ON THE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT, Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown; GRAND CHORUS. At last divine Cecilia came, 107 With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Or both divide the crown; She drew an angel down. Dryden. ON THE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT.* AVENGE, O Lord! thy slaughtered saints, whose bones * Probably written in 1655. Newton observes: "This prayer, in behalf of the persecuted Protestants, was not entirely without effect. For Cromwell exerted himself in their favour, and his behaviour in this whole transaction is greatly to his honour, even as it is related by an historian, who was far from being partial to his memory. 'Nor would the Protector be backward in such a work, which might give the world a particular opinion of his piety and zeal for the Protestant religion; but he proclaimed a solemn feast, and caused large contributions to be gathered for them throughout the kingdom of England and Wales. Nor did he rest here, but sent his agents to the Duke of Savoy, a prince with whom he had no correspondence or commerce, and the next year so engaged the Cardinal of France, and even terrified the Pope himself, without so much as doing any favour to the English 108 SONNET ON MILTON'S BLINDNESS. Forget not in thy book record their groans To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow Milton. SONNET ON MILTON'S BLINDNESS. WHEN I consider how my light is spent And post o'er land and ocean rest; They also serve who often stand and wait. Milton. Roman Catholics, that the Duke thought it necessary to restore all that he had taken from them, and renewed all those privileges they had formerly enjoyed so great was the terror of his name; nothing being more usual than his saying that his ships in the Mediterranean should visit Civita Vecchia, and the sound of his cannon should be heard in Rome.'-See Echard, vol. 2." * An allusion to the parable in Matthew xxv. TO BLOSSOMS. FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile What! were ye born to be But ye are lovely leaves, where we Into the grave. Herrick. THE BANKS OF AYR. THE gloomy night is gathering fast, The autumn mourns her ripening corn 110 LOCHIEL'S WARNING. Across her placid, azure sky, 'Tis not the surging billow's roar, Farewell! old Coila's hills and dales, Burns. LOCHIEL'S WARNING. WIZARD. LOCHIEL, Lochiel, beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 111 But, hark! through the fast flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 'Tis thine, oh Glenallin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning: no rider in there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led! Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead! For a merciless sword on Culloden shall waveCulloden, that recks with the blood of the brave. LOCHIEL. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! WIZARD. Ha! laughest thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north? But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, |