But Linden show'd another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death, to light The darkness of the scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd
To join the dreadful revelry:
Then shook the hills by thunder riven; Then flew the steed to battle driven; And rolling like the bolts of heaven, Far flash'd their red artillery. But redder yet their fires shall glow On Linden's heights of crimson'd snow; And bloodier still the torrent flow Of Iser rolling rapidly.
The combat deepens! on, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry. "Tis morn ;-but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, Where fiery Frank and furious Hun
Shout in their sulphury canopy. Few, few shall part where many meet; The snow shall be their winding-sheet; And every sod beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
$265. A British War-Song.
QUIT the plough, the loom, the mine; Quit the joys the heart entwine! Join our brothers on the brine;
Arm, ye brave, or slavery! Peace, so lov'd, away is fled; War shall leave his iron bed; To your arms, avengers dread!
Strike, oh strike at tyranny. For our homes, our all, our name! Blast again the tyrant's aim; Britain's wrongs swift vengeance claim; Rush to arms-or slavery.
Lo! the shades of Britons proud! Hear them in yon flitting cloud! Freedom, children, or a shroud,” Choose with British bravery. Heroes of the sea, the shore, Quit your laurell'd rest once more; Dreadly rouse the battle's roar, Vengeance hurl on tyranny!
From Æthiopia's lofty mountains roll'd, Where Nile's proud stream through glad- den'd Egypt pours,
In raptur'd strains thy praise was hymn'd of old, And still resounds on Ganges' faithful shores! Within thy beauteous coral's full-blown bell Long since the immortals fix'd their fond abode;
There day's bright source, Osiris, lov'd to dwell, While by his side enamour'd Isis glow'd. Hence, not unconscious, to his orient beam
At dawn's first blush thy radiant petals spread, Drink deep the effulgence of the solar stream, And, as he mounts, still brighter glories shed.
When at the noon-tide height his fervid rays
In a bright deluge burst on Cairo's spires, With what new lustre then thy beauties blaze, Full of the God, and radiant with his fires! Brilliant thyself, in store of dazzling white
Thy sister-plants more gaudy robes unfold; This flames in purple-that, intensely bright, Amid th' illumin'd waters burns in gold.
To brave the tropic's fiery beam is thine, Till in the distant west his splendors fade; Then too thy beauty and thy fire decline, With morn to rise in lovelier charms array'd. Thus from Arabia borne, on golden wings, The Phoenix on the sun's bright altar dies; But from his flaming bed, refulgent, springs, And cleaves, with bolder plume, the sapphire skies.
What mystic treasures in thy form conceal'd Perpetual transport to the sage supply ; Where Nature, in her deep designs reveal'd, Awes wondering man, and charms th' ex, ploring eye!
In thy prolific cup and fertile seeds,
Are trac'd her grand regenerative powers; Life springing warm from loath'd putrescence breeds,
And lovelier germs shoot forth and brighter flowers.
Nor food to the enlighten'd mind alone,
Substantial nutriment thy root bestow'd; In famine's vulture-fangs did Egypt groan, From thy rich bounteous horn abundance flow'd.
Hence the immortal race in Thebes rever'd, Thy praise the theme of endless rapture made, Thy image on a hundred columns rear'd,
Ánd veil'd their altars with thine hallow'd shade.
But far beyond the bounds of Afric borne, Thy honors flourish'd 'mid Thibetian snows;
§ 266. The Lotos of Egypt; a Poem. By the Thy flowers the Lama's gilded shrine adorn,
EMBLEM sublime of that primordial power, That brooded o'er the vast chaotic wave, Accept my duteous homage, holy flower,
As in thy favorite flood my limbs I lave.
Ánd Boodh and Bramah on thy stalk repose. Where'er fair Science dawn'd on Asia's shore, Where'er her hallow'd voice Devotion rais'd, We see thee graven on the golden ore,
And on a thousand sparkling gems emblaz'd.
