DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov'd, till life can charm no more;
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.

AN ODE

ON THE

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND;

CONSIDERED AS

THE SUBJECT OF POETRY.

INSCRIBED TO MR. JOHN HOME.

HOME, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads long

Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay, [day Mid those soft friends, whose hearts some future Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song, Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth + [side; Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's Together let us wish him lasting truth

And joy untainted with his destin'd bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast

*

My short-liv'd bliss, forget my social name; But think, far off, how, on the Southern coast, I met thy friendship with an equal flame! Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, where every vale

Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand: To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail;

Thou need'st but take thy pencil to thy hand, And paint what all believe, who own thy genial land.

How truly did Collins predict Home's tragic powers!

A gentleman of the name of Barrow, who introduced Home to Collins.

There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill;
'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet;
Where still, 't is said, the fairy people meet,
Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill.
There each trim lass, that skims the milky store

To the swart tribes, their creamy bowls alots;
By night they sip it round the cottage-door,

While airy minstrels warble jocund notes. There, every herd, by sad experience, knows

How, wing'd with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly, When the sick ewe her summer food forgoes,

Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Such airy beings awe th' untutor'd swain:

Nor thou, tho' learn'd, his homelier thoughts neglect;

Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain;

These are the themes of simple, sure effect, That add new conquests to her boundless reign, And fill with double force her heart-coinmanding strain.

E'en yet preserv'd, how often mayst thou hear, Where to the Pole the Boreal mountains run, Taught by the father, to his listening son; Strange lays, whose power had charm'd a Spenser's

ear.

At every pause, before thy mind possest,

Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, With uncouth lyres, in many-colour'd vest,

Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown'd: Whether thou bidd'st the well-taught hind repeat

The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave,

When every shrieking maid her bosom beat,

And strew'd with choicest herbs his scented grave; Or, whether sitting in the shepherd's shiel,

Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms; When at the bugle's call, with fire and steel,

The sturdy clans pour'd forth their brawny

swarms,

And hostile brothers met, to prove each other's arms.

'T is thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells,
In Sky's lone isle, the gifted wizard-seer,
Lodg'd in the wintery cave with Fate's fell spear,
Or in the depth of Uist's dark forest dwells:
How they, whose sight such dreary dreams engross,

With their own vision oft astonish'd droop;
When, o'er the watery strath, or quaggy moss,

They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop. Or, if in sports, or on the festive green,

Their destin'd glance some fated youth descry, Who now, perhaps, in lusty vigour seen,

And rosy health, shall soon lamented die. For them the viewless forms of air obey;

Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair. They know what spirit brews the stormful day,

And heartless, oft like moody madness, stare To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.

To monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray,
Oft have I seen Fate give the fatal blow!

The seer, in Sky, shriek'd as the blood did flow, When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay!

As Boreas threw his young Aurora* forth,
In the first year of the first George's reign,
And battles rag'd in welkin of the North,

They mourn'd in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain! And as, of late, they joy'd in Preston's fight,

Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crown'd! They rav'd! divining thro' their second sight †, Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown'd!

Illustrious William!

Britain's guardian name! One William sav'd us from a tyrant's stroke; He, for a sceptre, gain'd heroic fame,

But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke,

To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke!

These, too, thou 'lt sing! for well thy magic Muse
Can to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar;
Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more!
Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne'er

lose;

* By young Aurora, Collins undoubtedly meant the first appearance of the northern lights, which happened about the year 1715; at least, it is most highly probable, from this peculiar circumstance, that no ancient writer whatever has taken any notice of them, nor even any one modern, previous to the above period.

+ Second sight is the term that is used for the divination of the Highlanders.

The late Duke of Cumberland, who defeated the Pretender at the battle of Culloden.