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That gird the guilty city! Shout amain,
Mountains of inmost Afric, where no ray For Europe,-England,-for deliver'd Spain ! Hath ever pierced, from Beth'lem's star of day, Shout, for a world avenged !
Savages, fierce with clubs, and shaggy hair,
The toil is o’er,– Who woods and thickets with the lion share, Enough wide earth hath reek’d with human gore- Hark! the glad echoes of the cliffs repeat, At Waterloo, amidst the countless dead,
“ How beauteous, in the desert, are the feet The war-fiend gave his last loud shriek, and fled. Of them, who bear, o'er wastes and trackless sands, Thou stood'st in front, my country! on that day Tidings of mercy to remotest lands !” Of horrors; thou more awful didst display
Patiently plodding, the Moravian mild Thy long-tried valour, when from rank to rank Sees stealing culture creep along the wild, Death hurrying strode, and that vast army shrank And twice ten thousand leagues o'er ocean's roar, Soldiers of England, the dread day is won !
And far from friends whom he may see no more, Soldiers of England, on, brave comrades, on! Constructs the warmer hut, or delves the sod; Pursue them! Yes, ye did pursue, till night Cheerful, as still beneath the eye of God. Hid the foul rout of their disastrous flight.
Where, muttering spoil, or death, the Caffre prowl'd, Halt on this hill-your wasted strength repair, Or moonlight wolves, a gaunt assembly, how'd, And close your labours, to the well known air, No sounds are heard along the champaign wide, Which e'en your children sing, “ () Lord, arise !" But one small chapel bell, at eventide, Peals the long line, “ Scatter his enemies !”
Whilst notes unwonted linger in the air, Back to the scenes of home, the evening fire, The songs of Sion, or the voice of prayer! Or May-day sunshine on the village spire,
And thou, the light of God's eternal word, The blissful thought by that loved air is led, Record, and Spirit of the living Lord, Here heard amidst the dying and the dead.* Hid and unknown from half the world, at length,
'Twas when affliction with cold shadow hung Rise like the sun, and go forth in thy strength! On half the wasted world, these notes I sung. Already towering o'er old Ganges stream, Thus pass'd the storm, and o’er a night of woes The dark pagoda brightens in thy beam : More beautiful the morn of freedom rose.
And the dim cagles, on the topmost height Now with a sigh, I close, alas! the strain,
Of Jaggernaut, shine as in morning light! And mourn thy fate, abused, insulted Spain ! Beyond the snows of savage Labrador When, for stern Valour, baring his bold breast, The ray pervades pale Greenland's wintry shore I see wan Bigotry, in monkish vest,t
The demon spell, that bound the slumbering sense,
As the gray rock of ice, a shapeless heap,
Let Atlas shout with Andes, and proclaim
Till angel voices in the sound shall blend,
And one hosanna from all worlds ascend!
SONG* OF THE CID.
THE Cid is sitting, in martial state,
Within Valentia's wall; Are faded, like the landscapes of the sky.
And chiefs of high renown attend Yet may the moral still remain impress'd
The knightly festival. To warm the patriot, or the pious breast.
Brave Alvar Fanez, and a troop Where'er aggression marches, may the brave
Of gallant men, were there; Rush unappallid their father's land to save!
And there came Donna Ximena, Where sounds of glad salvation are gone out
His wife and daughters fair. Unto all lands, as with an angel's shout,
When the foot-page bent on his knee, May holy zeal its energies employ!
What tidings brought he then? Rocks of Saldanna, break forth into joy!
“ Morocco's king is on the seas, Isles, o'er the waste of desert ocean strown,
With fifty thousand men." Rivers, that sweep through shades and sands unknown,
“ Now God be praised !” the Cid he cried,
“Let every hold be stored :
Let fly the holy gonfalon, * Alluding to a most interesting fact in the history of
And give 'St. James,' the word.” that eventful struggle, closed by the national air of God save the King.
+ Alluding to the unjust treatment of those brave men Referred to in p. 505. who sa ved the life and the throne of a bigoted and un + Compare with Southey's admirable translation of the grateful prince.
