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That gird the guilty city! Shout amain,
For Europe, England,-for deliver'd Spain !
Shout, for a world avenged!

The toil is o'er,

Enough wide earth hath reek'd with human gore-
At Waterloo, amidst the countless dead,

The war-fiend gave his last loud shriek, and fled.
Thou stood'st in front, my country! on that day
Of horrors; thou more awful didst display
Thy long-tried valour, when from rank to rank
Death hurrying strode, and that vast army shrank
Soldiers of England, the dread day is won!
Soldiers of England, on, brave comrades, on!
Pursue them! Yes, ye did pursue, till night
Hid the foul rout of their disastrous flight.

Halt on this hill-your wasted strength repair,
And close your labours, to the well known air,
Which e'en your children sing, "O Lord, arise!"
Peals the long line, "Scatter his enemies!"
Back to the scenes of home, the evening fire,
Or May-day sunshine on the village spire,
The blissful thought by that loved air is led,
Here heard amidst the dying and the dead.*

'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
Hath ever pierced, from Beth'lem's star of day,
Savages, fierce with clubs, and shaggy hair,
Who woods and thickets with the lion share,
Hark! the glad echoes of the cliffs repeat,
"How beauteous, in the desert, are the feet
Of them, who bear, o'er wastes and trackless sands,
Tidings of mercy to remotest lands!"

Patiently plodding, the Moravian mild

Sees stealing culture creep along the wild,
And twice ten thousand leagues o'er ocean's roar,
And far from friends whom he may see no more,
Constructs the warmer hut, or delves the sod;
Cheerful, as still beneath the eye of God.
Where, muttering spoil, or death, the Caffre prowl'd,
Or moonlight wolves, a gaunt assembly, howl'd,
No sounds are heard along the champaign wide,
But one small chapel bell, at eventide,
Whilst notes unwonted linger in the air,
The songs of Sion, or the voice of prayer!

And thou, the light of God's eternal word,
Record, and Spirit of the living Lord,
Hid and unknown from half the world, at length,
Rise like the sun, and go forth in thy strength!
Already towering o'er old Ganges stream,
The dark pagoda brightens in thy beam:
And the dim eagles, on the topmost height
Of Jaggernaut, shine as in morning light!
Beyond the snows of savage Labrador
The ray pervades pale Greenland's wintry shore-
The demon spell, that bound the slumbering sense,
Dissolves before its holy influence,

As the gray rock of ice, a shapeless heap,
Thaws in the sunshine of the summer deep.
Proceed, auspicious and eventful day!
Banner of Christ, thy ampler folds display!
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,
For the poor Indian in remotest lands,

The sable slave, that lifts his bleeding hands,
For wretchedness, and ignorance, and need,
O! let the aged missionary plead!

The tale is told-a tale of days of yore,
The soldier-the gray father-are no more;

And the brief shades, that pleased a while the eye
Are faded, like the landscapes of the sky.
Yet may the moral still remain impress'd
To warm the patriot, or the pious breast.
Where'er aggression marches, may the brave
Rush unappall'd their father's land to save!
Where sounds of glad salvation are gone out
Unto all lands, as with an angel's shout,
May holy zeal its energies employ !
Rocks of Saldanna, break forth into joy!
Isles, o'er the waste of desert ocean strown,

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,
Within Valentia's wall;
And chiefs of high renown attend
The knightly festival.

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,
What tidings brought he then?
"Morocco's king is on the seas,
With fifty thousand men."

"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,
Was heard the signal drum;
And loud the watchman blew his trump,
And cried, "They come! they come!"
The Cid then raised his sword on high,

And by God's mother swore,
These walls, hard-gotten, he would keep,
Or bathe their base in gore.
"My wife, my daughter, what, in tears!
Nay, hang not thus your head;
For you shall see how well we fight;
How soldiers earn their bread.
"We will go out against the Moors,
And crush them in your sight;"
And all the Christians shouted loud,
"May God defend the right!"

He took his wife and daughter's hand,
So resolute was he,

And led them to the highest tower
That overlooks the sea.

They saw how vast a pagan power
Came sailing o'er the brine;
They saw, beneath the morning light,
The Moorish crescents shine.

These ladies then grew deadly pale,
As heart-struck with dismay;
And when they heard the tambours beat,
They turn'd their head away.
The thronged streamers glittering flew,
The sun was shining bright,
"Now cheer," the valiant Cid he cried;

"This is a glorious sight!"

