Imagens da página
PDF
ePub
[blocks in formation]

Far from the Sun and summer-gale,

In thy green lap was Nature's darling 12 laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,

To him the mighty mother did unveil

Her awful face: the dauntless child
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smil'd.

"This pencil take," she said, "whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year:

Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy!

This can unlock the gates of Joy;

Of Horrour that, and thrilling fears,

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.

Nor second he 13, that rode sublime

Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,
The secrets of th' abyss to spy.

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time 14:
The living throne, the sapphire-blaze 15,
Where angels tremble, while they gaze,
He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,

Clos'd his eyes in endless night 15.

Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear

Two courses of ethereal race 17,

Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban eagle "bear
Sailing with supreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air:

Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun:
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,

Beneath the good how far-but far above the great.

THE

BARD.

A PINDARIC ODE.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following Ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward the First, when he compleated the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bards, that fell into his hands, to be put to death.

I.

"RUIN seize thee, ruthless king!
Confusion on thy banners wait,

Though, fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state'.
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail

With necks in thunder cloth'd 18, and long-re- To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,

[blocks in formation]

From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!"
Such were the sounds, that o'er the 3 crested pride
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,

As down the steep of Snowdon's 4 shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.

Cecilia's day: for Cowley (who had his merit) yet wanted judgment, style, and harmony, for such a task. That of Pope is not worthy of so great a man. Mr. Mason, indeed, of late days, has touched the true chords, and with a masterly hand, in some of his choruses-above all, in the last of Carac

tacus.

Hark! heard ye not yon footstep dread? &c. 21 Aids πrope Õprixa Gov. Olymp. 2. Pindar compares himself to that bird, and his enemies to ra vens that croak and clamour in vain below, while pursues its flight, regardless of their noise.

15 For the spirit of the living creature was in the wheels-And above the firmament, that was over their heads, was the likeness of a throne, as the appearance of a sapphire-stone.This was the ap-it pearance of the glory of the Lord. Ezekiel i. 20, 26, 28.

16 Οφθαλμῶν μὲν ἄμερσε· δίδει δ ̓ ἡδεῖαν ἀοιδὴν.

Hom. Odys.

[blocks in formation]

Mocking the air with colours idly spread.
Shakspeare's King John.

2 The hauberk was a texture of steel ringlets, or rings interwoven, forming a coat of mail, that sat close to the body, and adapted itself to every mo

tion.

[blocks in formation]

Stout Glo'sters stood aghast in speechless trance: To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Rob'd in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the poet stood;
(Loose his beard 7, and hoary hair
Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air)
And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

"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 weave,
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-top'd head.
On dreary Arvon's shore 9 they lie,
Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail :

The famish'd eagle 10 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 12.

II.

"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 Berkley's roofs that
Shrieks of an agonizing king;
[ring 13;

She-wolf of France 14, with unrelenting fangs,
That tears the bowels of thy mangled mate,
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
The scourge of Heaven 15. What terrours round him

wait!

Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd;
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

"Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,

Low on his funeral couch he lies 16!
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the sable warrior 17 fled?

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm, that in the noon-tide beam were born;
Gone to salute the rising Morn.

Fair laughs the Morn 18, and soft the Zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;

far east as the river Conway. R. Hygden, speaking of the castle of Conway, built by king Edward the First, says, "Ad ortum amnis Conway ad cli-Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; vum montis Erery;" and Matthew of Westminster, Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, (ad ann. 1283,)" Apud Aberconway ad pedes That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his eveningmontis Snowdoniæ fecit erigi castrum forte."

5 Gilbert de Clare, surnamed the Red, earl of Gloucester and Hertford, son-in-law to king Edward.

6 Edmond de Mortimer, lord of Wigmore. They both were lords-marchers, whose lands lay on the borders of Wales, and probably accompanied the king in his expedition.

The image was taken from the well-known picture of Raphael, representing the Supreme Being in the vision of Ezekiel: there are two of these paintings, (both believed original) one at Florence, the other at Paris.

