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No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the sable warrior fledo? 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.

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“Fill high the sparkling bowl,o The rich repast prepare,

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair

80 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, 85 And through the kindred squadrons mow their way.

Ye towers of Julius,° London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed,

Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head.

90 Above, below, the rose of snow,

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The bristled boaro in infant-gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, 95 Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

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“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 105

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 Arthuro we bewail. All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail ! 110

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 divineo !
Her eye proclaimş her of the Briton-line°;

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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,o 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.

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III. 3

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Fierce war, and faithful love,
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

In buskinedo measures move
Pale grief, and pleasing pain,
With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 130

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?

136 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.

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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.

THE FATAL SISTERS°

AN ODE. FROM THE NORSE TONGUE

Now the storm begins to lower,

(Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) Iron sleet of arrowy shower

Hurtles in the darkened air.o

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Glittering lances are the loom,

Where the dusky warp we strain,
Weaving many a soldier's doom,

Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane.

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See the griesly texture grow!

('Tis of human entrails made,) And the weights, that play below,

Each a gasping warrior's head.

Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore,

Shoot the trembling cords along.
Sword, that once a monarch bore,

Keep the tissue close and strong.

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Mista, black terrific maid,

Sangrida, and Hilda, see,o Join the wayward work to aid:

'Tis the woof of victory.

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Ere the ruddy sun be set,

Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, Blade with clattering buckler meet,

Hauberko crash, and helmet ring.

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(Weave the crimson web of war)

Let us go, and let us fly,
Where our friends the conflict share,

Where they triumph, where they die.

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As the paths of fate we tread,

Wading through the ensanguined field, Gondula, and Geira, spread

O’er the youthful king your shield.

We the reins to slaughter give,

Ours to kill, and ours to spare: Spite of danger he shall live.

(Weave the crimson web of war.)

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They, whom once the desert-beacho

Pent within its bleak domain, Soon their ample sway shall stretch

O'er the plenty of the plain.

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