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On him, enraged, the fiend, in angry mood,

Shall never look with Pity's kind concern, But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood

O'er its drowned bank, forbidding all return. Or, if he meditate his wished escape.

To some dim hill that seems uprising near, To his faint eye the grim and grisly shape,

In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear. Meantime, the watery surge shall round him rise,

Poured sudden forth from every swelling source. What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs ?

His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force, And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse.

VIII

For him, in vain, his anxious wife shall wait,

Or wander forth to meet him on his way;

For him, in vain, at to-fall of the day, His babes shall linger at th' unclosing gate. Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night

Her travelled limbs in broken slumbers steep, With dropping willows dressed, his mournful sprite

Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep: Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand,

Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek, And with his blue-swoln face before her stand,

And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak: 'Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils pursue

At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; Nor e'er of me one hapless thought renew,

While I lie weltering on the oziered shore, Drowned by the kelpie's wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more!

LX

Unbounded is thy range; with varied style

Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring

From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle To that hoar pile which still its ruin shows:

In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found, Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows,

And culls them, wondering, from the hallowed ground! Or thither, where, beneath the showery West,

The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid: Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest;

No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: Yet frequent now, at midnight's solemn hour,

The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power,

In pageant robes, and wreathed with sheeny gold, And on their twilight tombs aërial council hold.

X

But oh, o'er all, forget not Kilda's race,

On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides,

Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides. Go, just as they, their blameless manners trace! Then to my ear transmit some gentle song

Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along,

And all their prospect but the wintry main. With sparing temperance, at the needful time,

They drain the sainted spring, or, hunger-pressed, Along th' Atlantic rock undreading climb,

And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest. Thus blest in primal innocence they live,

Sufficed and happy with that frugal fare Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give.

Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare; Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

XI

Nor need'st thou blush, that such false themes engage

Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possessed;

For not alone they touch the village breast, But filled in elder time th' historic page. There Shakespeare's self, with every garland crowned,

[Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen!]— In musing hour, his wayward Sisters found,

And with their terrors dressed the magic scene. From them he sung, when, ’mid his bold design,

Before the Scot afflicted and aghast, The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line

Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant passed.

Proceed, nor quit the tales which, simply told,

Could once so well my answering bosom pierce;
Proceed! in forceful sounds and colours bold,

The native legends of thy land rehearse;
To such adapt thy lyre and suit thy powerful verse.

XII

In scenes like these, which, daring to depart

From sober truth, are still to nature true,

And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view,
Th’ heroic muse employed her Tasso's art!
How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke,

Its gushing blood the gaping cypress poured;
When each live plant with mortal accents spoke,

And the wild blast upheaved the vanished sword! How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind,

To hear his harp, by British Fairfax strung,Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind

Believed the magic wonders which he sung! Hence at each sound imagination glows;

[The MS. lacks a line here.] Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows;

Melting it flows, pure, numerous, strong, and clear, And fills th' impassioned heart, and wins th' harmonious

ear.

XIII

All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail,

Ye [splendid] friths and lakes which, far away,

Are by smooth Annan fill’d, or pastoral Tay,
Or Don's romantic springs; at distance, hail!
The time shall come when I, perhaps, may tread

Your lowly glens, o'erhung with spreading broom,
Or o'er your stretching heaths by fancy led
[Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom:]
Then will I dress once more the faded bower.

Where Jonson sat in Drummond's [classic] shade,
Or crop from Teviot's dale each [lyric flower]

And mourn on Yarrow's banks (where Willy's laid !]

Meantime, ye Powers that on the plains which bore

The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains, attend, Where'er he dwell, on hill or lowly muir,

To him I lose your kind protection lend, And, touched with love like mine, preserve my absent

friend!

THOMAS WARTON

FROM THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY

Beneath yon ruined abbey's moss-grown piles
Oft let me sit, at twilight hour of eve,
Where through some western window the pale moon
Pours her long-levelled rule of streaming light,
While sullen, sacred silence reigns around,
Save the lone screech-owl's note, who builds his bower
Amid the mouldering caverns dark and damp,
Or the calm breeze that rustles in the leaves
Of flaunting ivy, that with mantle green
Invests some wasted tower. Or let me tread
Its neighbouring walk of pines, where mused of old
The cloistered brothers: through the gloomy void
That far extends beneath their ample arch
As on I pace, religious horror wraps
My soul in dread repose. But when the world
Is clad in midnight's raven-coloured robe,
'Mid hollow charnel let me watch the flame
Of taper dim, shedding a livid glare
O’er the wan heaps, while airy voices talk
Along the glimmering walls, or ghostly shape,
At distance seen, invites with beckoning hand
My lonesome steps through the far-winding vaults.
Nor undelightful is the solemn noon
Of night, when, haply wakeful, from my couch
I start: lo, all is motionless around !
Roars not the rushing wind; the sons of men
And every beast in mute oblivion lie;
All nature's hushed in silence and in sleep:

O then how fearful is it to reflect
That through the still globe's awful solitude
No being wakes but me! till stealing sleep
My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews.
Nor then let dreams, of wanton folly born,
My senses lead through flowery paths of joy:
But let the sacred genius of the night
Such mystic visions send as Spenser saw
When through bewildering Fancy's magic maze,
To the fell house of Busyrane, he led
Th' unshaken Britomart; or Milton knew,
When in abstracted thought he first conceived
All Heaven in tumult, and the seraphim
Come towering, armed in adamant and gold.

Through Pope's soft song though all the Graces breathe,
And happiest art adorn his Attic page,
Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow,
As, at the root of mossy trunk reclined,
In magic Spenser's wildly-warbled song
I see deserted Una wander wide
Through wasteful solitudes and lurid heaths,
Weary, forlorn, than when the fated fair
Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames
Launches in all the lustre of brocade,
Amid the splendours of the laughing sun:
The gay description palls upon the sense,
And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss.

The tapered choir, at the late hour of prayer,
Oft let me tread, while to th' according voice
The many-sounding organ peals on high
The clear slow-dittied chant or varied hymn,
Till all my soul is bathed in ecstasies
And lapped in Paradise. Or let me sit
Far in sequestered aisles of the deep dome;
There lonesome listen to the sacred sounds,
Which, as they lengthen through the Gothic vaults,
In hollow murmurs reach my ravished ear.
Nor when the lamps, expiring, yield to night,

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