More remote and buxom-brown,

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne ; A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone.

But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer-borne car to ride
With barren darkness at his side,
Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale ;
Round the hall where Runic Odin
Howls his war-song to the gale;
Save when adown the ravaged globe,
He travels on his native storm,
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe,
And trampling on her faded form-
Till Light's returning lord assume

The shaft that drives him to his polar field,
Of power to pierce his raven plume
And crystal-cover'd shield.

O sire of storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity,
Archangel! power of desolation!

Fast descending as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation

Spells to touch thy stony heart?
Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruin'd year;
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare,
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear ;
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead,
And gently on the orphan head

Of innocence descend.

But chiefly spare, O king of clouds,

The sailor on his airy shrouds,

When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,

And spectres walk along the deep;

Milder yet thy snowy breezes
Pour on yonder tented shores,
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
Or the dark brown Danube roars.
O winds of Winter! list ye there

To many a deep and dying groan;
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own.
Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath

May spare the victim fallen low;

But man will ask no truce to death,—
No bounds to human woe.

THE BARD.

CAMPBELL.

“RUIN seize thee, ruthless king!

"Confusion on thy banners wait;

"Though fann'd by conquest's crimson wing, "They mock the air with idle state!

Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,

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,
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.

On a rock, whose haughty brow

Frowns o'er old Conway's foamy flood,

Rob'd 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);

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;

"

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe: "Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

"To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

"Cold is Cadwalla's tongue,

That hush'd the stormy main:
"Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy oed:
"Mountains, ye mourn in vain
"Modred, whose magic song

"Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.
"On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
"Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale.

"Far, far aloof, the 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"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 grisly band,

"I see them sit-they linger yet,

"L Avengers of their native land!

"With me in dreadful harmony they join,

And weave, with bloody hands, the tissue of thy line.

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof

"The winding-sheet of Edward's race;
"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 through Berkeley's roof that ring,

"Shrieks of an agonising king!

"She wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,

"That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,

"From thee be borne, who o'er thy country hangs

"The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait! "Amazement in his van, with flight combined, "And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.

66

Thy son is gone: he rests among the dead.

"The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born"Gone to salute the rising morn.

"Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,

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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.

"Fill high the sparkling bowl;

"The rich repast prepare:

"Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:

"Close by the regal chair,

"Fell thirst and famine scowl

"A baleful smile upon their baffled guest!

"Heard ye the din of battle bray,

66

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destin'd course, "And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius-London's lasting shame, "With many a foul and midnight murder fed, "Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, “And spare the meek usurper's holy head!

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'Above, below, the rose of snow,

"Twin'd 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!

"Edward, lo! to sudden fate

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(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, unpity'd, here to mourn ! "In yon bright tract, that fires the western skies 'They melt-they vanish from my eyes.

"But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height,
"Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll!
"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!

"Girt with many a baron bold,

"Sublime, their starry fronts they rear;
"And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old,
In bearded majesty appear:

"In the midst, a form divine!

"Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line : "Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, Attemper'd sweet to virgin grace.

"What strains symphonious tremble in the air!
"What strains of vocal transport round her play!
"Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear,

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They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.

"Bright Rapture calls, and, soaring as she sings, "Waves in the eye of heav'n her many-colour'd wings.

"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, "Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? "To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

"And warms the nations with redoubled ray.