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Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,

Ere the loud matin bell was rung,
That a trumpet of death on an English tower

Had the dirge of her champion sung!
When his dungeon light look'd dim and red

On the high-born blood of a martyr slain, No anthem was sung at his holy death bed; No weeping there was, when his bosom bled, And his heart was rent in twain!

Oh, it was not thus when his oaken spear
Was true to that knight forlorn,

And hosts of a thousand were scatter'd, like deer,
At the blast of the hunter's horn;

When he strode in the wreck of each well fought field

With the yellow-hair'd chiefs of his native land; For his lance was not shiver'd in helmet or shield, And the sword that seem'd fit for Archangel to wield Was light in his terrible hand!

Yet bleeding and bound, though the Wallace Wight For his long lov'd country die,

The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight

Than William of Elderslie!


WHEN first the fiery mantled Sun

His heav'nly race began to run,
Round the Earth and Ocean blue
His Children four (the Seasons) flew;
First, in green apparel dancing,

Smil'd the SPRING with angel face;
Rosy SUMMER next advancing

Rush'd into her sire's embrace....

Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep

Forever nearest to his smiles....

On CALPE'S olive-shaded steep,

Or India's citron-cover'd isles,

More remote and buxom brown

The QUEEN OF VINTAGE bow'd before his throne:

A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,

A ripe sheaf bound her zone. But howling WINTER fled afar To hills that prop the Polar star,

And loves on deer-borne car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side,
Round the shore where loud Lofoden

Whirls to death the roaring whale, Round the pole where Runic Oden

Howls his war-song to the gale: Save when down the Ravaged globe He travels on his native storm, Deflowering Nature's grassy robe,

And trampling on her faded form;

Till light's returning lord assume

The shaft that drives him to the northern field,

Of power to pierce his raven plume,
And crystal-covered shield.

O, sire of storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Phrensy, with her blood-shot eye,
Implores thy dreadful deity....
Archangel power of desolation,

Fast descending as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation
Spells to touch thy stony heart?

Then sullen Winter, hear my prayer,

And gently rule the ruined year; Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare,

Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear; To shivering Want's unmantled bed,

Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,

And mildly on the orphan head

Of Innocence descend!

But chiefly spare, O King of Clouds,

The sailor on his airy shrouds....

When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
And spectres walk along the deep;
Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Breathe on yonder tented shores,
Where the Rhine's bright billow freezes
Where the dark-brown Danube roars!
O, winds of Winter! list ye there

To many a deep and dying groan?

Or start ye, dæmons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?

Alas! e'en your unhallowed breath

May spare the victim fallen low: But man will ask no truce to death.... No bound to human woe!


I'LL bid the hyacinth to blow,

I'll teach my grotto green to be; And sing my true-love all below

The holly-bow'r and myrtle tree.

There all his wild-wood scents to bring, The sweet south wind shall wander by And with the music of his wing

Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clust'ring bow'r
Thou spirit of a milder clime,
Fresh with the dews of fruit and flow'r
Of mountain-heath, and moory-thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come,

Sweet comrade of the rosy day, Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum, Or cuckow's plaintive roundelay.

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