Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries—
No more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,
I see them sit; they linger yet,

Avengers of their native land:

With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

II. I.

'Weave the warp and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race:

Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace.

Mark the year, and mark the night,

When Severn shall re-echo with affright

The shrieks of death through Berkley's roofs that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing king!

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, 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.

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

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, hushed 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.

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 murther fed,
Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame,
And spare the meek Usurper's holy head!
Above, below, the rose of snow,

Twined 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 unblessed, 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 glittering 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,
Attempered 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 Heaven her many-colored wings.

III. 3.

"The verse adorn again

Fierce War and faithful Love

And Truth severe-by fairy Fiction drest.

In buskined measures move

Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,

With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

A voice, as of the Cherub-Choir,

Gales from blooming Eden bear;

And distant warblings lessen on my ear,

That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day?

To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nation with redoubled ray.

Enough for me: with joy I see

The different doom our fates assign :

Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care;

To triumph and to die are mine."

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

THOMAS GRAY.

Ode.

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

Y

Ανθρωπος ἱκανὴ πρόφασις εἰς τὸ δυστυχεῖν.

Menander.

E distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade,

Where grateful Science still adores

*

Her Henry's holy shade;

And ye, that from the stately brow

Of Windsor's heights the expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way.

Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade,

Ah, fields beloved in vain,

Where once my careless childhood strayed,

A stranger yet to pain !

I feel the gales, that from ye blow,

A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing,

My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

* King Henry the Sixth, founder of the college.

Say, father Thames,-for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace,—
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthral ?
What idle progeny succeed

To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball ?

While some on earnest business bent
Their murmuring labors ply

'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty:

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry:

Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed,
Less pleasing, when possessed ;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast;
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue;
Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer of vigor born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly the approach of morn.

Alas, regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!

No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day.