LXV.

DUNCAN'S WARNING.

-AIKIN.

As o'er the heath, amid his steel-clad thanes,
The royal Duncan rode in martial pride,

Where full to view, high topp'd with glittering vanes,
Macbeth's strong towers o'erhung the mountain's

side:

In dusky mantle wrapp'd, a grisly form

Rush'd with a giant's stride across his way;

And thus, while howl'd around the rising storm,
In hollow thundering accents pour'd dismay.

Stop, O king, thy destined course,

Furl thy standard, turn thy horse,

Death besets the onward track,

Come no further!-quickly back.

Hear'st thou not the raven's croak?

See'st thou not the blasted oak?

Feel'st thou not the loaded sky?

Read thy danger, king, and fly.—

Lo! yon castle banners glare
Bloody through the troubled air;
Lo! what spectres on the roof,
Frowning, bid thee keep aloof.-

Murder, like an eagle, waits,

Perch'd above the gloomy gates,

Just in act to pounce his prey;

Come not near;

-away! away!

Let not plighted faith beguile,

Honour's semblance, Beauty's smile;

Fierce Ambition's venom'd dart

Rankles in the festering heart.

Treason, arm'd against thy life,

Points his dagger, whets his knife,

Drugs his stupifying bowl,

Steels his unrelenting soul.

Now, ’tis time !–ere guilty night Close around thee, speed thy flight; If the threshold once be crost,

Duncan! thou'rt for ever lost.

Hastes to fill his mortal date:

Cease ye warnings, vain, though true;

Murder'd king! adieu, adieu!

LXVI.

THE BABES IN THE WOOD.

JERNINGHAM.

LET others praise the martial song,

Which rushes as a flood;

And round the harp attentive throng,
That honours deeds of blood.

Let me the humble bard revere,
Though artless be his theme,

Who snatch'd the tale, to pity dear,
From dark oblivion's stream.

Say, little Mary, prattling maid,
Whose wit thy age excels,

Beneath what holy yew tree's shade
Thy favourite author dwells?

VOL. I.

Ah! not on Westminster's proud ground,

The vain enquiry waste;

Go where the meek of heart are found

In unambitious rest.

Where Walton's limpid streamlet flows
Through Norfolk's rich domain,

A gently rising hillock shews

The hamlet's straw-roofed fane.

Hard by is seen a marble stone,.
By many a winter worn;
Forgetfulness around has thrown
The rude o'ermantling thorn.

Within this low, obscure abode,
Fame says the Bard is laid

Oft have I left the beaten road,

To greet the poet's shade.