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,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

What strings syınphonious 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 Heav'n her many-colour'd wings.

III. 3.

"The verse adorn again

Fierce War, and faithful Love,

And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.

In buskin'd 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 quench'd 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's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

N

ODE VII.

FOR MUSIC.

IRREGULAR.

66

I.

HENCE, avaunt, ('tis holy ground) Comus, 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 Flatt'ry 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 empyrean day

Bursts on my ear th' indignant lay :

There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine,

The few,

whom Genius gave to shine

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

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.

66

III.

"Ye brown o'er-arching groves,

That Contemplation loves,

Where willowy Camus lingers with delight!

Oft at the blush of dawn

I trod your level lawn,

Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia 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 From haughty Gallia torn,

And sad Chatillon, on her bridal morn

That wept her bleeding love, and princely Clare,

And Anjou's heroine, and the paler Rose,
The rival of her crown and of her woes,

And either Henry there,

The murder'd 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.) All that on Granta's fruitful plain

Rich streams of regal bounty pour'd,

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 treasures 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 Margret 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.
Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye,
The flower unheeded shall descry,
And bid it round heav'n's altars shed
The fragrance of its blushing head :
Shall raise from earth the latent gem,
To glitter on the diadem.