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 nations 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 height, Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

ODE VI.

FOR MUSIC.1

IRREGULAR.

I.

"Hence, avaunt ('tis holy ground),
Comus2, and his midnight crew,
And Ignorance with looks profound,
And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue,
Mad Sedition's cry profane,

Servitude, that hugs her chain,

Nor in these consecrated bowers

Let painted Flattery hide her serpent train in flowers.

Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain,

Dare the Muse's walk to stain,

While bright-eyed Science watches round:

Hence, away, 'tis holy ground!"

II.

From yonder realms of empyréan day

Bursts on my ear the indignant lay:

There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine,

The few, whom genius gave to shine

Though every unborn age and undiscovered clime. Rapt in celestial transport they,

1 This ode was performed in the Senate House at Cambridge, July 1. 1769, at the installation of Henry

Fitzroy, Duke of Grafton, chancellor of the university.

2 The god of mirth and joy.

Yet hither oft a glance from high

They send of tender sympathy

To bless the place, where on their opening soul
First the genuine ardour stole.

'Twas Milton struck the deep-toned shell,

And, as the choral warblings round him swell, Meek Newton's self bends from his state sublime, And nods his hoary head, and listens to the rhyme.

III.

Ye brown o'er-arching groves,
That Contemplation loves,

Where willowy Camus1 lingers with delight!
Oft at the blush of dawn

I trod your level lawn,

Oft wooed the gleam of Cynthia2 silver-bright
In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly,
With Freedom by my side, and soft-eyed Melancholy!

IV.

But, hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth
With solemn steps and slow,

High potentates, and dames of royal birth,

And mitred fathers in long order go:
Great Edward, with the lilies on his brow 3
From haughty Gallia torn,

And sad Chatillon 4, on her bridal morn

That wept her bleeding love, and princely Clare 5,
And Anjou's heroine, and paler Rose 7,

The rival of her crown and of her woes,

And either Henry there 8

The murdered saint, and the majestic lord
That broke the bonds of Rome.

(Their tears, their little triumphs o'er,
Their human passions now no more,

Save Charity, that glows beyond the tomb),

1 The river Cam.

2 The moon.

He

3 Edward III. added the fleur-delys to the arms of England. founded Trinity College.

4 The Countess of Pembroke, daughter of Guy de Chatillon, Comte de St. Paul. Her husband was slain at

a tournament on the day of his marriage. She founded Pembroke Hall. 5 The Countess of Clare. She founded Clare Hall.

6 Margaret of Anjou.

7 Elizabeth Wydville, queen of Edward IV.

8 Henry VI. and Henry VIII.

All that on Granta's1 fruitful plain

Rich streams of regal bounty poured,

And bade these awful fanes and turrets rise,
To hail their Fitzroy's festal morning come;
And thus they speak, in soft accord,

The liquid language of the skies.

V.

"What is grandeur, what is power?
Heavier toil, superior pain.

What the bright reward we gain?
The grateful memory of the good.
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,

The bee's collected treasure's sweet,

Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet

The still small voice of Gratitude."

VI.

Foremost and leaning from her golden cloud
The venerable Margaret see!?

"Welcome, my noble son," she cries aloud,
"To this, thy kindred train, and me:
Pleased, in thy lineaments we trace
A Tudor's fire, a Beaufort's grace.3
Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye,
The flower unheeded shall descry,
And bid it round Heaven's altars shed
The fragrance of its blushing head:
Shall raise from Earth the latent gem,
To glitter on the diadem.

VII.

"Lo, Granta waits to lead her blooming band,
Not obvious, not obtrusive, she
No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings;
Nor dares with courtly tongue refined
Profane thy inborn royalty of mind:

1 The ancient name of the river Cam, which is still retained above Cambridge.

2 Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond and Derby; the mother of Henry VII.

3 The Countess was a Beaufort, and married to a Tudor. The Duke of Grafton claimed descent from both these families.

She reveres herself and thee.

With modest pride, to grace thy youthful brow,
The laureate wreath that Cecil wore1, she brings,
And to thy just, thy gentle hand

Submits the fasces 2 of her sway,

Whilst spirits blest above, and men below,
Join with glad voice the loud symphonious lay.

VIII.

"Through the wild waves as they roar
With watchful eye and dauntless mien
The steady course of honour keep,
Nor fear the rocks, nor seek the shore:
The Star of Brunswick smiles serene,
And gilds the horrors of the deep.

ODE VII.

THE DESCENT OF ODIN.

FROM THE NORSE TONGUE.

Uprose the King of Men with speed,
And saddled straight his coal-black steed;
Down the yawning steep he rode,
That leads to Hela's 3 drear abode.
Him the Dog of Darkness spied,
His shaggy throat he opened wide,
While from his jaws, with carnage filled,
Foam and human gore distilled:
Hoarse he bays with hideous din,
Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin;
And long pursues, with fruitless yell,
The father of the powerful spell.
Onward still his way he takes,

(The groaning Earth beneath him shakes)

1 Cecil, Lord Burleigh, was chancellor of the university in the reign of Elizabeth.

2 The fasces were rods bound in the form a of bundle, and containing

an axe (securis), in the middle. These rods were carried by the lictors before the consuls at Rome.

3 Hela, the goddess of death, in Scandinavian mythology.

Till, full before his fearless eyes,
The portals nine of Hell arise.
Right against the eastern gate,
By the moss-grown pile he sat ;
Where long of yore to sleep was laid
The dust of the prophetic maid.
Facing to the northern clime,

Thrice he traced the Runic1 rhyme;
Thrice pronounced, in accents dread,
The thrilling verse that wakes the dead;
Till from out the hollow ground
Slowly breathed a sullen sound.

Prophetess.

What call unknown, what charms presume
To break the quiet of the tomb?
Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite,
And drags me from the realms of night?
Long on these mouldering bones have beat
The winter's snow, the summer's heat,
The drenching dews, and driving rain!
Let me, let me sleep again.

Who is he, with voice unblest,

That calls me from the bed of rest?

Odin.

A traveller, to thee unknown,

Is he that calls; -a warrior's son.
Thou the deeds of light shalt know;

Tell me what is done below,

For whom yon glittering board is spread,
Dressed for whom yon golden bed.

1 Runic is the name given to an ancient alphabet, peculiar to the Teutonic nations, especially the Scandinavians and Germans.

2 Balder, the son of Odin.