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* Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave,
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
O'er thee, oh king! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

- Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hush'd the stormy main ;
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed :
Mountains, ye mourn in vain
Modred, whose magic song
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale :
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail :
The famish'd eagle screams and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries -
No more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,
I see them sit, they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land :
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Edward's race.
Give ample room, and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-echo with affright,

The shrieks of death through Berkeley's roofs that

ring ; Shrieks of an agonizing king! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him

wait ! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined ; And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.'

“ Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames and statesmen old, In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine ! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line; Her lion-port, her awe commanding face, Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air ! What strains of vocal transport round her play! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd

wings.

“ 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.

A voice, as of the cherub-choir,
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 scepter'd 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.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

BORN 1720-Died 1756.

ODE TO THE DEATH OF MR THOMSON.

THE SCENE OF THE FOLLOWING STANZAS IS SUPPOSED TO LIE

ON THE THAMES, NEAR RICHMOND,

In yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave!
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,

To deck its poet's sylvan grave.

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds

His airy harp shall now be laid ; That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,

May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here ;

And, while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar

To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft as Ease and Health retire

To breezy lawn, or forest deep, The friend shall view yon whitening spire, (a)

And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou, who own'st that earthly bed,

Ah! what will every dirge avail ? Or tears which Love and Pity shed,

That mourn beneath the gliding sail !

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye

Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near ? With him, sweet Bard, may Fancy die,

And Joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide

No sedge-crown'd Sisters now attend,

(a) Mr Thomson was buried in Richmond church.

Now waft me from the green hill's side

Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

And see, the fairy valleys fade;

Dun Night has veild the solemn view ! Yet once again, dear parted shade,

Meek Nature's Child, again adieu !

The genial meads (a) assign'd to bless

Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom ! There hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress

With simple hands thy rural tomb.

Long, long thy stone and pointed clay

Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes : "O! vales, and wild woods," shall he say,

“ In yonder grave your Druid lies !”

ODE TO THE SUPERSTITIONS OF THE

HIGHLANDS.
INSCRIBED TO MR JOHN HOME.

HOME thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads

long

Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay, Mid those soft friends, whose hearts some future

day Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song.

(a) Mr Thomson resided in the neighbourhood of Richmond some time before his death.

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