That gird the guilty city! Shout amain, The toil is o'er, Enough wide earth hath reek'd with human gore- The war-fiend gave his last loud shriek, and fled. Halt on this hill-your wasted strength repair, 'Twas when affliction with cold shadow hung On half the wasted world, these notes I sung. Thus pass'd the storm, and o'er a night of woes More beautiful the morn of freedom rose. Now with a sigh, I close, alas! the strain, And mourn thy fate, abused, insulted Spain ! When, for stern Valour, baring his bold breast, I see wan Bigotry, in monkish vest,t Point, scowling, to the dungeon's gloom, and wave The sword insulting o'er the fallen brave, (The sword of him who foreign hate withstood, Whose point yet drops with the invader's blood,) Then, where yon dark‡ tribunal shames the day, Hurl it with curses and with scorn away! Mountains of inmost Afric, where no ray Patiently plodding, the Moravian mild Sees stealing culture creep along the wild, And thou, the light of God's eternal word, As the gray rock of ice, a shapeless heap, 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, The sable slave, that lifts his bleeding hands, The tale is told-a tale of days of yore, And the brief shades, that pleased a while the eye Rivers, that sweep through shades and sands unknown, *Alluding to a most interesting fact in the history of that eventful struggle, closed by the national air of God save the King. + Alluding to the unjust treatment of those brave men who saved the life and the throne of a bigoted and ungrateful prince. Till angel voices in the sound shall blend, And one hosanna from all worlds ascend! SONG OF THE CID.t THE Cid is sitting, in martial state, Brave Alvar Fanez, and a troop Of gallant men, were there; And there came Donna Ximena, His wife and daughters fair. When the foot-page bent on his knee, "Now God be praised!" the Cid he cried, "Let every hold be stored: Let fly the holy gonfalon,+ And give St. James,' the word." Referred to in p. 505. + Compare with Southey's admirable translation of the Cid. The Inquisition. Banner consecrated by the pope. And now, upon the turret high, And by God's mother swore, He took his wife and daughter's hand, And led them to the highest tower They saw how vast a pagan power These ladies then grew deadly pale, "This is a glorious sight!" Whilst thus, with shuddering look aghast, The Cid he raised his sword, and cried, "Ere fifteen days are gone and past, Those tambours that now sound to scare, The Moors who press'd beneath the towers Each Christian knight his broad-sword drew, And loud the trumpets rung. *The common phraseology of the old metrical ballad. And ambush with three hundred men, Ere the first cock does crow: "And when against the Moorish men This counsel pleased the chieftain well: And the good bishop should sing mass, The day is gone, the night is come; In Pedro's church to shrive themselves, On Santiago there they call'd, 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. "A boon! a boon !" the bishop cried, 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. Four thousand men, with trump, and shout, They pass'd the ambush on the left, And march'd o'er dale and down, My Cid then spurr'd his horse, and set The first beam on his standard shone When this the Moors astonied saw, "Banner, advance!" my Cid cried then, The whole host answer'd with a shout, That good Bishop, Hieronymo, And cried, as he spurr'd on his resolute steed, "Hurrah! for the Campeador !" The Moorish and the Christian host Mingle their dying cries, And many a horse along the plain 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 Fled in despair, for still they fear'd The crescent sinks!" Pursue! pursue! See where they fall-see where they lie, Never to rise again." Of fifty thousand who, at morn, Came forth in armour bright, My Cid then wiped his bloody brow, If thousands then escaped the sword, For they were swept into the sea, Shine on the northern deep. There's many a mother, with her babe, And think upon its father's smile, Rock, hoary ocean, mournfully, For, dark and deep, thy surges sweep That laves the pebbled shore: and now the beam Is touch'd, and hush'd is all the billowy deep! SONNET. AT BAMBOROUGH CASTLE.† 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, * Tynemouth priory and castle, Northumberland.-The remains of this monastery are situated on a high rocky SONNETS WRITTEN CHIEFLY DU-point, on the north side of the entrance into the river 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 it presented itself as if exhorting the seamen in danger to make their vows, and promise masses and presents to the Virgin Mary and St. Oswin for their deliverance. This very ancient castle, with its extensive domains, heretofore the property of the family of Forster, whose heiress married Lord Crewe, bishop of Durham, is appro priated by the will of that pious prelate to many benevo 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 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. As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side, *His favourite horse. + These sonnets were dedicated "To the Rev. Newton Ogle, D.D., Dean of Winchester.