Baneful its powers;--but O! the poesy!
(What can it less when sun-born Genius sings?)
Wraps in reluctant ecstacy the soul
Where poesy is felt;--tho’ here it paint
In all the lurid traits of Nero’s heart,
The high heroic spirit of that prince
Who graced the crown he wore; Britannia’s boast,
HARRY of MONMOUTH!--he, who ne’er exposed
His ardent legions on the deathful plain
Where flamed not his broad shield, nor his white plumes,[34]
Play’d in the battle’s van.--What claim’d he then
From France, at the sword’s point, but ceded rights
Howe’er perfidiously with-held, when pledg’d
For aye to England, after the proud day
Of Cressy’s thundering field? Then Gallia’s star[35]
Sunk, and the planet of the argent shores
Rose glittering on the zenith’s azure height,
What time upon the broken spears of France,
And prostrate helms, immortal Glory stood,
And with the lilies of that vaunting clime,
Like a gay bridegroom, wreath’d the victor brows
Of her great EDWARD.--O! unnatural boy!
O beardless parricide! thy treacherous Muse,
In the dire splendour of MEDUSA’S charms
Balefully deck’d, an impious task essays,
Lab’ring to turn to deadliest aconite
The laurel wreaths of Agincourt;--to brand
The hallow’d lustre of the British name
With slavish meanness, with rapacious avarice,
And the wolf’s rage. Britain, whose martial fire
Applauding ages have pronounced adorn’d
With fair munificence, and temper’d still
By God-like mercy’s sway,--O, dark of heart,
As luminous of fancy! quit, for shame,
Quit each insidious pretence to virtue,
To Christian faith, and pity!--Dry thy tears
For age-pass’d woes, they are the crocodile’s,
And o’er the murder of the royal victims,
And o’er the Christian faith’s apostacy,
Witness’d in France, cry, “Vive la Liberte!”
Dip thy young hands in her o’er-flowing chalice,
Brimm’d with the gore of age, infants, and beauty,
And, throwing thy red cap aloft in air,
Laugh with the fierce hyena![36]
LLANGOLLEN VALE,
INSCRIBED TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
LADY ELEANOR BUTLER,
AND
MISS PONSONBY.
Luxuriant Vale, thy country’s early boast,
What time great GLENDOUR gave thy scenes to Fame;
Taught the proud numbers of the English host,
How vain their vaunted force, when Freedom’s flame
Fir’d him to brave the myriads he abhorr’d,
Wing’d his unerring shaft, and edg’d his victor sword.
Here first those orbs unclosing drank the light,
Cambria’s bright stars, the meteors of her foes;
What dread and dubious omens mark’d the night,[37]
That lour’d ere yet his natal morn arose!
The steeds paternal, on their cavern’d floor,
Foaming, and horror-struck, “fret fetlock-deep in gore.”
Plague, in her livid hand, o’er all the isle,
Shook her dark flag, impure with fetid stains;
While “DEATH, on his pale horse,” with baleful smile,[38]
Smote with its blasting hoof the frighted plains.
Soon thro’ the grass-grown streets, in silence led,
Slow moves the midnight cart, heapt with the naked dead.
Yet in the festal dawn of Richard’s reign,[39]
Thy gallant GLENDOUR’S sunny prime arose;
Virtuous, tho’ gay, in that Circean fane,
Bright Science twin’d her circlet round his brows;
Nor could the youthful, rash, luxurious king
Dissolve the hero’s worth on his Icarian wing.
Sudden it drops on its meridian flight!--
Ah! hapless Richard! never didst thou aim
To crush primeval Britons with thy might,
And their brave GLENDOUR’S tears embalm thy name.
Back from thy victor-rival’s vaunting throng,
Sorrowing, and stern, he sinks LLANGOLLEN’S shades among.
Soon in imperious Henry’s dazzled eyes,[40]
The guardian bounds of just dominion melt;
His scarce-hoped crown imperfect bliss supplies,
Till Cambria’s vassalage be deeply felt.
Now up her craggy steeps, in long array,
Swarm his exulting bands, impatient for the fray.
Lo! thro’ the gloomy night, with angry blaze,
Trails the fierce comet, and alarms the stars;
Each waning orb withdraws its glancing rays,
Save the red planet, that delights in wars.
Then, with broad eyes upturn’d, and starting hair,
Gaze the astonish’d crowd upon its vengeful glare.
Gleams the wan morn, and thro’ LLANGOLLEN’S Vale
Sees the proud armies streaming o’er her meads.
Her frighted echos warning sounds assail,
Loud, in the rattling cars, the neighing steeds;
The doubling drums, the trumpet’s piercing breath,
And all the ensigns dread of havoc, wounds, and death.