Child of the sun, why droops thy withering head,
While high in Leo flames thy radiant sire? With Egypt's glory is thy glory fled,
And with her genius quench'd thy native fire? For, direr than her desert's burning wind,
Gaul's furious legions sweep yon ravag'd vale; Death stalks before, grim Famine howls behind, And screams of horror load the tainted gale. Nile's crimson'd waves with blood polluted roll; Her groves, her fanes, devouring fire con
But mark, slow-rising near the distant pole, A sudden splendor all her shores illumes. Fatal to Gaul, 'tis Britain's rising star, That in the south the bright ascendant gains, Resplendent as her Sirius shines from far, And with new fervors fires the Libyan plains. A race as Egypt's ancient warriors brave,
For her insulted sons indignant glows; Defies the tropic storm, the faithless wave, And hurls destruction on their haughty foes. Exulting to his source old Nilus hears The deep'ning thunders of the British line: Again its lovely head the Lotos rears,
Again the fields in rainbow glories shine. Still wider, beauteous plant! thy leaves extend, Nor dread the eye of an admiring muse; In union with the rising song ascend,
Spread all thy charms, and all thy sweets diffuse.
Of that bold race heneath the Pleïads born, To chant thy praise a northern bard aspires; Nor with more ardor erst at early dawn
The Theban artists smote their votive lyres. For, oh! can climes th' excursive genius bound? No-mid Siberia bursts the heav'n-taught strain,
At either pole the Muse's songs resound,
And snows descend and whirlwinds rage vain.
Four thousand summers have thy pride survey'd, Thy Pharaohs moulder in their marble tombs; Oblivion's wings the pyramids shall shade,
But thy fair family unfading blooms! Still 'mid these ruin'd tow'rs admir'd, rever'd, Wave high thy foliage, and secure expand; These vast but crumbling piles by man were rear'd;
But thou wert form'd by an immortal hand! With Nature's charms alone thy charms shall fade;
With Being's self thy beauteous tribe decline; Oh! living, may thy How'rs my temple shade, And decorate when dead my envied shrine! § 267. Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene. M. G. LEWIS, Esq. A WARRIOR SO bold, and a virgin so bright,
Convers'd as they sat on the green : They gaz'd on each other with tender delight, Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight, The maid was the Fair Imogene.
"And ah!" said the youth, "since to-morrow I go,
To fight in a far-distant land, Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow, Some other will court you, and you will bestow On a wealthier suitor your hand." "Oh, hush these suspicions," fair Imogene said, "So hurtful to love and to me;
For if you be living, or if you be dead, swear by the Virgin that none in your stead Shall husband of Imogene be.
"And if e'er for another my heart should decide, Forgetting Alonzo the Brave,
God grant that to punish my falsehood and pride, Thy ghost at my marriage may sit by my side, May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride, And bear me away to the grave.”
To Palestine hasten'd the warrior so bold, His love she lamented him sore; But scarce had a twelvemonth elaps'd, when behold,
A baron, all cover'd with jewels and gold, Arriv'd at fair Imogene's door.
His treasure, his presents, his spacious domain, Soon made her untrue to her vows, He dazzled her eyes, he bewilder'd her brain, He caught her affections, so light and so vain, And carried her home as his spouse.
And now had the marriage been blest by the priest,
The revelry now was begun; The tables they groan'd with the weight of the feast,
Nor vet had the laughter and merriment ceas'd, When the bell of the castle toll'd-ONE! 'Twas then with amazement fair Imogene found A stranger was placed by her side; His air was terrific, he utter'd no sound, He spoke not, he mov'd not, he look'd not around,
But earnestly gaz'd on the bride.
His vizor was clos'd, and gigantic his height, His armor was sable to view;
All laughter and pleasure were hush'd at his sight, [affright, The dogs as they eyed him drew back with And the lights in the chamber burnt blue. His presence all bosoms appear'd to dismay, The guests sat in silence and fear; At length spoke the bride, while she trembled I pray,
Sir knight, that your helmet aside you would lay, And deign to partake of our cheer.” The lady is silent-the stranger complies,
And his vizor he slowly unclos'd. Oh gods! what a sight met fair Imogene's eyes, What words can express her dismay and surprise, When a skeleton's head was expos'd!
"Behold me, thou false one! behold me!" he | To think that time so soon each sweet devours,
"Behold thy Alonzo the Brave.
God grants that, to punish thy falsehood and pride,
My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side, Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride, And bear thee away to the grave."
This saying, his arms round the lady he wound, While fair Imogene shriek'd with dismay; Then sunk with his prey through the wide- yawning ground,
Nor ever again was fair Imogene found, Or the spectre that bore her away.