-Donhead, Wilts, Nov. 1797." the hands of trustees, one of whom, Dr. Sharp, archdeacon of Northumberland, with an active zeal well suited to the nature of the humane institution, makes this castle his chief residence, attending with unwearied diligence to the proper application of the charity. 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, (says Grose,) stand in a shady solitude, on the north bank of the Wensbeck, about three-quarters of a mile west of Bothall, in a spot admirably calculated for meditation. It was probably built by one of the Barons Ogle." This To bend o'er some enchanted spot; removed SONNET. TO THE RIVER TWEED. O TWEED! a stranger, that with wandering feet O'er thy tall banks, a soothing charm bestow; SONNET. EVENING, as slow thy placid shades descend, From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure Retiring, wander 'mid thy lonely haunts Unseen; and watch the tints that o'er thy bed Hang lovely, to their pensive fancy's eye Presenting fairy vales, where the tired mind Might rest, beyond the murmurs of mankind, Nor hear the hourly moans of misery! SONNET. ON LEAVING A VILLAGE IN SCOTLAND. CLYSDALE, as thy romantic vales I leave, SONNET. TO THE RIVER ITCHIN, NEAR WINTON. ITCHIN, when I behold thy banks again, Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast, Since, in life's morn, I caroll'd on thy side? SONNET. O POVERTY! though from thy haggard eye, Ah! beauteous views, that hope's fair gleams the I love thy solitary haunts to seek :- Should smile like you, and perish as they smile! For pity, reckless of her own distress; river is thus beautifully characterized by Akenside, who And piety, that never told her wrong; was born near it: "O ye Northumbrian shades, which overlook The rocky pavement, and the mossy falls Of solitary Wensbeck's limpid stream! How gladly I recall your well known seats Beloved of old, and that delightful time When all alone, for many a summer's day, I wander'd through your calm recesses, led In silence by some powerful hand unseen." Written on passing the Tweed at Kelso, where the scenery is much more picturesque than it is near Berwick, the more general route of travellers into Scotland. It was a beautiful and still autumnal eve when we passed. + Alluding to the simple and affecting pastoral strains for which Scotland has been so long celebrated. I need not mention Lochaber, the braes of Ballendine, Tweedside etc. And meek content, whose griefs no more rebel; And genius, warbling sweet her saddest song; And sorrow, listening to a lost friend's knell, Long banish'd from the world's insulting throng; With thee, and thy unfriended offspring, dwell. *There is a wildness almost fantastic in the view of the river from Stirling Castle, the course of which is seen for many miles, making a thousand turnings. + The Itchin is a river running from Winchester to Southampton, the banks of which have been the scene of many a holiday sport. The lines were composed on an evening in a journey from Oxford to Southampton, the first time I had seen the Itchin since I left school. We remember them as friends from whom we were sorry ever to have parted.-Smith's Theory. SONNET. AT DOVER CLIFFS, JULY 20, 1787. ON these white cliffs, that, calm above the flood, And o'er the distant billows the still eve Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear; Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, SONNET. AT OSTEND, LANDING, JULY 21, 1787. THE orient beam illumes the parting oar- Yet 'mid the beauties of the morn, unmoved, SONNET. AT OSTEND, JULY 22, 1787. How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal!* As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, So piercing to my heart their force I feel! And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall, When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, The mournful magic of their mingling chime First waked my wondering childhood into tears! But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more. SONNET. ON THE RIVER RHINE. 'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow (Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine) Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted ;-varying as we go, Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire, Some convent's ancient walls or glistening spire 'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow. Here dark, with furrow'd aspect, like despair, Frowns the bleak cliff-there on the woodland's side The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Whilst hope, enchanted with the scene so fair, Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. SONNET. AT A CONVENT. Ir chance some pensive stranger, hither led, (His bosom glowing from majestic views, The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape's hues,) Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed'Tis poor Matilda !-To the cloister'd scene, A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came, To shed her tears unmark'd, and quench the 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. The effect of bells has been often described, but by none more beautifully than Cowper: How soft the music of those village bells, In cadence sweet, now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend, Like that which spoke of a departed friend SONNET. O TIME! Who know'st a lenient hand to lay |