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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! D'er thee, O 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 Llew
The shrieks of death, thro' Berkely's
roof 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 Heav'n. What Terrors
round him wait! Ainazement in his
van, with Flight com bin'd, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude
I. 3. “Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
Mighty victor, mighty lord! That hush'd the stormy main :
Low on his funeral couch he lies ! Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: No pitying heart, no eye, afford Mountains, ye mourn in vain
A tear to grace his obsequies. Modred, whose magic song
Is the sable warrior fled? Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud- Thy son gone. He rests among the topt head.
dead. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:
were born. Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail; Gone to salute the rising morn. The famish'd eagle screams, and Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr passes by.
blows, Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, While proudly riding o'er the azure Dear as the light that visits these sad realm eyes,
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at heart,
the helm : Ye died amidst your dying country's Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's cries —
sway, No more I weep. They do not sleep. That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,
ev'ning prey. I gee them sit, they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land:
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the
Close by the regal chair "Weave the warp, and weave the Fell Thirst and Famine scowl woof,
A baleful smile upon their haffled The winding-sheet of Edward's race.
guest. Give ample room, and verge enough Heard ye the din of battle bray, The characters of hell to trace.
Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Mark the year, and mark the night, Long years of havoc urge their desWhen Severn shall re-echo with affright
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. their way,
What strings symphonious tremble in Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting the air, shame,
What strains of vocal transport round With many a foul and midnight murder
her play! fed,
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, Revere his consort's faith, his father's hear; fame,
They breathe a soul to animate thy And spare the meek usurper's holy head. clay. Above, below, the rose of snow,
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she Twin'd with her blushing foe, we sings, spread:
Waves in the eye of heav'n her manyThe bristled Boar in infant-gore
color'd wings. Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom,
“The verse adorn again Stamp we our vengeance deep, and
Fierce War, and faithful Love, ratify his doom.
And Truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
In buskin'd measures move
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,
With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing · Edward, lo! to sudden fate
breast. (Weave we the woof. The thread is
A voice, as of the cherub-choir, spun.)
Gales from blooming Eden bear; Half of thy heart we consecrate.
And distant warblings lessen on my ear, (The web is wove. The work is done.)
That lost in long futurity expire. Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to
Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd In yon bright track, that fires the west
the orb of day? ern skies,
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
And warms the nations with redoubled But oh! what solemn scenes on Snow
ray. don's height Descending slow their glittering skirts
Enough for me; with joy I see
The diff'rent doom our fates assign. unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!
Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care,
To triumph, and to die, are mine." Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul !
He spoke, and headlong from the mounNo more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.
tain's height All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail !
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to
endless night. III. 2. “Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
ODE ON THE SPRING. And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old
Lo! where the rosy-bosom’d Hours, In bearded majesty, appear.
Fair Venus' train, appear, In the midst a form divine !
Disclose the long-expecting flowers, Her eye proclaims her of the Briton- And wake the purple year! line;
The Attic warbler pours her throat, Her lion-port, her awe-co
-commanding Responsive to the cuckoo's note, face,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
Their gathered fragrance fling.
O’er-canopies the glade,
(At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardor of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great !
The panting herds repose:
The busy murmur glows !
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some show their gaily-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.
Such is the race of Man:
Shall end where they began.
In Fortune's varying colors drest :
They leave, in dust to rest.
The sportive kind reply:
A solitary fly!
No painted plumage to display:
We frolic while 'tis May.
1728-1774. (Born at Pallas, county of Longford, Ireland, on the roth of November, 1728; died in his chambers in Brick Court, London, on the 4th of April, 1774. The Traveller was published in December, 1764; The Deserted Village, May, 1770. The ballad The Hermit first appeared in The Vicar of Wakefield, 1776. The Haunch of Venison, written about 1771, was first published after its author's death, 1776; Retaliation, Goldsmith's last work, was also of posthumous publication, 1774.]