High on a hill as shrinking Cambria stood,
And watch’d the onset of th’ unequal fray,
She saw her Deva, stain’d with warrior-blood,
Lave the pale rocks, and wind its fateful way
Thro’ meads, and glens, and wild woods, echoing far
The din of clashing arms, and furious shout of war.
From rock to rock, with loud acclaim, she sprung,
While from her Chief the routed legions fled;
Saw Deva roll their slaughter’d heaps among,
The check’d waves eddying round the ghastly dead;
Saw, in that hour, her own LLANGOLLEN claim
Thermopylæ’s bright wreath, and aye-enduring fame.
Thus, consecrate to glory.--Then arose
A milder lustre in its blooming maze;
Thro’ the green glens, where lucid Deva flows,
Rapt Cambria listens with enthusiast gaze,
While more enchanting sounds her ear assail,
Than thrill’d on Sorga’s bank, the love-devoted Vale.[41]
’Mid the gay towers on steep Din’s Brinna’s cone,[42]
Her HOEL’S breast the fair MIFANWY fires.--
O! Harp of Cambria, never hast thou known
Notes more mellifluent floating o’er the wires,
Than when thy Bard this brighter Laura sung,
And with his ill-starr’d love LLANGOLLEN’S echoes rung.
Tho’ Genius, Love, and Truth inspire the strains,
Thro’ HOEL’S veins tho’ blood illustrious flows,
Hard as th’ Eglwyseg rocks[43] her heart remains,
Her smile a sun-beam playing on their snows;
And nought avails the Poet’s warbled claim,
But, by his well-sung woes, to purchase deathless fame.
Thus consecrate to Love, in ages flown,--
Long ages fled Din’s-Brinna’s ruins show,
Bleak as they stand upon their steepy cone,
The crown and contrast of the Vale below,
That, screen’d by mural rocks, with pride displays
Beauty’s romantic pomp in every sylvan maze.
Now with a vestal lustre glows the Vale,
Thine, sacred Friendship, permanent as pure;
In vain the stern authorities assail,
In vain persuasion spreads her silken lure,
High-born, and high-endow’d, the peerless twain,[44]
Pant for coy Nature’s charms ’mid silent dale, and plain.
Thro’ ELEANORA, and her ZARA’S mind,
Early tho’genius, taste, and fancy flow’d,
Tho’ all the graceful arts their powers combin’d,
And her last polish brilliant life bestow’d,
The lavish promiser, in youth’s soft morn,
Pride, pomp, and love, her friends, the sweet enthusiasts scorn.
Then rose the fairy palace of the Vale,
Then bloom’d around it the Arcadian bowers;
Screen’d from the storms of Winter, cold and pale,
Screen’d from the fervours of the sultry hours,
Circling the lawny crescent, soon they rose,
To letter’d ease devote, and Friendship’s blest repose.
Smiling they rose beneath the plastic hand
Of energy, and taste;--nor only they,
Obedient Science hears the mild command,
Brings every gift that speeds the tardy day,
Whate’er the pencil sheds in vivid hues,
Th’ historic tome reveals, or sings the raptured Muse.
How sweet to enter, at the twilight grey,
The dear, minute Lyceum of the dome,[45]
When, thro’ the colour’d crystal, glares the ray,
Sanguine and solemn ’mid the gathering gloom,
While glow-worm lamps diffuse a pale, green light,
Such as in mossy lanes illume the starless night.
Then the coy scene, by deep’ning veils o’erdrawn,
In shadowy elegance seems lovelier still;
Tall shrubs, that skirt the semi-lunar lawn,
Dark woods, that curtain the opposing hill;
While o’er their brows the bare cliff faintly gleams,
And, from its paly edge, the evening-diamond streams.[46]
What strains Æolian thrill the dusk expanse,
As rising gales with gentle murmurs play,
Wake the loud chords, or every sense intrance,
While in subsiding winds, they sink away!
Like distant choirs, “when pealing organs blow,”
And melting voices blend, majestically slow.
“But ah! what hand can touch the strings so fine,
“Who up the lofty diapason roll
“Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine,
“Then let them down again into the soul!”[47]
The prouder sex as soon, with virtue calm,
Might win from this bright pair pure Friendship’s spotless palm.
What boasts tradition, what th’ historic theme,
Stands it in all their chronicles confest
Where the soul’s glory shines with clearer beam,
Than in our sea-zon’d bulwark of the west,
When, in this Cambrian Valley, Virtue shows
Where, in her own soft sex, its steadiest lustre glows?