Shone, like a meteor, streaming to the wind. Milton's Paradise Lost. • The shores of Caernarvonshire opposite to the isle of Anglesey.

prey.

"Fill high the sparkling bowl,
The rich repast prepare:

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast 19:
Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.

12 See the Norwegian Ode, that follows. 13 Edward the Second, cruelly butchered in Berkley castle.

14 Isabel of France, Edward the Second's adulterous queen.

15 Triumphs of Edward the Third in France. 16 Death of that king, abandoned by his children, and even robbed in his last moments by his courtiers and his mistress.

17 Edward the Black Prince, dead sometime before his father.

10 Camden and others observe, that eagles used annually to build their aerie among the rocks of Snowdon, which from thence (as some think) were named by the Welsh Craigian-eryri, or the crags of the eagles. At this day (I am told) the highest point of Snowdon is called The Eagle's Nest. That bird is certainly no stranger to this island, as the Scots, and the people of Cumberland, Westmore- 19 Richard the Second (as we are told by archland, &c. can testify: it even has built its nest in bishop Scroop and the confederate lords in their the Peak of Derbyshire. See Willoughby's Orni-manifesto, by Thomas of Walsingham, and all the thol. Published by Ray.

"As dear to me as are the ruddy drops,
That visit my sad heart, Shaksp. Jul. Cæs.

18 Magnificence of Richard the Second's reign. See Froissard, and other contemporary writers.

older writers) was starved to death. The story of his assassination by Sir Piers of Exon, is of much later date.

Heard ye the din of battle bray 20, Lance to lance, and horse to horse!

Long years of havoc urge their destin'd course,
And through the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye towers of Julius 2, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murther fed,
Revere his consort's 22 faith, his father's 23 fame,
And spare the meek usurper's 24 holy head.
Above, below, the rose 25 of snow,

Twin'd with her blushing foe we spread :
The bristled boar 26 in infant gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom,

Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

III.

"Edward, lo! to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)
Half of thy heart we consecrate 27.
(The web is wove. The work is done.)'
Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But oh what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Arthur 28 we bewail.

All-hail, ye genuine kings 29; Britannia's issue, hail!

"Girt with many a baron bold
Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
And gorgeous dames and statesmen old,
In bearded majesty, appear.

20 Ruinous civil wars of York and Lancaster. 2 Henry the Sixth, George duke of Clarence, Edward the Fifth, Richard duke of York, &c. believed to be murdered secretly in the tower of London. The oldest part of that structure is vulgarly attributed to Julius Cæsar.

22 Margaret of Anjou, a woman of heroic spirit, who struggled hard to save her husband and her

[blocks in formation]

25 The white and red roses, devices of York and Lancaster.

26 The silver-boar was the badge of Richard the Third; whence he was usually known in his own time by the name of The Boar.

27 Eleanor of Castile died a few years after the conquest of Wales. The heroic proof she gave of her affection for her lord is well known. The monuments of his regret, and sorrow for the loss of her, are still to be seen at Northampton, Geddington, Waltham, and other places.

28 It was the common belief of the Welsh nation, that king Arthur was still alive in Fairy-land, and should return again to reign over Britain.

29 Both Merlin and Taliessin had prophesied, that the Welsh should regain their sovereignty over this island; which seemed to be accomplished in the house of Tudor.,

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[blocks in formation]

ance of Sictryg with the Silken Beard, who was then making war on his father-in-law Brian, king of Dublin: the earl and all his forces were cut to pieces; and Sictryg was in danger of a total defeat; but the enemy had a greater loss, by the death of Brian, their king, who fell in the action. On Christmas-day, (the day of the battle) a native of Caithness, in Scotland, saw at a distance, a number of persons on horseback, riding full speed towards a hill, and seeming to enter into it. Curiosity led him to follow them, till, looking through an opening in the rocks, he saw twelve gigantic figures, resembling women: they were all employed about a loom; and as they wove, they sung the following dreadful song; which when they had finished, they tore the web into twelve pieces, and (each taking her portion) galloped six to the north, and as many to the south.

