When Maia's genial breezes blow; With richer dyes, and warmer glow, When June appears; fleets every cloud away, And all creation heals the animating ray.
Then from Ambition's iron reign, The embattled wall, the ensanguin'd plain, The inmates of this favour'd Isle Look fondly with expectant smile, To that bless'd hour when Britons sing The birth auspicious of a Parent King; And as the clouds of Winter fly When June illumes the genial sky, So may the threat'ning storm that lowers O'er wide Europa's trembling powers, Like wintry clouds dispersing fade away Before the radiant beams that gild this happy day,
When the proud Persian vainly tried In impotence of rage to chain the tide, Old Ocean mock'd the impious boast, And Grecia triumph'd o'er his naval host. Such Gallia's vaunt, and such the fate That on stich empty vaunt shall wait. For while she threats in angry mood From every shore our commerce to exclude, Britannia's arms beyond the Atlantic main Explore new regions of her golden reign.
And while each Isle that studs the Western wave, Yields to her daring prows and warriors brave,
Her barks commercial crowd the azure deep,
Her fleets each hostile sail from Ocean's bosom sweep.
INVOCATION TO THE MINSTREL HARP.
[From Mr. W. SCOTT'S LADY OF THE LAKE.]
ARP of the North! that mouldering long has hung On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's spring, And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung, Till envious ivy did around thee cling, Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,- O minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep? Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring,
Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep?
Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon,
Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, When lay of hopeless love, or glory won, Aroused the fearful, or subdued the proud. At each according pause, was heard aloud Thine ardent symphony sublime and high! Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bow'd; For still the burthen of thy minstrelsy
Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and Beauty's matchless eye.
O wake once more! how rude soe'er the hand That ventures o'er thy magic maze to stray;
O wake once more! though scarce my skill command Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay: Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away, And all unworthy of thy nobler strain,
Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway,
The wizard note has not been touched in vain. Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!
ROM the steep promontory gazed The Stranger, raptured and amazed.
And, "What a scene were here," he cried, "For princely pomp or churchman's pride! On this bold brow, a lordly tower;
In that soft vale, a lady's bower; On yonder meadow, far away,
The turrets of a cloister grey.
How blithely might the bugle horn
Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn!
How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute
Chime, when the groves were still and mute!
And, when the midnight moon should lave
Her forehead in the silver wave,
How solemn on the ear would come The holy matin's distant hum,
While the deep peal's commanding tone Should wake, in yonder islet lone, A sainted hermit from his cell, To drop a bead with every knell- And bugle, lute, and bell, and all, Should each bewildered stranger call To friendly feast, and lighted hall.
"Blithe were it then to wander here! But now,-beshrew yon nimble deer,-- Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, The copse must give my evening fare; Some mossy bank my couch must be, Some rustling oak my canopy.
Yet pass we that;-the war and chase Give little choice of resting-place — A summer night, in green-wood spent, Were but to morrow's merriment; But hosts may in these wilds abound, Such as are better missed than found; To meet with highland plunderers here Were worse than loss of steed or deer.- I am alone; my bugle strain
May call some straggler of the train; Or, fall the worst that may betide, Ere now this faulchion has been tried.".
But scarce again his horn he wound, When lo! forth starting at the sound, From underneath an aged oak, That slanted from the islet rock, A Damsel guider of its way, A little skiff shot to the bay, That round the promontory steep Led its deep line in graceful sweep, Eddying, in almost viewless wave, The weeping willow twig to lave, And kiss, with whispering sound and slow, The beach of pebbles bright as snow. The boat had touch'd this silver strand,
Just as the Hunter left his stand, And stood concealed amid the brake, To view this Lady of the Lake. The maiden paused, as if again She thought to catch the distant strain, With head up-raised, and look intent, And eye and ear attentive bent, And locks flung back, and lips apart, Like monument of Grecian art, In listening mood, she seemed to stand The guardian Naïad of the strand.
dn e'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naïad, or a Grace, Of finer form, or lovelier face!
What though the sun, with ardent frown,
Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown,- The sportive toil, which, short and light, Had died her glowing hue so bright,
Served too in hastier swell to show Short glimpses of a breast of snow; What though no rule of courtly grace To measured mood had trained her pace,- A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew; E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread:
What though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue,- Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The listener held his breath to hear.
A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid; Her satin snood, her silken plaid,' Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd. And seldom was a snood amid Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, Whose glossy black to shame might bring The plumage of the raven's wing; And seldom o'er a breast so fair, Mantled a plaid with modest care, And never brooch the folds combined Above a heart more good and kind. Her kindness and her worth to spy, You need but gaze on Ellen's eye; Not Katrine, in her mirror blue, Gives back the shaggy banks more true, Than every free-born glance confessed The guileless movements of her breast; Whether joy danced in her dark eye, Or woe or pity claimed a sigh, Or filial love was glowing there, Or meek devotion poured a prayer, Or tale of injury called forth The indignant spirit of the north. One only passion, unrevealed,
With maiden pride the maid concealed, Yet not less purely felt the flame; O need I tell that passion's name!
MEETING OF DOUGLAS AND HIS DAUGHTER.
TPON a rock with lichens wild,
Beside him Elen sate and smiled. Smiled she to see the stately drake Lead forth his fleet upon the lake, While her vexed spaniel, from the beach, Bayed at the prize beyond his reach? Yet tell me then the maid who knows, Why deepened on her cheek the rose?-- Forgive, forgive, Fidelity!
Perchance the maiden smiled to see Yon parting lingerer wave adieu, And stop and turn to wave anew; And, lovely ladies, ere your ire Condemn the heroine of my lyre, Shew me the fair would scorn to spy, And prize such conquest of her eye!
IME rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore Who danced our infamy upon their knee, And told our marvelling boy-hood legends store, Of their strange ventures happ'd by land or sea, How are they blotted from the things that be!
How few, all weak and wither'd of their force, Wait, on the verge of dark eternity,
Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning hoarse, To sweep them from our sight! Time rolls his ceaseless course.
Yet live there still who can remember well,
How, when a mountain chief his bugle blew, Both field and forest, dingle, cliff, and dell, And solitary heath, the signal knew;
And fast the faithful clan around him drew,
What time the warning note was keenly wound, What time aloft their kindred banner flew,
While clamorous war-pipes yelled the gathering sound,
And while the Fiery Cross glanced, like a meteor, round.
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