Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, "Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 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, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havock urge their destined course, And thro' 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! Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread. The bristled boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 66 'Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof; The thread is spun); Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove; The work is done); Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! What strings symphonious tremble in the air. They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. "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. 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. Enough for me with joy I see The different doom our fates assign : Be thine Despair and sceptered Care; To triumph and to die are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.-1731-74. [OLIVER GOLDSMITH was born in 1731, at Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ireland, where his father was the clergyman. He received his education at Dublin, Edinburgh, and Leyden; for some cause he abruptly quitted the latter city, and resolved to travel on foot through Europe. His adventures were singular and various; he frequently subsisted on the bounty of the peasants, and in return for a meal or a night's lodging played upon the flute. On his return to London, he obtained the situation of usher in a school at Peckham. By his publication of "The Traveller" he emerged from obscurity, and was enabled to take a high rank among literary celebrities. His "Vicar of Wakefield," "Deserted Village," and various other works speedily followed, and his circumstances seemed to be in a favourable condition; but his eccentric disposition, and an unfortunate propensity to gambling, involved him in constant difficulties. He died of a painful disease, at his chambers in the Temple, April the 4th, 1774.] WEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, SWEET Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd. Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene! The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree; |