THE FATAL SISTERS 2.
AN ODE.

Now the storm begins to lour,
(Haste, the loom of Hell prepare,)
Iron-sleet 3 of arrowy shower
Hurtles 4 in the darken'd air.

Glittering lances are the loom,

Where the dusky warp we strain, Weaving many a soldier's doom, Orkney's woe, and Randver's bane.

See the griesly texture grow,

("Tis of human entrails made) And the weights that play below, Each a gasping warrior's head.

Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore,
Shoot the trembling cords along;
Sword, that once a monarch bore,

Keep the tissue close and strong.

In the introduction to it he meant to have produced some specimens of the style that reigned in ancient times among the neighbouring nations, or those who had subdued the greater part of this island, and were our progenitors; the following three imitations made a part of them. He has long since dropped his design, especially after he had heard that it was already in the hands of a person well qualified to do it justice, both by his taste, and his researches into antiquity.

The Valkyriur were female divinities, servants of Odin (or Woden) in the Gothic mythology. Their name signifies choosers of the slain. They were mounted on swift horses, with drawn swords in their hands; and in the throng of battle selected such as were destined to slaughter, and conducted them to Valkalla, the hall of Odin, or paradise of the brave; where they attended the banquet, and served the departed heroes with horns of mead and ale.

How quick they wheel'd; and flying, behind them shot

Sharp sleet of arrowy shower

Milton's Paradise Regained.

• The noise of battle hurtled in the air.

Shakspeare's Julius Cæsar.

Mista black, terrific maid,
Sangride, and Hilda see,
Join the wayward work to aid:
'Tis the woof of victory.

Ere the ruddy Sun be set,

Pikes must shiver, javelins sing,
Blade with clattering buckler meet,
Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.
(Weave the crimson web of war)
Let us go, and let us fly,

Where our friends the conflict share,
Where they triumph, where they die.
As the paths of Fate we tread,
Wading through th' ensanguin'd field:
Gondula, and Geira, spread

O'er the youthful king your shield.
We the reins to Slaughter give,

Ours to kill, and ours to spare:
Spite of danger he shall live.

(Weave the crimson web of war)
They, whom once the desert-beach
Pent within its bleak domain,
Soon their ample sway shall stretch
O'er the plenty of the plain.
Low the dauntless earl is laid,

Gor'd with many a gaping wound:
Fate demands a nobler head;

Soon a king shall bite the ground. Long his loss 'shall Eirin weep,

Ne'er again his likeness see; Long her strains in sorrow steep, Strains of immortality! Horrour covers all the heath,

Clouds of carnage blot the Sun. Sisters, weave the web of death; Sisters, cease, the work is done. Hail the task, and hail the hands! Songs of joy and triumph sing! Joy to the victorious bands:

Triumph to the younger king.
Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale,

Learn the tenour of our song.
Scotland, through each winding vale
Far and wide the notes prolong.
Sisters, hence, with spurs of speed:
Each her thundering falchion wield;
Each bestride her sable steed.
Hurry, hurry to the field,

THE DESCENT OF ODIN.

AN ODE.

[FROM THE NORSE-TONGUE.]

IN BARTHOLINUS, DE CAUSIS CONTEMNENDÆ MORTIS; HAFNIE, 1689, quarto.

Upreis Odinn allda gauir, &c.

UPROSE the King of Men with speed,
And saddled straight his coal-black steed;

Down the yawning steep he rode,
That leads to Hela's drear abode,
Him the Dog of Darkness spied,
His shaggy throat he open'd wide,
While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd,
Foam and human gore distill'd;
Hoarse he bays with hideous din,
Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin;
And long pursues, with fruitless yell,
The father of the powerful spell.
Onward still his way he takes,

(The groaning Earth beneath him shakes)
Till full before his fearless eyes
The portals nine of Hell arise.