Whilst thus, with shuddering look aghast,
These fearful ladies stood,

The Cid he raised his sword, and cried,
"All this is for your good.

"Ere fifteen days are gone and past,
If God assist the right,

Those tambours that now sound to scare,
Shall sound for your delight."

The Moors who press'd beneath the towers
Now" Allah! Allah!" sung;

Each Christian knight his broad-sword drew, And loud the trumpets rung.

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*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
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;

And the good bishop should sing mass,
Ere the first cock did crow.

The day is gone, the night is come;
At cock-crow all appear

In Pedro's church to shrive themselves,
And holy mass to hear:

On Santiago there they call'd,
To hear them and to save;
And that good bishop, at the mass,

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,
"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.

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Four thousand men, with trump, and shout,
Forth issued from the gate;
Where my brave Cid, in harness bright,
On Baviéca sate.

They pass'd the ambush on the left,

And march'd o'er dale and down,
Till soon they saw the Moorish camp
Betwixt them and the town.

My Cid then spurr'd his horse, and set
The battle in array.

The first beam on his standard shone
Which Pero bore that day

When this the Moors astonied saw,
"Allah!" began their cry:
The tambours beat, the cymbals rung,
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 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
Without his rider flies.

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.

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.†

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 situated on a high rocky

SONNETS WRITTEN CHIEFLY DU-point, on the north side of the entrance into the river

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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,
Much musing on the track of terror past,
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,
Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide

*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
From life's vain coil, I listen to the wind,
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,
To him who passes weary on his way-
The farewell tear, which now he turns to pay,
Shall thank you ;--and whene'er of pleasures flown
His heart some long-lost image would renew,
Delightful haunts! he will remember you.

SONNET.

TO THE RIVER TWEED.

O TWEED! a stranger, that with wandering feet
O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile
(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;
The murmurs of thy wandering wave below
Seem to his ear the pity of a friend.
Delightful stream! though now along thy shore,
When spring returns in all her wonted pride,
The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more,
Yet here with pensive peace could I abide,†
Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar,
To muse upon thy banks at eventide.

SONNET.

EVENING, as slow thy placid shades descend,
Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still,
The lonely battlement, and farthest hill
And wood, I think of those that have no friend,
Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led,

From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure
flaunts,

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,
And bid farewell to each retiring hill,
Where fond attention seems to linger still,
Tracing the broad bright landscape; much I grieve
That, mingled with the toiling crowd, no more
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!-
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,
To soothe me with fair views and fancies rude,
When I pursue my path in solitude.

SONNET.

TO THE RIVER ITCHIN, NEAR WINTON.

ITCHIN, when I behold thy banks again,

Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast,
On which the selfsame tints still seem'd to rest,
Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain?
Is it that many a summer's day has past

Since, in life's morn, I caroll'd on thy side?
Is it that oft, since then, my heart has sigh'd,
As youth, and hope's delusive gleams, flew fast?
Is it that those, who circled on thy shore,
Companions of my youth, now meet no more?
Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend,
Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart,
As at the meeting of some long-lost friend,
From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part.

SONNET.

O POVERTY! though from thy haggard eye,
Thy cheerless mien, of every charm bereft,
Thy brow that hope's last traces long have left,
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

Should smile like you, and perish as they smile!

For pity, reckless of her own distress;
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 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,
Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;
And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,

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;
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,

Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,
And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide-
The world his country, and his God his guide.

SONNET.

AT OSTEND, LANDING, JULY 21, 1787.

THE orient beam illumes the parting oar-
From yonder azure track, emerging white,
The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight,
And the blue wave comes rippling to the shore-
Meantime far off the rear of darkness flies:

Yet 'mid the beauties of the morn, unmoved,
Like one for ever torn from all he loved,
Towards Albion's heights I turn my longing eyes,
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
Speaks of the hour that stays not-and the day
To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.

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,
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

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,
Falling at intervals upon the ear

In cadence sweet, now dying all away,

Now pealing loud again, and louder 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,
And with it all its pleasures and its pains.
Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,
That in a few short moments I retrace
(As in a map the voyager his course)
The windings of my way through many years.
Cowper's Task, book vi.

Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could lend,

Like that which spoke of a departed friend
And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!
Now, far removed from every earthly ill,
Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.

SONNET.

O TIME! Who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;

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