Not long liv'd the baron, and none since that To inhabit the castle presume: [time For chronicles tell, that by order sublime, There Imogene suffers the pains of her crime, And mourns her deplorable doom.
At midnight four times in each year does her sprite,
When mortals in slumber are bound, Array'd in her bridal apparel of white, Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight, And shriek as he whirls her around. While they drink out of skulls newly torn from
Dancing round them pale spectres are seen: Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave They howl: "To the health of Alonzo the Brave,
And his consort, the false Imogene."
§ 268. Sonnet. WHOSE was that gentle voice, that whispering sweet,
Promis'd, methought, long days of bliss sincere? Soothing it stole on my deluded ear, Most like soft music that might sometimes cheat Thoughts dark and drooping. "Twas the voice of Hope.
Of love and social scenes it seem'd to speak, Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek;
That hand in hand along life's downward slope
Might walk with peace, and cheer the tranquil hours:
Ah me! the prospect sadden'd as she sung; Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung: Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable bowers She built whilst pointing to yon breathless clay, [away!" She cried, "No peace be thine: away,
§ 269. Sonnet. BOWLES.
As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds, Still on that vision which is flown I dwell! On images I lov'd, (alas, how well!) Now past, and but remember'd like sweet sound Of yesterday! yet in my breast I keep Such recollections, painful though they seem; And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream I wake, and find them not: then I could weep
To think so soon life's first endearments fail, And we are duped by Hope's amusive tale; Who like a flatterer, when the happiest hours Are past, and most we wish her cheering lay, Will fly as faithless and as fleet as they!
$270. Sonnet. At a Convent. BOWLES. IF chance some pensive stranger hither led, His bosom glowing from majestic views,
The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscapehues,
Should ask who sleeps beneath this lonely bed, "Tis poor Matilda! To the cloister'd scene,
A mourner beauteous and unknown, she came, To shed her tears unmark'd, and quench the flame
Of ruthless love: yet still her look serene As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle. Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could
Like that which spoke of a departed friend, And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!— Be the rude spot by passing pity blest, Where, hush'd to long repose, the wretched
$271. Sonnet. BOWLES.
O TIME, thou know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceiv'd away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last, And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, I may look back on ev'ry sorrow past, And meet life's peaceful evening with a smileAs some lone bird at day's departing hour
Sings in the sunbeam of the transient show'r, Forgetful though its wings are wet the while; Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!
§ 272. The Tunbridge School Boy. Spoken by Mr.THOMAS KNOX at the annual Visitation of Tunbridge School.
SWEET is thy month, O Maia! nor less sweet Life's earliest prime, when roseate blossomsblow In Fancy's fairy meads, the Elysian fields Of infantine illusion, on the breast Of boys, who court, like us, the classic Muse, And daily sip the dews of Castalie.
Happy the school-boy! did he prize his bliss, Twere ill exchang'd for all the dazzling gems That gaily sparkle in ambition's eye; His are the joys of nature, his the smile, The cherub smile, of innocence and health, Sorrow unknown, or if a tear be shed, He wipes it soon; for hark! the cheerful voice Of comrades calls him to the top, or ball. Away he hies, and clamors as he goes
With glee, which causes him to tread on air; | Is simple; yet 'tis nature's voice, and comes Bounding along elastic to the field,
Or play-ground, scarce the well-stuff'd leathern