Cid. The Inquisition.
Banner consecrated by the pope.
And ambush with three hundred men,
Ere the first cock does crow :
“ And when against the Moorish men
The Cid leads up his powers, – We, rushing from the hollow glen,
Will fall on them with ours.”
This counsel pleased the chieftain well:
He said, it should be so;
Ere the first cock did crow.
At cock-crow all appear
And holy mass to hear:
On Santiago there they callid,
To hear them and to save;
Great absolution gave. « Fear not,” he cried, “ when thousands bleed,
When horse on man shall roll! Whoever dies, I take his sins,
And God shall save his soul.
And now, upon the turret high,
Was heard the signal drum;
And cried, “ They come ! they come !"
And by God's mother swore,
Or bathe their base in gore.
Nay, hang not thus your head;
How soldiers earn their bread.
And crush them in your sight;" And all the Christians shouted loud,
“ May God defend the right !"
So resolute was he,
That overlooks the sea.
Came sailing o'er the brine;
The Moorish crescents shine.
As heart-struck with dismay;
They turn’d their head away.
The sun was shining bright,
“This is a glorious sight!"
These fearful ladies stood,
“ All this is for your good.
If God assist the right,
Shall sound for your delight.”
Now “ Allah! Allah !" sung; Each Christian knight his broad-sword drew,
And loud the trumpets rung. Then up, the noble Cid bespoke,
“Let each brave warrior go, And arm himself, in dusk of morn,
Ere chanticleer shall crow;
On Santiago call,
Shall there absolve you all.
In this eventful hour :
They are a mighty power.”
“ We will deceive the foe,
“ A boon! a boon !" the bishop cried,
“I have sung mass to-day; Let me be foremost in the fight,
And lead the bloody fray." Now Alvar Fanez and his men
Had gain’d the thicket's shade ; And, with hush'd breath and anxious eye,
Had there their ambush laid.
Forth issued from the gate;
On Baviéca sate.
And march'd o'er dale and down,
Betwixt them and the town.
The battle in array.
Which Pero bore that day
“ Allah !" began their cry:
As they would rend the sky.
“ Banner, advance !" my Cid cried then,
And raised aloft his sword; The whole host answer'd with a shout,
“St. Mary, and our Lord!”
That good Bishop, Hieronymo,
Bravely his battle bore; And cried, as he spurrd on his resolute steed,
“Hurrah! for the Campeador !" The Moorish and the Christian host
Mingle their dying cries,
Without his rider flies.
* The common phraseology of the old metrical ballad. I
Now Alvar Fanez, and his men,
| That laves the pebbled shore: and now the beam Who crouch'd in thickets low,
Of evening smiles on the gray battlement, Leap'd up, and, with the lightning glance, And yon forsaken tower* that time has rent: Rush'd on the wavering foe.
The lifted oar far off with silver gleam The Moors, who saw their pennons gay
Is touch'd, and hush'd is all the billowy deep!
Soothed by the scene, thus on tired nature's breast All waving in the wind, Fled in despair, for still they fear'd
A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest;
While sea-sounds lull her, as she sinks to sleep, A greater host behind.
Like melodies which mourn upon the lyre, The crescent sinks !“ Pursue! pursue !
Waked by the breeze, and, as they mourn, expire !
AT BAMBOROUGH CASTLE."
Ye holy towers that shade the wave-worn steep, To tell the tale at night.
Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime, My Cid then wiped his bloody brow, '
Though hurrying silent by, relentless time
Assail you, and the winter whirlwind's sweep! “ Well, Baviéca,* hast thou sped,
For far from blazing grandeur's crowded halls, My noble horse! to-day.”
Here Charity hath fix'd lier chosen seat, If thousands then escaped the sword,
Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat Let none my Cid condemn;
With hollow bodings round your ancient walls; For they were swept into the sea,
And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour
Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower, There's many a maid of Tetuan
And turns her ear to each expiring cry;
Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save,
And snatch him cold and speechless from the
wave. There's many a mother, with her babe,
Shall pace the sounding shore,
TO THE RIVER WENSBECK.
