'd?) Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing, It leap'd in glory forth, and dealt her prompted O goddess, in that feeling hour, [wound! When most its sounds would court thy ears, Let not my shell's misguided power
E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears.
No, Freedom, no; I will not tell
How Rome, before thy weeping face,
With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell,
Push'd by a wild and artless race
From off its wide ambitious base,
When Time his northern sons of spoil awoke,
And all the blended work of strength and grace,
With many a rude repeated stroke,
And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments
Yet, e'en where'er the least appear'd,
The' admiring world thy hand revered ;
Alluding to a beautiful fragment of Alcæus.
Still midst the scatter'd states around,
Some remnants of her strength were found;
They saw, by what escaped the storm,
How wondrous rose her perfect form;
How in the great, the labour'd whole,
Each mighty master pour'd his soul!
For sunny Florence, seat of art,
Beneath her vines preserved a part,
Till they, whom Science loved to name,
(O who could fear it?) quench'd her flame.
And lo, an humbler relic laid
In jealous Pisa's olive shade!
See small Marino 3 joins the theme,
Though least, not last in thy esteem:
Strike, louder strike the' ennobling strings
To those, whose merchant sons were kings;
To him, who deck'd with pearly pride,
In Adria weds his green-hair'd bride;
Hail! port of glory, wealth, and pleasure,
Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure;
Nor e'er her former pride relate,
To sad Liguria's bleeding state.
Ah, no! more pleased thy haunts I seek,
On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak:
(Where, when the favour'd of thy choice,
The daring archer heard thy voice;
Forth from his eyry roused in dread,
The ravening eagle northward fled.)
Or dwell in willow'd meads more near,
2 The family of the Medici.
3 The little republic of San Marino. 5 The Doge of Venice.
With those to whom thy stork is dear:
Those whom the rod of Alva bruised,
Whose crown a British queen refused?
The magic works, thou feel'st the strains,
One holier name alone remains ;
The perfect spell shall then avail,
Hail nymph, adored by Britain, hail!
Beyond the measure vast of thought,
The works, the wizard Time has wrought!
The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story,
Saw Britain link'd to his now adverse strand 1o,
No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary,
He pass'd with unwet feet through all our land.
To the blown Baltic then, they say,
The wild waves found another way, [ing:
Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains round-
Till all the banded west at once 'gan rise,
A wide wild storm e'en Nature's self confounding,
Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth
This pillar'd earth so firm and wide, [surprise.
By winds and inward labours torn,
In thunders dread was push'd aside,
And down the shouldering billows borne.
8 The Dutch, amongst whom there are very severe penalties for those who are convicted of killing this bird. They are kept tame in almost all their towns, and particularly at the Hague, of the arms of which they make a part. The common people of Holland are said to entertain a superstitious sentiment, that if the whole species of them should become extinct, they should lose their liberties.
10 This tradition is mentioned by several of our old historians. Some naturalists too have endeavoured to support the probability of the fact by arguments drawn from the correspondent disposition of the opposite coasts.
And see, like gems, her laughing train,
The little isles on ev'ry side,
Mona ", once hid from those who search the main,
Where thousand elfin shapes abide,
And Wight who checks the westering tide,
For thee consenting Heaven has each bestow'd,
A fair attendant on her sovereign pride:
To thee this bless'd divorce she owed,
For thou hast made her vales thy loved, thy last abode!
Then too, 'tis said an hoary pile,
Midst the green navel of our isle,
Thy shrine in some religious wood,
O soul-enforcing goddess, stood!
There oft the painted native's feet
Were wont thy form celestial meet:
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-tressed Dane,
Or Roman's self o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what Heaven-left age it fell,
"Twere hard for modern song to tell.
Yet still, if Truth those beams infuse
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse,
"There is a tradition in the Isle of Man, that a mermaid becoming enamoured of a young man of extraordinary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walked on the shore, and opened her passion to him, but was received with a coldness, occasioned by his horror and surprise at her appearance. This, however, was so misconstrued by the sea lady, that in revenge for his treatment of her, she punished the whole island, by covering it with a mist; so that all who attempted to carry on any commerce with it, either never arrived at it, but wandered up and down the sea, or were on a sudden wrecked upon its cliffs.
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light-embroider'd sky,
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model still remains.
There, happier than in islands bless'd,
Or bowers by Spring or Hebe dress'd,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retired in glory,
Hear their consorted Druids sing
Their triumphs to the' immortal string.
How may the Poet now unfold
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn delighted, and amazed,
What hands unknown that fabric raised?
E'en now before his favour'd eyes,
In Gothic pride, it seems to rise!
Yet Græcia's graceful orders join,
Majestic through the mix'd design;
The secret builder knew to choose
Each sphere-found gem of richest hues :
Whate'er Heaven's purer mould contains,
When nearer suns emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the patriot's sight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, graved with some prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame through every age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureat band,
That near her inmost altar stand!
Now sooth her, to her blissful train
Blithe Concord's social form to gain:
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep
E'en Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep:
Before whose breathing bosom's balm
Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm;
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