Springs from the earth so light, so swift as he: And well he earns the sport he well enjoys, For from the morning's dawn o'er learning's His steady eye has por'd till eventide. [page Early he woke; and scarce had chanticleer Announc'd Aurora's orient blushing beams, When from the turret of the classic dome The bell importunate rang shrill and loud, And call'd him from his pillow; up he sprang, Shaking soft slumbers from his shining eyes, And eager to renew his daily task. First lowly on his knees with orisons His Father high in heaven he supplicates To bless his earthly sire, her that bore him, Friends, tutors, all that watch with anxious care To guide his footsteps in the paths of peace: Then to the limpid spring he hies, and laves In the cold element his morning face. His flowing locks well kempt, all neat and fresh As vernal violets wash'd with drops of dew, He takes his seat upon the classic bench,. With Lily's volume duly op'd before him, And cons the task to memory assign'd, Repeating rules of grammar o'er and o'er With patience unsubdued; but now and then He sweetens toil with gingerbread's nice cates, Or apples par'd unseen beneath the form, Or conversation softly interchang'd
Of nests, and slides, and marbles, weighty cares, Yet not unpleasing. Soon the busy school Glows with a general hum, as when in May The bees go forth to rifle honey'd flowers, They buz and murmur, yet no labor slight, But bring home luscious loads to enrich the hive. The morning part well said, new cares suc- ceed;
For now the authors of a golden age, Virgil and Horace, Tully's copious page, And Homer's manly melody, invite The ear attun'd by nature and by art, To revel in the luxury of verse,
Or prose well measur'd, fraught with sense and sound
Harmonious; polish'd is his car, and keen His intellect, he hears, he tastes, he feels, Till his whole soul elate with ecstasy, Catching the flame of genius, boldly dares To emulate the beauty he admires: Hence in the evening exercise the theme Pregnant with moral truth, express'd in style Purely Augustan; one day sure to grace The bar, the pulpit, or the author's page, Himself to aggrandize, and serve mankind. Nor seldom does the stripling snatch the lyre, And strike the deep-ton'd shell. Alcæus now He emulates; whose sinewy nervous lines Pour forth, like Handel's strains, full harmony; And now he sings with Sappho softly sweet; The liquid measures flow like honey'd drops That trickle from the dædal cells of bees, Adonis closing the mellifluent lay With gentlest cadence. Listen yet once more! Tis elegy I hear; the mournful verse
Directly from the heart; and to the heart It deeply pierces; I could weep, and smile To think I wept-how plaintive are the notes! Like such as oft I hear the nightingale Modestly warble from the thickest shade, Concealment seeking, yet betray'd by tones Softer and sweeter than Italia's sons Strain from their throats to raptur'd theatres. But not to ode and elegy alone His ardor leads; his emulative skill In epigram he tries; and many a point Inserts which Martial might not blush to own, With classical expression neat and terse. Oft on the banks of Medway, near the dome Of Sydney's noble race, he sits reclin'd, And meditates the verse where Waller sat And sung his Sacharissa; by his side Horace and Ovid. While the trembling reed With fly appendant lures the golden chub, His pencil in his hand, he studious notes Some bright idea, or some polish'd phrase Suggested by the Muse that haunts the groves Of Penshurst, classic ground: if Britain's isle Can boast such ground, then Penshurst's is the [scream Though solitude now reigns, and the heron's Drowns with the din each song of Philomel.
The task well finish'd, to the master's eye The stripling bard submits with anxious heart, Happy, thrice happy could it meet with praise. His bosom throbs, till soon the judge's brows, That frown'd terrific, gentler looks assume: He calls the urchin with a friendly voice, And stroking his curl'd locks, ""Tis good," he cries,
"And to reward thy well-done task I grant A holiday." Straight all the air resounds "A holiday!" loud shouts from infant lips Proclaim a holiday! they eager rush To snatch the licens'd joy; each moment lost Seems like an hour, Then take, O take your fill, Ye innocent tribes, nor let severity Too rigorous rob you of the fleeting day: "Tis brief at best, and hardly shall ye know In life's most boasted years a purer bliss Or more exalted. Fly then o'er the lawn, Climb yonder hill-expatiate through the grove, Or from the green bank plunge into the wave. Why need I urge? already they are gone; Some in the limpid stream already merg'd, Their pastime take, and cleave the ambient Or buoyant on the surface float supine, [wave, Sporting like halcyons on the smooth expanse. Thus nerv'd with added strength they urge the ball
At cricket, manly game! the boast of Kent, Tunbrigia's sons against all England's race; Norlast, though least, the sprightly boys of Judd, Scorning to be surpass'd in school, or field.
Others, as seasons urge, with wary eye Search every thicket for the mossy nest; And, thoughtless of the wrong, the eggs despoil, Blue as the ethereal concave, streak'd or vein'd By nature's pencil with a thousand dyes.
* Sir Arthur Judd, the founder.
