Then will I pall me in tempestuous gloom; Black, rough, as lava-fields. And (when I've learnt to sway destroying storms, To hurl the fiery doom,) Yon troof, profaner of my realm, assail, And every building fall: * From one situation on the lake an echo repeats seven times. JOSEPH POCKLINGTON, Efq. has decorated an island in the lake of which he is owner, with stables in the form of a church, a mock fort neatly white-wash'd, a trim boat-house leaning on the remains of a Druidical Temple, whose central ftone is yearly painted with white lead and oil, &c. The roaring surges from its shore shall dash To shapeless ruin sear. There, (as o'er slaughter-fields the Fiend of war The cloud of steaming blood And agonizing groans,) Awhile I'll lower o'er the crumbling wrack The murmuring waters hush. Then shall my satiate ire no more forbid The tears of twilight on the isle to gleam, To kiss the flowery shore. 90 95 100 I'll show the Elves where on its scented brink 105 The purple violets drench their heads in dew, The rifted oak with misletoe shall teem, And from the mossier walls, Unfading ivy bow. From cloudy exile will I then recall The ghosts of Druids to their ring of stones, And from their golden harps melodious, pour Aerial music down the listening vales, (While thro' the streakless blue Slow winds the full-orb'd moon, And all the stars in living radiance bath'd, Keswic, their beamy locks,) The dusky Fays of Borro's echoing cave From their deep palace by the sound evok'd, Shall on thy tawny sands Their jetty tribute fling; 110 115 120 125 And from the marble grottoes of thy bed, The loose cerulean woof, To braid with sedge their undulating hair, With pearly wrist to cleave; And every Spirit of thy haunted banks, Around thy hallowed brim. 135 140 RYALTO. BISHOP BRUNO. "Bruno, the Bishop of Herbipolitanum, sailing in the river of Danubius, with Henry the third, then Emperour, being not far from a place which the Germanes call BEN STRUDEL, or the devouring gulfe, which is neere unto Grinon, a castle in Austria, a spirit was heard clamouring aloud, "Ho, ho, Bishop Bruno, whether art thou travelling? but dispose of thyselfe how thou pleasest, thou shalt be my prey and spoile." At the hearing of these words they were all stupified, and the Bishop with the rest crost and blest themselves. The issue was, that within a short time after, the Bishop feasting with the Emperor in a Castle belonging to the Countesse of Esburch, a rafter fell from the roof of the chamber wherein they sate, and strooke him dead at the table." Heywood's Hierarchie of the blessed Angels. Bishop Bruno awoke in the dead midnight, And the sound it gave was his passing knell. Bishop Bruno smiled at his fears so vain, And Death was the porter that opened the door. |