(Loose his beard, and hoary hair

Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air);
And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

'Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave,
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

To high-born Hoël's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

That hushed the stormy main :
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head.
On dreary Arvon's shores they lie,

Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale :
Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;
The famished eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,

Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's criesNo more I weep. They do not sleep.

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,

I see them sit; they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land:

With me in dreadful harmony they join,

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

'Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Edward's race.
Give ample room, and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace :

Mark the year, and mark the night,

When Severn shall re-echo with affright

The shrieks of death, through Berkley'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.

Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the sable Warrior fled?

Thy son is gone: he rests among the dead,

The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born
-Gone to salute the rising Morn.

Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
While proudly rising o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes;

Youth at the prow, and pleasure at the helm,
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway

That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey.
Fill high the sparkling bowl;

The rich repast prepare;

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast :

Close by the regal chair

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, 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!
Above, below, the rose of snow,

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread ;
The bristled boar, in infant gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

Now, Brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom!

'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 unbless'd, 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
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!—

'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-coloured wings.

'The verse adorn again

Fierce War, and faithful Love,

And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest,

In buskined 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 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 dooms 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.

Ex. 118.

De Boune and Robert Bruce.
Oh! gay, yet fearful to behold,
Flashing with steel and rough with gold,
And bristled o'er with bills and spears,
With plumes and pennons waving fair,
Was that bright battle-front! for there
Rode England's king and peers;

Gray.

And who that saw that monarch ride,
His kingdom battled by his side,
Could then his direful doom foretell?
Fair was his seat in knightly selle,
And in his sprightly eye was set
Some spark of the Plantagenet.

Though light and wandering was his glance,
It flashed at sight of shield and lance.
'Knowest thou,' he said, 'De Argentine,
Yon knight who marshals Scotland's line?'
'The tokens of his helmet tell

The Bruce, my liege : I know him well.'
'And shall the audacious traitor brave
The presence where our banners wave?'
'So please, my liege,' said Argentine,
'Were he but horsed on steed like mine,
To give him fair and knightly chance,
I would venture forth my lance.'
In battle-day,' the king replied,
'Nice tourney rules are set aside.
-Still must the rebel dare our wrath?
Set on him-sweep him from our path!'
And, at King Edward's signal, soon
Dashed from the ranks Sir Henry Boune.
Of Hereford's high blood he came,
A race renowned for knightly fame :
He burned before his monarch's eye
To do some deed of chivalry.

He spurred his steed, he couched his lance,
And darted on the Bruce at once.

As motionless as rocks, that bide
The wrath of the advancing tide,

The Bruce stood fast. Each breast beat high,
And dazzled was each gazing eye;
The heart had hardly time to think,
The eyelid scarce had time to wink,
While on the king, like flash of flame,
Spurred to full speed, the war-horse came !—
The partridge may the falcon mock,
If that slight palfrey stand the shock.-
But, swerving from the knight's career,
Just as they met, Bruce shunned the spear.
Onward the baffled warrior bore

His course-but soon his course was o'er !
High in his stirrups stood the king,
And gave his battle-axe the swing:

Ex. 119.

Right on De Boune, the whiles he passed,
Fell that stern dint-the first-the last!-
Such strength upon the blow was put,
The helmet crashed like hazel-nut;
The axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp,
Was shivered to the gauntlet-grasp;
Springs from the blow the startled horse,
Drops to the plain the lifeless corse;
First of that fatal field, how soon,
How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune!

The Invincible Armada.

Scott.

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise;
I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,
When that great fleet invincible against her bore, in vain,
The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain.

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day,
There came a gallant merchant ship full sail to Plymouth bay;
Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle,
At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile.
At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace;
And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase.
Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall;
The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's lofty hall;
Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast;
And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post.
With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes;
Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums;
His yeomen round the market-cross make clear an ample space;
For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace.
And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells,
As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells.
Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown,
And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down.
So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field,
Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Cæsar's eagle shield:
So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay,
And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay.
Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight: ho! scatter flowers, fair
maids:

Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your
blades:
Thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide;
Our glorious SEMPER EADEM—the banner of our pride.

The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold;
The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold;
Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea,
Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be.