WHILE slowly wanders thy sequester'd stream, Upon thy billowy bed;
Wensbeck! the mossy-scatter'd rocks among, For, dark and deep, thy surges sweep
In fancy's ear still making plaintive song
To the dark woods above, that waving seem
* Tynemouth priory and castle, Northumberland.-The
remains of this monastery are sitnated on a high rocky SONNETS WRITTEN CHIEFLY DU. point, on the north side of the entrance into the river RING VARIOUS JOURNEYS.*
Tyne, about a mile and a half below North-Shields. The exalted rock on which the monastery stood rendered it
visible at sea a long way off, in every direction, whence IN TWO PARTS.
it presented itself as if exhorting the seamen in danger to
make their vows, and promise masses and presents to tbe Cantantes, licet usque, minus via lædet, eamus.
Virgin Mary and St. Oswin for their deliverance.
Virgil. + This very ancient castle, with its extensive domains, Still let us soothe our travel with a strain.
heretofore the property of the family of Forster, whose Warton.
heiress married Lord Crewe, bishop of Durham, is appropriated by the will of that pious prelate to many benevo
lent purposes; particularly that of ministering instant PART 1.
relief to such shipwrecked mariners as may happen to be
cast on this dangerous coast, for whose preservation, and SONNET.
that of their vessels, every possible assistance is contrived, WRITTEN AT TYNEMOUTH, NORTHUMBERLAND, AFTER and is at all times ready. The whole estate is vested in A TEMPESTUOUS VOYAGE.
the hands of trustees, one of whom, Dr. Sharp, archdeacon
of Northumberland, with an active zeal well suited to the As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
nature of the humane institution, makes this castle his Much musing on the track of terror past,
chief residence, attending with unwearied diligence to When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,
the proper application of the charity.
The Wensbeck is a romantic and sequestered river Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide
in Northumberland. On its banks is situated our Lady's
Chapel. “The remains of this small chapel, or oratory, * His favourite horse.
(says Grose,) stand in a shady solitude, on the north bank + These sonnets were dedicated “To the Rev. Newton of the Wensbeck, about three-quarters of a mile west of Ogle, D.D., Dean of Winchester.-Donhead, Wilts, Nov. Bothall, in a spot admirably calculated for meditation, 1797."
It was probably built by one of the Barons Ogle." This
To bend o’er some enchanted spot; removed
ON LEAVING A VILLAGE IN SCOTLAND. O'er the forsaken tomb of one she loved ! Fair scenes ! ye lend a pleasure, long unknown, CLYSDALE, as thy romantic vales I leave, To him who passes weary on his way
And bid farewell to each retiring hill, The farewell tear, which now he turns to pay, 1 Where fond attention seems to linger still, Shall thank you ;--and whene'er of pleasures flown Tracing the broad bright landscape; much I grieve His heart some long-lost image would renew, That, mingled with the toiling crowd, no more Delightful haunts! he will remember you.
I may return your varied views to mark,
Of rocks amid the sunshine towering dark,
Of rivers winding wild," and mountains hoar, SONNET.
Or castle gleaming on the distant steep
For this a look back on thy hills I cast,
And many a soften'd image of the past
Pleased I combine, and bid remembrance keep, O TWEED! a stranger, that with wandering feet
To soothe me with fair views and fancies rude, O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile
When I pursue my path in solitude.
TO THE RIVER ITCHIN, NEAR WINTON. Delightful stream ! though now along thy shore,
| Itchin,t when I behold thy banks again, When spring returns in all her wonted pride,
Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast, The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more,
On which the selfsame tints still seem'd to rest, Yet here with pensive peace could I abide,t
Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain ? Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar,
Is it—that many a summer's day has past To muse upon thy banks at eventide.
Since, in life's morn, I carollid on thy side ?
