Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high, As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky, While fiery hosts in Heav'n's wide circle play, And bathe in livid light the milky way, Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower, Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hour- With pathos shall command, with wit beguile, A generous tear of anguish, or a smile- Thy woes, Arion! and thy simple tale, O'er all the heart shall triumph and prevail ! Charm'd as they read the verse too sadly true, How gallant Albert, and his weary crew, Heav'd all their guns, their foundering bark to save, And toil'd-and shriek'd-and perish'd on the wave!
Yes, at the dead of night, by Lonna's steep, The seaman's cry was heard along the deep; There, on his funeral waters, dark and wild, The dying father blest his darling child! Oh! Mercy, shield her innocence, he cried, Spent on the pray'r his bursting heart, and died!
Or will they learn how generous worth sublimes The robber Moor, and pleads for all his crimes ? How poor Amelia kiss'd, with many a tear, His hand blood-stain'd, but ever, ever dear! Hung on the tortur'd bosom of her lord, And wept, and pray'd perdition from his sword! Nor sought in vain! at that heart-piercing cry The strings of nature crack'd with agony! He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurl'd, And burst the ties that bound him to the world!
Turn from his dying words, that smite with steel, The shuddering thoughts, or wind them on the wheel- Turn to the gentler melodies that suit Thalia's harp, or Pan's Arcadian lute; Or, down the stream of Truth's historic page, From clime to clime descend, from age to age!
Yet there, perhaps, may darker scenes obtrude, Than Fancy fashions in her wildest mood; There shall he pause, with horrent brow, to rate What millions died-that Cæsar might be great! Or learn the fate that bleeding thousands bore, March'd by their Charles to Dneiper's swampy shore;
Faint in his wounds, and shivering in the blast, The Swedish soldier sunk-and groan'd his last! File after file, the stormy showers benumb, Freeze every standard-sheet, and hush the drum! Horsemen and horse confess'd the bitter pang, And arms and warriors fell with hollow clang! Yet, ere he sunk in Nature's last repose, Ere life's warm torrent to the fountain froze, The dying man to Sweden turn'd his eye, Thought of his home, and clos'd it with a sigh! Imperial pride look'd sullen on his plight,
And Charles beheld-nor shudder'd at the sight!
Speech of the Host's Son in HERMAN and DOROTHEA. From the German. (Original.)
Replied the noble youth, collected firm In virtue's dignity-
"That man indeed
"Were base and heartless, whose obdurate breast "Were steel'd against his fellow-creatures' wrongs, "In these tempestuous times. -Senseless the wretch "That for the welfare of his father's land
"Feels not, his anxious passions watch alarm'd- "For me the actings and the sight to-day
"But woe to fruitful fields and peaceful plains, "The spoiler is at hand - True, the broad Rhine "Protects us with his flood-but what are floods, "Or mountains, to the dreadful enemy- "Whose coming is a whirlwind "The people rise-to battle thousands rush "On thousands to resist th' invading foe, "Reckless of death and danger-fits it now "A German quietly to rest at home, "Or hope the general danger to escape ?- "Believe me, mother, I am griev'd to find, "In the last levy of our gallant townsmen,
My name exempt-true I'm your only son; "The custom of our house is flourishing,
Shall we too bend the stubborn head, In Freedom's temple born, Dress our pale check in timid smile, To hail a master in our isle,
Or brook a victor's scorn?
No! though destruction o'er the land Come pouring as a flood, The sun, that sees our falling day, Shall mark our sabre's deadly sway, And set that night in blood.
For gold let Gallia's legions fight, Or plunder's bloody gain; Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, To guard our king, the fence our law, Nor shall their edge be vain.
If ever breath of British gale Shall fan the tri-colour, Or footstep of invader rude, With rapine foul, and red with blood, Pollute our happy shore,-
Then farewell home! and farewell friends! Adieu each tender tie !
Resolved we mingle in the tide, Where charging squadrons furious ride, To conquer, or to die.
To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; High sounds our bugle call; Combined by honour's sacred tie, Our word is laws and liberty! March forward, one and all!
By J. LEYDEN. Dedicated to the Right Honourable Lady CHARLOTTE CAMPBELL.
O brighter charms depart my simple lay, Than graced of old the maid of Colonsay, When her fond lover, lessening from her view, With eyes reverted, o'er the surge withdrew!
But happier still should lovely Campbell sing Thy plaintive numbers to the trembling string. The Mermaids melting strains would yield to thee, Though poured diffusive o'er the silver sea; Go boldly forth-but ah! the listening throng, Rapt by the Siren, would forget the song! Lo! where they pause, nor dare to gaze around, Afraid to break the soft enchanting sound, While swells to sympathy each fluttering heart, Tis not the poet's, but the Syren's art, Go forth, devoid of fear, my simple lay! First heard returning from Iona's bay, When round our bark the shades of evening drew, And broken slumbers prest our weary crew; While round the prow the sea-fire flashing bright, Shed a strange lustre o'er the waste of night; While harsh and dismal screamed the diving gull, Round the dark rocks that wall the coast of Mull; As through black reefs we held our venturous way, I caught the wild traditionary lay. A wreath, no more in black Iona's isle
To bloom-but graced, by high-born beauty's smile.
ON Jura's heath, how sweetly swell The murmurs of the mountain bee, How softly mourns the writhed shell Of Jura's shore, its parent sea!
But softer floating o'er the deep, The Mermaid's sweet sea-soothing lay, That charm'd the dancing waves to sleep, Before the bark of Colonsay.
Aloft the purple pennons wave, As parting gay from Crinan's shore, From Morven's wars the seamen brave Their gallant chieftain homeward bore.
In youth's gay bloom, the brave Macphail Still blamed the lingering bark's delay; For her he chid the flagging sail,
The lovely maid of Colonsay.
"And raise," he cried, " the song of love;" The maiden sung with tearful smile, When first o'er Jura's hills to rove, We left afar the lonely isle!
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