Right against the eastern gate,
By the moss-grown pile he sate;
Where long o^ yore to sleep was laid
The dust of the prophetic maid.
Facing to the northern clime,
Thrice he trac'd the Runic rhyme ;
Thrice pronounc'd, in accents dread,
The thrilling verse that wakes the dead;
Till from out the hollow ground

Slowly breath'd a sullen sound.

PR. What call unknown, what charms presume
To break the quiet of the tomb;
Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite,
And drags me from the realms of night?
Long on these mouldering bones have beat
The winter's snow, the summer's heat,
The drenching dews, and driving rain!
Let me, let me sleep again.
Who is he, with voice unblest,

That calls me from the bed of rest?

O. A traveller, to thee unknown,
Is he that calls, a warrior's son.
Thou the deeds of light shalt know;
Tell me what is done below,

For whom yon glittering board is spread,
Drest for whom yon golden bed.

PR. Mantling in the goblet, see
The pure beverage of the bee,
O'er it hangs the shield of gold;
'Tis the drink of Balder bold:
Balder's head to death is given,
Pain can reach the sons of Heaven!
Unwilling I my lips unclose:
Leave me, leave me to repose.

O. Once again my call obey,
Prophetess, arise, and say,
What dangers Odin's child await,
Who the author of his fate?

PR. In Hoder's hand the hero's doom:
His brother sends him to the tomb.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me, to repose.

O. Prophetess, my spell obey,
Once again arise, and say,
Who th' avenger of his guilt,
By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt,
PR. In the caverns of the west,
By Odin's fierce embrace comprest,
A wondrous boy shall Rinda bear,
Who ne'er shall comb his raven-hair,

Niflheimr, the Hell of the Gothic nations, consisted of nine worlds, to which were devoted all such as died of sickness, old age, or by any other means than in battle: over it presided Hela, the goddess of death.

Nor wash his visage in the stream,
Nor see the Sun's departing beam:
Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile
Flaming on the funeral pile.
Now my weary lips I close:
Leave me, leave me, to repose.

O. Yet a while my call obey,
Prophetess, awake, and say,
What virgins these, in speechless woe,
That bend to earth their solemn brow,
That their flaxen tresses tear,

And snowy veils, that float in air.
Tell me whence their sorrows rose:
Then I leave thee to repose.

PR. Ha! no traveller art thou
King of Men, I know thee now,
Mightiest of a mighty line-

O. No boding maid of skill divine
Art thou, nor prophetess of good;
But mother of the giant-brood!

PR. Hie thee hence, and boast at home,
That never shall inquirer come
To break my iron-sleep again;
Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain.
Never, till substantial Night

Has reassum'd her ancient right;
Till wrap'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd,
Sinks the fabric of the world.

THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN 3.

A FRAGMENT.

FROM MR. EVANS'S SPECIMENS OF THE WELSH POETRY;
LONDON, 1764, quarto.

OWEN's praise demands my song,
Owen swift and Owen strong;
Fairest flower of Roderic's stem,
Gwyneth's 4 shield, and Britain's gem.
He nor heaps his brooded stores,
Nor all profusely pours;
Lord of every regal art,
Liberal hand, and open heart.

Big with hosts of mighty name,
Squadrons three against him came;
This the force of Eirin hiding,
Side by side as proudly riding,
On her shadow long and gay
Lochlin ploughs the watery way:
There the Norman sails afar
Catch the winds, and join the war;

2 Lok is the evil being, who continues in chain till the twilight of the gods approaches, when h shall break his bonds; the human race, the stars and Sun, shall disappear; the earth sink in th seas, and fire consume the skies: even Odin him self and his kindred deities shall perish. For further explanation of this mythology, see Mallet Introduction to the History of Denmark, 1755 quarto.

3 Owen succeeded his father Griffin in the prin cipality of North Wales, A. D. 112. This battl was fought near forty years afterwards. 4 North Wales.

5 Denmark.

« AnteriorContinuar »