Miscellaneous Poems. IN THE ORDER OF THEIR COMPOSITION OR PUBLICATION. The Violet. [1797-] THE violet in her greenwood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower In glen or copse or forest dingle. Though fair her gems of azure hue, Beneath the dewdrop's weight reclining, I've seen an eye of lovelier blue, More sweet through watery lustre shining. The summer sun that dew shall dry To a Lady. WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL. [1797.] TAKE these flowers which, purple waving, Where, the sons of freedom braving, Warriors from the breach of danger The Bard's Encantation. WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804. THE forest of Glenmore is drear, It is all of black pine and the dark oaktree; And the midnight wind to the mountain deer Is whistling the forest lullaby: The moon looks through the drifting storm. But the troubled lake reflects not her form. For the waves roll whitening to the land, And dash against the shelvy strand. There is a voice among the trees That mingles with the groaning oak - There is a voice within the wood, 'Wake ye from your sleep of death, Minstrels and bards of other days! For the midnight wind is on the heath, And the midnight meteors dimly blaze: The Spectre with his Bloody Hand Is wandering through the wild woodland; The owl and the raven are mute for dread, And the time is meet to awake the dead! 'Souls of the mighty, wake and say To what high strain your harps were strung, When Lochlin ploughed her billowy way And on your shores her Norsemen flung? Her Norsemen trained to spoil and blood, 'Mute are ye all? No murmurs strange Mimic the harp's wild harmony! Mute are ye now? - Ye ne'er were mute When Murder with his bloody foot, And Rapine with his iron hand, Were hovering near yon mountain strand. 494 AIR The Dying Bard. AIR The Norman Horse-Shoe. [1806.] -"The War-Song of the Men of Glamorgan.” RED glows the forge in Striguil's bounds, Barb many a steed for battle's broil. From Chepstow's towers ere dawn of morn And forth in banded pomp and pride In crimson light on Rymny's stream; And sooth they swore the sun arose, And Rymny's wave with crimson glows; For Clare's red banner, floating wide, Rolled down the stream to Severn's tide! And sooth they vowed-the trampled green Showed where hot Neville's charge had been: In every sable hoof-tramp stood A Norman horseman's curdling blood! Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil The Maid of Toro. O, LOW shone the sun on the fair lake of And weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood, All as a fair maiden, bewildered in sorrow, Sorely sighed to the breezes and wept to the flood. 'O saints, from the mansions of bliss lowly bending! |