The shrieks of death through Berkeley's roofs that

ring;

Shrieks of an agonizing king!

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him
wait!

Amazement in his van, with Flight combined;
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.'

*

"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 symphonious 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 Heaven her many-colour'd wings.

"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 scepter'd 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.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

BORN 1720-died 1756.

ODE TO THE DEATH OF MR THOMSON.

THE SCENE OF THE FOLLOWING STANZAS IS SUPPOSED TO LIE ON THE THAMES, NEAR RICHMOND.

IN yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave! The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its poet's sylvan grave.

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid;
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here;
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar

To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft as Ease and Health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,

The friend shall view yon whitening spire, (a)
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou, who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail?
Or tears which Love and Pity shed,

That mourn beneath the gliding sail!

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?
With him, sweet Bard, may Fancy die,
And Joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd Sisters now attend,

(a) Mr Thomson was buried in Richmond church.

Now waft me from the green hill's side
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

And see, the fairy valleys fade;

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's Child, again adieu !

The genial meads (a) assign'd to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom!
Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress
With simple hands thy rural tomb.

Long, long thy stone and pointed clay
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes:
"O! vales, and wild woods," shall he say,
"In yonder grave your Druid lies !"

ODE TO THE SUPERSTITIONS OF THE
HIGHLANDS.

INSCRIBED TO MR JOHN HOME.

HOME thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads

long

Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay,

Mid those soft friends, whose hearts some future

day

Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.

(a) Mr Thomson resided in the neighbourhood of Richmond some time before his death.

Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth (a)
Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's

side;

Together let us wish him lasting truth,

And joy untainted with his destined bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast My short-lived bliss, forget my social name; But think, far off, how, on the southern coast, I met thy friendship with an equal flame ! Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, where every vale Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand: To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail;

Thou need'st but take thy pencil to thy hand, And paint what all believe, who own thy genial land.

There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill;
'Tis Fancy's land to which thou turn'st thy feet;
Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet,
Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill.
There each trim lass, that skims the milky store
To the swart tribes, their creamy bowls allots;
By night they sip it round the cottage-door,
While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.
There, every herd, by sad experience, knows
How, wing'd with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly,
When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes,

Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Such airy beings awe th' untutor'd swain:

(a) A gentleman of the name of Barrow, who introduced Home to Collins.