1

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, “O 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 eagles, 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,
Point, scowling, to the dungeon's gloom, and wave Dissolves before its holy influence,
The sword insulting o'er the fallen brave,

As the gray rock of ice, a shapeless heap,
(The sword of him who foreign hate withstood, Thaws in the sunshine of the summer deep.
Whose point yet drops with the invader's blood,) Proceed, auspicious and eventful day!
Then, where yon darkt tribunal shames the day, Banner of Christ, thy ampler folds display!
Hurl it with curses and with scorn away!

Let Atlas shout with Andes, and proclaim
Turn from the thought: and if one generous heart To earth, and sea, and skies, a Saviour's name,
In these fictitious scenes has borne a part,

Till angel voices in the sound shall blend,
For the poor Indian in remotest lands,

And one hosanna from all worlds ascend!
The sable slave, that lifts his bleeding hands,
For wretchedness, and ignorance, and need,
0! let the aged missionary plead!

SONG* OF THE CID.+
The tale is told-a tale of days of yore,
The soldier-the gray father-are no more;

THE Cid is sitting, in martial state,
And the brief shades, that pleased a while the eye

Within Valentia's wall; Are faded, like the landscapes of the sky.

And chiefs of high renown attend Yet may the moral still remain impressid

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 unappall’d 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 saved 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.

That laves the pebbled shore: and now the beam

Of evening smiles on the gray battlement,

And yon forsaken tower* that time has rent:
The lifted oar far off with silver gleam
Is touch'd, and hush'd is all the billowy deep!

Soothed by the scene, thus on tired nature's breast

A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest;
While sea-sounds lull her, as she sinks to sleep,
Like melodies which mourn upon the lyre,
Waked by the breeze, and, as they mourn, expire !

SONNET.

AT BAMBOROUGH CASTLE.

Now Alvar Fanez, and his men,

Who crouch'd in thickets low,
Leap'd up, and, with the lightning glance,

Rush'd on the wavering foe.
The Moors, who saw their pennons gay

All waving in the wind,
Fled in despair, for still they fear'd

A greater host behind.
The crescent sinks !--- Pursue! pursue!

Haste-spur along the plain!
See where they fall—see where they lie,

Never to rise again.”
Of fifty thousand who, at morn,

Came forth in armour bright,
Scarce fifteen thousand souls were left,

To tell the tale at night.
My Cid then wiped his bloody brow,

And thus was heard to say,
“ Well, Baviéca,* hast thou sped,

My noble horse ! to-day.”
If thousands then escaped the sword,

Let none my Cid condemn;
For they were swept into the sea,

And the surge went over them.
There's many a maid of Tetuan

All day shall sit and weep ;
But never see her lover's sail

Shine on the northern deep.
There's many a mother, with her babe,

Shall pace the sounding shore,
And think upon its father's smile,

Whom she shall see no more.
Rock, hoary ocean, mournfully,

Upon thy billowy bed;
For, dark and deep, thy surges sweep

O'er thousands of the dead.

Ye holy towers that shade the wave-worn steep,

Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime,

Though hurrying silent by, relentless time Assail you, and the winter whirlwind's sweep! For far from blazing grandeur's crowded halls,

Here Charity hath fix'd her chosen seat,

Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat With hollow bodings round your ancient walls ; 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,

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.

SONNET.

TO THE RIVER WENSBECK.
WHILE slowly wanders thy sequester'd stream,

Wensbeck! the mossy-scatter'd rocks among,

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 the 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 appro

priated by the will of that pious prelate to many beneroPART I.

lent purposes; particularly that of ministering instant 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. Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide

The Wensbeck is a romantic and sequestered river 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

ON LEAVING A VILLAGE IN SCOTLAND.

To bend o’er some enchanted spot; removed
From life's vain coil, I listen to the wind,

SONNET.
And think I hear meek sorrow's plaint, reclined
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, 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-lo 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,

Or castle gleaming on the distant steep -
SONNET.

For this a look back on thy hills I cast,
TO THE RIVER TWEED,

And many a soften'd image of the past

Pleased I combine, and bid remembrance keep, O TWEED! a stranger, that with wandering feet O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile

To soothe me with fair views and fancies rude,

When I pursue my path in solitude.
(If so his weary thoughts he might beguile,)
Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet.
The waving branches that romantic bend
O’er thy tall banks,* a soothing charm bestow;

SONNET.
The murmurs of thy wandering wave below
Seem to his ear the pity of a friend.

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,+ Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar,

Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain ?

Is it—that many a summer's day has past To muse upon thy banks at eventide.

Since, in life's morn, I carolld 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 still,

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

flaunts, Retiring, wander 'mid thy lonely haunts

SONNET. Unseen;

and watch the tints that o'er thy bed Hang lovely, to their pensive fancy's eye

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 ; “O 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 lichin 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 I We remember them as friends from whom we were side etc.

sorry ever to have parted.-Smith's Theory.

ON THE RIVER RHINE.

And hark ! with lessening cadence now they fall, SONNET.

And now, along the white and level tide,

They fling their melancholy music wide ;
AT DOVER CLIFFS, JULY 20, 1787.

Bidding me many a tender thought recall
On these white cliffs, that, calm above the flood,

of summer days, and those delightful years Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,

When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,

The mournful magic of their mingling chime Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;

First waked my wondering childhood into tears! And, whilst the lifted 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;

SONNET.
Of social scenes, from which he wept to part:

But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
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

Rhine
We bounded, and the white waves round the

prow
SONNET.

In murmurs parted ;-varying as we go,

Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire,
AT OSTEND, LANDING, JULY 21, 1787.

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 cliff—there on the woodland's And the blue wave comes rippling to the shore

side Meantime far off the rear of darkness flies :

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. Where every pleasure seem'd erewhile to dwell:

Yet boots it not to think, or to complain,

Musing sad ditties to the reckless main:
To dreams like these, adieu! the pealing bell

SONNET.
Speaks of the hour that stays not—and the day
To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.

AT A CONVENT.
If chance some pensive stranger, hither led,

(His bosom glowing from majestic views,
SONNET.

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!

flame

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,
In cadence sweet, now dying all away,
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,

Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!
With easy force it opens all the cells
Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,

SONNET
And with it all its pleasures and its pains.
Such comprehensive views the spirit lakes,

O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
That in a few short moments I retrace

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 ;