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The end of iiinn'n existence I diicerned, Who from ignoble games and revelry Could draw, when we had parted, vain
delight While (cars were thy best pastime, — day
And while my youthful peers,before my eyes, (Each Hero following his peculiar bent) Prepared themselves for glorious enterprize By martial sports,—or, seated in the tent, Chieftains and Kings in council were detained; What time the Fleet at Aulis lay enchained.
The wish'd-for wind wns given:—I then
revolved Our future course, upon the silent sea; And, if no worthier led the way, resolved That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.
Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang
Rut should suspense permit the foe to cry:
array, Yet of their number no one dares to die?" In soul I swept the indignity away: Old frailties then recurred: — but lofty
thought, In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.
And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak
In rensnn, in self-government too slow;
I counsel thee by fortitude to seek
Our blest re-union in the shades below.
The invisible world with thee hath sympathised;
Be thy affections raised and solemnized!
Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend Towards a higher object:—Love was given, Enconraged, sanctioned, chiefly for this end. For this the passion- to excess was driven— That Self might be annulled; her bondage
prove The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.—
Alond she shrieked; for Hermes re-appears! Round the dear Shade she would have clung —'tis vain:
The hours are past, too brief had they been
years; And him no mortal effort can detain: Swift tow'rd the realms that know not
earthly day, He through the portal takes his silent way— And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse she
Ah, judge her gently who so deeply lot ed! Her, who, in reason's spite, yet without
crime, Was in a trance of passion thus removed; Delivered from the galling yoke of time And these frail elements—to gather flowers Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.
Yet tears to human suffering are due;
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrowa
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
As fondly lie believes.—I'pon the side
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
From out the tomb of him for whom she
died; And ever, when snch stature they had pain, d That Ilium's wallswere subject to their view. The trees' tall summits wither'd at the sight; A constant interchange of growth and blight!
Hart Lean-Well is a small spring of water, abnoi five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, aard sear the side of the road which leads from Richmond to Askrk'ir. Its name is derived from a remartable Chase, the memory of which in presorted) by the monument* spoken of in the second part of the following Poem, which moanmesl* da saw eiist as I have there described them.
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley
moor With the slow motion of a summer's cloud; He turned aside towards a Vassal's door. And: Rring another Horse! he cried aload.
Another Horse! — That shout the Vi
heard. And saddled his best steed, a comely gray; Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third Which he had mounted on that glorious day.
Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser's eyes; The Horse and Horseman are a happy pair; But though Sir Walter like a falcon flies. There is a doleful silence in the air.
A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall. That as they galloped made the echoes roar; But Horse and Man are vanished, one and all: Such race, I think, was never seea'hrfarr
Sir Walter, restless ns a veering wind, Hills to the few tired Dogs that yet remain: Braeh, Swift, and Music, noblest of their
kind, Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.
The Knight hallooed, he chid and cheered them on
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;
Hut breath and eye-sight fail; and one by one,
The Dogs arc stretched among the mountain-fern.
Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side;
Dismounting then, he leaned against a thorn;
horn, Rut gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.
Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, Stood his dumb partner in this glorious act; Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned; And foaming like a mountain-cataract.
lTpon his side the Hart was lying stretched: His nose half-touched a spring beneath a
hill, And with the last deep groan his breath
had fetched The waters of the spring were trembling still.
And now, too happy for repose or rest,
and west. And gazed and gazed upon that darling place.
And climbing up the hill—(it was at least Nine roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found Three several hoof-marks which the hunted
Beast Had left imprinted on the verdant ground.
Sir Walter wiped his face and cried: "Till now Suth sight was never seen by living eyes: Three leaps have borne him fronfthis lofty
brow, Down to the very fountain where he lies.
I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot, And a small Arbour, made for rural joy; 'Twill be the Traveller's shed, the Pilgrim's
cot, A place of love for Damsels that are coy.
A cunning Artist will I have to frame
And, gallant brute! to make thy praises
known, Another monument shall here he raised; Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn
Stone, And planted where thy hoofs the turf have
And, in the summer-time when dnys are long,
song, We will make merry in that pleasant Bower.
Till the foundations of the mountains fail My Mansion with its Arbour shall endure;— The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!"
Then home he went, and left the Hart, stonedead,
With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring.
— Soon did the Knight perform what he had said,
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.
Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered, A Cup of Stone received the living Well; Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared, And build a House of Pleasure in the dell.
And near the fountain flowers of stature tall
And thither, when the summer-days were
long. Sir Walter journey'd with his Paramour; And with the Danrers and the Minstrel's song Made merriment within that pleasant Bower.