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the How often have I paus'd on every plain,
charm, Where health and plenty cheer'd the The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, laboring swain,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, Where smiling spring its earliest visit The decent church that topt the neigh paid
b'ring hill, And parting summer's ling’ring blooms The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath delay'd;
the shade, Dear lovely bowers of innocence and For talking age and whisp'ring lovers ease,
made! Seats of my youth, when every sport How often have I blest the coming day, could please;
When toil remitting lent its turn to play, How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, And all the village train, from labor free, Where humble happiness endear'd each Led up their sports beneath the spreadscene;
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin
all, And the long grass o'ertops the mould'r
ing wall; And, trembling, shrinking from the
spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the
While many a pastime circled in the
shade, The young contending as the old sur
vey'd; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the
ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength
went round; And still as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band in
spired. The dancing pair that simply sought re
nown, By holding out, to tire each other down; The swain mistrustless of his smutted
face, While secret laughter titter'd round the
place; The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of
love, The matron's glance that would those
Ill fares the land, to hast’ning ills a
prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men
decay; Princes and lords may flourish, or may
fade; A breath can make them, as a breath
has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's
pride, When once destroy'd, can never be sup
These were thy charms, sweet village ! A time there was, ere England's griefs sports like these,
began, With sweet succession, taught ev'n toil When every rood of ground maintain'd
to please; These round thy bowers their cheerful For him light labor spread her wholeinfluence shed,
some store, These were thy charms — But all these Just gave what life required, but gave charms are fled.
His best companions, innocence and Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the health, lawn,
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;
But times are alter'd; trade's unfeel. Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is
ing train seen,
Usurp the land, and dispossess the And desolation saddens all thy green:
swain; One only master grasps the whole do- Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets main,
rose, And half a tillage stints thy smiling Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp plain;
repose: No more thy glassy brook reflects the And every want to luxury allied, day,
And every pang that folly pays to pride. But, chok'd with sedges, works its Those gentle hours that plenty bade to weedy way;
bloom, Along thy glades, a solitary guest, Those calm desires that ask'd but little The hollow-sounding bittern guards its room, nest;
Those healthful sports that graced the Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing peaceful scene, flies,
Lived in each look, and brighten'd all And tires their echoes with unvary'd cries.
These, far departing, seek a kinder O blest retirement, friend to life's shore,
decline, And rural mirth and manners are no Retreats from care that never must be
mine, How blest is he who crowns in shades
A youth of labor with an age of ease; RECOLLECTIONS OF HOME AND Who quits a world where strong tempta: INFANCY.
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to SWEET Auburn! parent of the blissful
For him no wretches, born to work and Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's weep, power.
Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rHere, as I take my solitary rounds,
ous deep; Amidst. thy tangling walks, and ruin'd No surly porter stands in guilty state, grounds,
To spurn imploring famine from the And, many a year elapsed, return to gate; view
But on he moves to meet his latter end, Where once the cottage stood, the haw- Angels around befriending virtue's
friend; Remembrance wakes with all her busy Sinkstothe grave with unperceived decay, train,
While resignation gently slopes the way; Swells at my breast, and turns the past And, all his prospects brightning to the to pain.
His heaven commences ere the world In all my wand'rings round this world
be past! In all my griefs — and God has giv'n Sweet was the sound, when, oft at
ev'ning's close, I still had hopes my latest hours to Up yonder hill the village murmur rose : crown,
There, as I past with careless steps and Amidst these humble bowers to lay me slow, down;
The mingling notes came soften'd from To husband out life's taper at the close, below; And keep the flame from wasting by re- The swain, responsive as the milkmaid pose:
sung, I still had hopes, for pride attends us The sober herd that low'd to meet their still,
young, Amidst the swains to show my book- The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the learn'd skill,
pool, Around my fire an evening group to The playful children just let loose from draw,
school, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the And, as an hare whom hounds and whisp'ring wind, horns pursue,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vaPants to the place from whence at first
Cant mind; he flew,
These all in sweet confusion sought the I still had hopes, my long vexations shade, past,
And fillid each pause the nightingale Here to return - and die at home at had made. last.
But now the sounds of population fail,