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THE PROGRESS OF POESY

Has curb’d the fury of his car,
And dropp d his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the scept’red hand 2-o
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie
The terror of his beak, and light'nings of his eye.

The Epode

Thee the voice, the dance, obey, 25 Temper'd to thy warbled lay. O'er Idalia's velvet-green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures, 30 Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating

Glance their many-twinkling feet. 35 Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare:

Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay.

With arms sublime, that float upon the air,

In gliding state she wins her easy way:

O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move 4o

The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of Love.

II The Strophe

Man's feeble race what Ills await,
Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,
And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!
The fond complaint, my Song, disprove, 46
And justify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse?
Night, and all her sickly dews,
Her Spectres wan, and Birds of boding cry, 5o
He gives to range the dreary sky:
Till down the eastern cliffs afar
Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of

war.
The Antistrophe

In climes beyond the solar road,

Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,

The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom 56
To cheer the shiv'ring Native's dull abode.
And oft, beneath the od’rous shade
Of Chili's boundless forests laid,
She deigns to hear the savage Youth repeat 60
In loose numbers wildly sweet

269

Their feather-cinctured Chiefs, and dusky Loves.
Her track, where'er the Goddess roves,
Glory pursue, and generous Shame,
Th’ unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy
flame. 65

* * The Epode

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th' Afgean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Maeander's amber waves In lingering Lab’rinths creep, 7o How do your tuneful Echo's languish, Mute, but to the voice of Anguish? Where each old poetic Mountain Inspiration breath'd around: Ev'ry shade and hallow'd Fountain 75 Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they'scorn the pomp of tyrant-Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. 8o When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, O Albion next thy sea-encircled

Coast.

III The Strophe

Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, 85 To Him the mighty Mother did unveil Her awful face: The dauntless Child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: 90 Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy; Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Orope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.

The Antistrophe

Nor second He, that rode sublime 95 Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of th’ Abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time: The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where Angels tremble, while they gaze, Ioo He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear

Two Coursers of ethereal race, IoS With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resounding pace.

The Epode

Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more - III O Lyre divine, what daring Spirit Wakes thee now P tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear Sailing with supreme dominion Thro' the azure deep of air: Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun: Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the Good how far — but far above the

Great.

115

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THE BARD

A PINDARIC ODE I

The Strophe

“Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion, on thy banners wait, Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail, 5 Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!”

Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, Io As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring

lance.

The Antistrophe

On a rock, whose haughty brow 15 Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream’d, like a meteor, to the troubled air) 20 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, O King! their hundred arms they

wave, 25

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;

Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn'sby

The Epode

“Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main; 3: Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-toppd

head.

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 35
Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof th’ affrighted ravens sail;
The famish’d Eagle screams, and passes by.

Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, 40
Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries –
No more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,
I see them sit, they linger yet, 45
Avengers of their native land:
With me in dreadful harmony they join, |
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy

line:—

II The Strophe

“‘Weave the warp, and weave the woof,

The winding sheet of Edward's race. 50
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, thro’ Berkley's roofs that

ring, 55
Shrieks of an agonising 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 Heav'n. What Terrors round

him wait! 60 Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

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THE BARD

The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were
born ?
Gone to salute the rising Morn. 7o
Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes;
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening
prey. 76
The Epode

“‘Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast. Close by the regal chair 8o 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? 84 Long Years of havock urge their destined course, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their

way. Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murther fed, Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame, And spare the meek Usurper's holy head. 90 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 th’ accursed loom Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his

doom. 96

III The Strophe

“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. Iod

But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll P 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!

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The Antistrophe

“Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear;

271 And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a Form divine ! IIS

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“The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin'd 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, I 35 Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd 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 doom our Fates assign. Be thine Despair, and scept’red Care, To triumph, and to die, are mine.” He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.

125

131

140

AN ODE FROM THE NORSE TONGUE

Now the storm begins to lower, (Haste, the loom of hell prepare,) Iron-sleet of arrowy shower Hurtles in the darken'd air.

Glitt'ring lances are the loom, 5
Where the dusky warp we strain,
Weaving many a soldier's doom,
Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane.

See the griesly texture grow,
('Tis of human entrails made,) to
And the weights, that play below,
Each a gasping warrior's head.

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