The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of
The moving accident is not my trade:
As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
What this imported I could ill divine:
The trees were gray, with neither arms nor
head; Halfr wasted the square Mound of tawny
green; So that you just might say, as then I said: Here in old time the hand of man hath been.
I looked upon the hill both far and near, More doleful place did never eye survey; It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, And Nature here were willing to decay.
I stood in vnrious thoughts and fancies lost, When onc,who was in shepherd's garb attired, Came up the hollow:—Him did I accost. And what this place might be I then inquired.
The Shepherd stopped, and that same story
told, Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. A jolly place, said he, in times of old! But somcthingails it now; the spot is curst.
You see these lifeless stumps of aspen-wopd— Some say that they are bceches.otherselms— These were the Bower; and here a Mansion
stood, The finest palace of a hundred realms.
The Arbour does its own condition tell; You see the Stones, the Fountain, and the
Stream; But as to the great Lodge! you might as well Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
There's neither dog, nor heifer, horse nor
sheep, Will wet his lips within that Cup of stone; And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.
Some say that here a murder has been done. And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part,
I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun. That it was all for that unhappy Hart.
What thoughts must through the Creature's brain have passed!
Even from the top-most Stone, upon the Steep,
Are but three bounds — and look, Sir, at this last—
—O Master! it has been a cruel leap.
For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;
this place. And come and make his death-bed near the
Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank. Lulled by this Fountain in the summer-tide; This water was perhaps the first he drank When he had wandered from his mother's
In April here beneath the scented thorn,
born Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.
But now here's neither grass nor pleasant
shade; The sun on drearier hollow never shone; So will it be, as I have often said. Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain all are
Gray - headed Shepherd , thou hast spoken
well; Small difference lies between thy creed and
mine: This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell; His death was mourned by sympathy divine.
The Being, that is in the clouds and air.
The Pleasure-house is dust:—behind, before.
more Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.
She leaves these objects to a slow decay. That what we are, and hat e been, may be
known; Rut, at the coming of the milder day, These monuments shall ail be overgrown. One lemon, Shepherd, let tin two divide, Taught both by what she shews, and wlint
conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
ROB ROY'S GRAVE.
A famous Man is Robin Hood,
The English Ballad-singer's joy!
And Scotland has a Thief as good,
An Outlaw of as daring mood,
She has her linn r Rob Roy!
Then clear the weeds from ofT his Grave,
And let us chaunt a passing Stave
In honour of that Hero brine!
Hbivkn gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart.
Yet was Rol> Roy as irise as brave;
Say, then, that he was wise ns brave;
Said generous Rob: "What need of bonks?
We have a passion, make a law,
And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose
The Creatures see of flood and field,
For whyY—becanse the good old Rule
A lesson which is quickly learned,
All freakishnrss of mind is checked;
AH Kinds, and Creatures, stand and fall
Since, then, the rule of right is plain,
And thus among these rocks he lived,
So was it—would, at least, have been
Or shall we say an age too soon?
Then rents and factors, rights of chase,
Rob Roy had never linger'd here.
And to his Sword he would have said:
'Tis fit that we should do our part;
Of old things nil are over old,
I, too, will have my Kings that take
And, if the word had been fulfill d.
Oh! say not so; compare them not;
For Thou.although with some wild thoughts,
And, had it been thy lot to live
For thou wert still the poor man's stay,
Bear witness many a pensive sigh
And, far and near, through vale and hill,
TO TFIE SONS OF BURNS AFTER VISITING THEIR
(Angnat 14th, 1801.)
Ye now are panting up life's hill!
Must ye display
Its lawful sway.
Strong-bodied if ye be to beor
Then, then indeed,
There will be need.
For honest men delight will take
Your steps pursue:
A snare for you
Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
And such revere!
And think, and fear!
TO A HIGHLAND-GIRL.
(At lmermcyde, upon Loch Lomond.)
Sweet Highland-Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head: And these gray rocks; this household-lawn; These trees, a veil just half withdrawn; This fall of water, that doth make A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode; In truth together ye do seem Like something fashion'd in a dream; Such Forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! Yet, dream and vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart: God shield thee to thy latest years! I neither know thee nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away: For never saw I mien, or face, In which more plainly I could trace Renignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here, scattered like a random seed, Remote from men. Thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress. And maidenly shamefaccdness: Thou wearst upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a Mountaineer. A face with gladness overspread! Sweet looks, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as spring* From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts, that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind. Seen birds of tempest-loving kind. Thus beating up against the wiad.
What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful T O happy pleasure! here to dwell Reside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways and drew, A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess! Rut I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality: Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could. Though but of common neighbourhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder Brother I would he. Thy Father, any thing to thee!