Oh! my companions! rob not the poor bird, For many a pang she feels; but be content With viewing the fair prize, and leave it there. Sweetly the song from yonder hawthorn bush Shall pay your generous pity as you pass; And conscious virtue shall a bliss bestow, Which rapine, though successful, never tastes, Though India's gems enrich the plunderer. Trust not in wrong and robbery for happi- ness;
Nor, when autumnal suns the pensile fruit Mature and on the southern garden-wall Blushes the nectar'd peach like Hebe's cheek, O'erleap the fence. Oh, turn thy roving eye From orchards rich with vegetable gold, The pippin and the pear; and learn, like me, The ripen'd cherry, shining, sleek, and plump, To view with all the stoic's apathy. I hate the purple cluster of the grape When, out of reach, it peeps between the leaves Half shown and half conceal'd, to tempt the
Insidious beauty! Comrade, touch it not: If e'er in evil hour thou pluck the fruit Unlawful, thou shalt rue it, short-liv'd sweet Follow'd by bitterness. The owner sees Unseen, and tells the master of thy theft. Then lo, the birchen fasces-hateful twigs; Down go the galligaskins; sighs and sobs Too plainly tell what penalties and woes Brings disobedience, and the tempting fruit Of that forbidden tree. Then learn content: A little weekly stipend is thine own, And freely use it, as it was given for use. Does thy mouth water? See the matron's stall, Plums, nuts, and apples, rang'd in shining
Invite, nor rigid Prudence bids forbear; There purchase, paying ready cash, and eat, Welcome as nuts to thee thy mite to her. Enjoy thy feast, poor imp, and freely taste, No fears or qualms empois'ning the regale; Then, with fight heart, and pockets lighter still, Eas'd of thy money-root of every harm! Away again to drive the circling hoop, Or spin the top, or knuckle down at taw.
But now the shades of eve and turret bell Proclaim the holiday too soon expir'd"In boys! all in, boys!" Instant to the school Repairing, low they bend to that high Pow'r That guards them from the sultry noon-tide heat,
The pestilence that walketh in the night, And out of mouths of sucklings and of babes Ordained praise. The choral hymn and pray'r Ascends like incense to the throne of heaven. And now all weary, and with eyes half-clos'd, Down on the couch they sink, nor sooner down,
Than sleep seals up their lids: how hush'd the din,
The merry noise that echoed o'er the field The live long day! 'Tis silent all and still Along the chambers of the dormitory, Save where a gentle breathing soothes the ear, Or now and then a voice that talks in sleep: For many a vision, or fantastic dream,
Hovers around their pillows; rivers, groves, Bird's-nests on tops of tallest trees are seen, With callow young, or eggs of varied hue; Goldfinches, larks, or linnets, lim'd with twigs, Or snar'd in traps, or gudgeons on the hook. The orchard's charms with added lures appear: Already up the tree they seize the prize; There plums and pippins, pears of freshest hue, Clusters of grapes, no longer out of reach, Distil nectareous juices on their lips, Which seem to smack again: so strong and
Imagination's pencil paints the scene. Thus cheer'd by slumbers and a holiday, With double diligence they ply the task Upon the morrow: then vacation's good, When to ingenuous minds allow'd it gives spur to industry, and to genius fire.
A Rest and alternate labour, these combin'd With discipline, shall form the emulous youth To high accomplishments in liberal arts; And when his friends and country call him forth To generous services in busy life, With energetic force he acts his part, And strict propriety, in every place, However arduous, in the social sphere. Happy and honor'd, prominent he stands Among the sons of men; and lustre flings Back on the place where education stored His mind with arts that taught him to excel. Pardon my daring, if amid this group Of school-boys, who, beneath your fostering smiles,
The muses, graces, virtues, cultivate, I venture to foretell that, spurning ease, Some shall emerge, and add to the renown Of Tunbridge school; an ancient hoary seat Of classic institution, favour'd long By patronage of men whose liberal souls, Amid the cares of gain, commercial toils, Chief cause of Britain's proud pre-eminence, Still find an hour to listen to the muse, And honor arts which seek no sordid pelf, But add a grace to life, and build up man. O'tis a noble edifice; and here The solid basis must be firmly laid In elemental lore. The pious Judd Some centuries past here plac'd the corner-stone: His sons, disdaining to degenerate, Support and deck the pile. 'Tis nobly done, And merits praise, which, though our hearts can feel,
[due. Our tongues want words to speak in language A school-boy!-you've heard my artless tale; "Tis a true picture of my simple life; Then how should I in language adequate Describe your merits? "Tis a copious theme, And asks a genius, as your bounty large. But this I know, instructed in the arts Of elegance and taste beneath this roof, And cherish'd by your smiles, the day may
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