Mark the year, and mark the night,

When Severn shall re-echo with affright

The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing King!

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She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs

That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate,

From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs

The Scourge of Heaven. What Terrors round him wait!
Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,

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And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

II. 2

Mighty victor, mighty lord!

Low on his funeral couch he lies!

No pitying heart, no eye, afford

A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the sable warrior fled?

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.

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The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising morn.

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Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm

In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;

Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

II. 3

Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare;

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast.

Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.

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Heard ye the din of battle bray,

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destined course,
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,
And spare the meek usurper's holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,

Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread:
The bristled boar in infant gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

III. I

'Edward, lo! to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun) Half of thy heart we consecrate.

(The web is wove. The work is done.) — Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn!

In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?
Visions of glory spare my aching sight,

Ye unborn ages crowd not on my soul!

No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.

All-hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail!

III. 2

'Girt with many a baron bold

Sublime their starry fronts they rear;

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty appear.

In the midst a form divine!

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line;
Her lion port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin grace.
What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play!
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-color'd wings.

'The verse adorn again

III. 3

Fierce War and faithful Love,

And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.

In buskin'd measures move

Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,

A Voice, as of the cherub-choir,

Gales from blooming Eden bear;

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With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

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And distant warblings lessen on my ear,

That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud,

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Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?

To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.

Enough for me: With joy I see

The different doom our fates assign.

Be thine Despair, and scept'red Care,
To triumph, and to die, are mine.'-

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.

ENG. POEMS- 9

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WILLIAM COLLINS

1721-1759

A SONG FROM SHAKESPEARE'S CYMBELINE

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each op'ning sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;

But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.

No withered witch shall here be seen;

No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov'd till life could charm no more,

And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

ΙΟ

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5

ODE TO EVENING

IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,

May hope, chaste eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales,

O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove, .
O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat
With short, shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing;
Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid composed,

To breathe some softened strain,

Whose numbers, stealing thro' thy darkening vale,
May, not unseemly, with its stillness suit,

As, musing slow, I hail

Thy genial loved return!

For when thy folding-star arising shows

His paly circlet, as his warning lamp

The fragrant hours, and elves

Who slept in flowers the day,

ΙΟ

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And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,

The pensive pleasures sweet

Prepare thy shadowy car.

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