Is it-that oft, since then, my heart has sigh’d,
As youth, and hope's delusive gleams, flew fast? SONNET,
Is it--that those, who circled on thy shore, EVENING, as slow thy placid shades descend,
Companions of my youth, now meet no more? Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape stil),
Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend, The lonely battlement, and farthest hill
Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart, And wood, I think of those that have no friend, | As at the meeting of some long-lost friend, Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led,
From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part. From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure
O POVERTY! though from thy haggard eye, Presenting fairy vales, where the tired mind | Thy cheerless mien, of every charm bereft,
Might rest, beyond the murmurs of mankind, Thy brow that hope's last traces long have left, Nor hear the hourly moans of misery!
Vain fortune's feeble sons with terror fly; Ah! beauteous views, that hope's fair gleams the I love thy solitary haunts to seek :while
For pity, reckless of her own distress; Should smile like you, and perish as they smile! And patience, in the pall of wretchedness,
That turns to the bleak storm her faded cheek; river is thus beautifully characterized by Akenside, who
And piety, that never told her wrong; was horn near it:
And meek content, whose griefs no more rebel ; "( ye Northumbrian shades, which overlook
And genius, warbling sweet her saddest song; The rocky pavement, and the mossy falls
And sorrow, listening to a lost friend's knell, Or solitary Wensbeck's limpid stream! How gladly I recall your well known seats
Long banish'd from the world's insulting throng; Beloved of old, and that delightful time
With thee, and thy unfriended offspring, dwell. When all alone, for many a summer's day, I wander'd through your calm recesses, led
* There is a wildness almost fantastic in the view of In silence by some powerful hand unseen."
the river from Stirling Castle, the course of which is seea Written on passing the Tweed at Kelso, where the for many miles, making a thousand turnings. scenery is much more picturesque than it is near Berwick, † The Itchin is a river running from Winchester to the more general route of travellers into Scotland. It was Southampton, the banks of which have been the scene of a beautiful and still autumnal eve when we passed. many a holiday sport. The lines were composed on an
Alluding to the simple and affecting pastoral strains evening in a journey from Oxford to Southampton, the first for which Scotland has been so long celebrated. I need time I had seen the Itchin since I left school. not mention Lochaber, the braes of Ballendine, Tweed We remember them as friends from whom we were side etc.
| sorry ever to have parted.- Smith's Theory.
| And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall, SONNET.
And now, along the white and level tide,
They fling their melancholy music wide ;
Bidding me many a tender thought recall
of summer days, and those delightful years Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,
1 When by my native streams, in life's fair prime,
'The mournful magic of their mingling chime Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat, Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;
First waked my wondering childhood into tears! And, whilst the listed murmur met his ear,
But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, And o’er the distant billows the still eve
The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more. Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must
leave To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear; Of social scenes, from which he wept to part:
SONNET. But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
ON THE RIVER RHINE. The thoughts that would full fain the past recall,
'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,
brow And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide (Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine) The world his country, and his God his guide. Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling
In murmurs parted ;-varying as we go,
Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire,
Some convent's ancient walls or glistening spire THE orient beam illumes the parting oar
'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow. From yonder azure track, emerging white,
Here dark, with surrow'd aspect, like despair, The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight,
Frowns the bleak clill-there on the woodland's And the blue wave comes rippling to the shore
side Meantime far off the rear of darkness fies :
The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Yet 'mid the beauties of the morn, unmoved,
Whilst hope, enchanted with the scene so fair, Like one for ever torn from all he loved, Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Towards Albion's heights I turn my longing eyes,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.
Yet boots it not to think, or to complain,
AT A CONVENT.
(His bosom glowing from majestic views,
The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape's
hues,) AT OSTEND, JULY 22, 1787.
Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bedHow sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal!* | 'Tis poor Matilda !—To the cloister'd scene,
As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came,
Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, | To shed her tears unmark'd, and quench the So piercing to my heart their force I feel !
Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene * Written on landing at Ostend, and hearing, very early | As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle ; in the morning, the carillons.
Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could The effect of bells has been often described, but by none lend, more beautifully than Cowper :
Like that which spoke of a departed friend How soft the music of those village bells,
And a meek sadness sat upon her smile! Falling at intervals upon the ear
Now, far removed from every earthly ill,
Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.
| O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
| Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence (As in a map the voyager his course) The windings of my way through many years.
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) Cowper's Task, book vi. | The faint pang stealest unperceived away ;