Say, ivied Valle Crucis, time-decay’d,[48]
Dim on the brink of Deva’s wandering floods,
Your riv’d arch glimmering thro’ the tangled glade,
Your grey hills towering o’er your night of woods,
Deep in the Vale’s recesses as you stand,
And, desolately great, the rising sigh command,
Say, lonely, ruin’d pile, when former years
Saw your pale train at midnight altars bow;
Saw Superstition frown upon the tears
That mourn’d the rash irrevocable vow,
Wore one young lip gay ELEANORA’S smile?
Did ZARA’S look serene one tedious hour beguile?
For your sad sons, nor Science wak’d her powers;
Nor e’er did Art her lively spells display;
But the grim idol vainly lash’d the hours[49]
That dragg’d the mute, and melancholy day;
Dropt her dark cowl on each devoted head,
That o’er the breathing corse a pall eternal spread.
This gentle pair no glooms of thought infest,
Nor Bigotry, nor Envy’s sullen gleam
Shed withering influence on the effort blest,
Which most should win the other’s dear esteem,
By added knowledge, by endowment high,
By Charity’s warm boon, and Pity’s soothing sigh.
Then how should Summer-day or Winter-night,
Seem long to them who thus can wing their hours!
O! ne’er may pain, or sorrow’s cruel blight,
Breathe the dark mildew thro’ these lovely bowers,
But lengthen’d life subside in soft decay,
Illumed by rising Hope, and Faith’s pervading ray.
May one kind ice-bolt, from the mortal stores,
Arrest each vital current as it flows,
That no sad course of desolated hours
Here vainly nurse the unsubsiding woes!
While all who honour Virtue, gently mourn
LLANGOLLEN’S vanish’d Pair, and wreath their sacred urn.
VERSES
ON
WREXHAM,
AND THE INHABITANTS OF ITS ENVIRONS.
Proud of her ancient race, Britannia shows
Where, in her Wales, another Eden glows,
And all her sons, to truth, and honour dear,
Prove they deserve the paradise they share.
Thrice happy Wrexham, ’mid thy neighbouring groves
Stray, with ’twin’d arms, the Virtues, and the Loves,
There FLETCHER, from her own Gwernheyled, beams,[50]
Fair as its meads, and liberal as its streams;
The Sister APPERLYS, in youth’s soft morn,[51]
With rising charms the festal scenes adorn;
And friendly PRICE, as happy, free, and gay,[52]
As when, in life and beauty’s rosy May,
She shone, the Hebe of her green retreat,
With half the youth of Cambria at her feet.
See CUNLIFFE’S eyes diffuse the gladdening ray,[53]
And shed around her Pleasure’s golden day;
Meridian loveliness, majestic grace,
Stream o’er her form, and lighten in her face;
While Sense and Virtue’s blended influence dart
The look, the voice, resistless to the heart.
Nor only, WREXHAM, do thy circling groves
Boast the fair virtues, and the radiant loves,
There HAYMAN’S song, with its enchanting powers,[54]
Floats thro’ thy vales, thy mansions, and thy bowers;
Her hallow’d temple there Religion shows,
That erst with beauteous majesty arose
In ancient days, when Gothic art display’d
Her fanes, in airy elegance array’d,
Whose nameless charms the Dorian claims efface,
Corinthian splendour and Ionic grace;
Then plied, with curious skill, now rarely shown,
Th’ adorning chissel, o’er the yielding stone.
But as those Graces which alone delight
With their fine forms the captivated sight,
Must not aspire to emulate the art
That, while it charms the eye, pervades the heart,
See Gothic elegance the palm resigns,
When Art in intellectual greatness shines.
Bright as in Albion’s long distinguish’d fanes,[55]
Within these holy walls, she lives, she reigns.
Her sainted Maid, amid the bursting tomb,[56]
Hears the last Trumpet thrill its murky gloom,
With smile triumphant over Death and Time,
Lifts the rapt eye, and rears the form sublime.
WREXHAM, for thee thus rose, by mental power,
Fair modern Science o’er the Arts of yore;
For thee exulting she entwines the wreaths,
As Sculpture speaks, and heavenly Music breathes,
Since great ROUBILLIAC decks thy sacred Shrine,
And Genius wakes thy RANDAL’S Harp divine.[57]
HOYLE LAKE,[58]
A POEM,
WRITTEN ON THAT COAST, AND ADDRESSED TO ITS PROPRIETOR,
SIR JOHN STANLEY.
Thee, STANLEY, thee, our gladden’d spirit hails,
Since life’s first good for us thy efforts gain,
Who, habitants of Albion’s inland vales,
Reside far distant from her circling main.
These lightsome walls, beneath thy generous cares
Arose, the lawny scene’s convivial boast,
While at thy voice clear-cheek’d Hygeia rears
Her aqueous altars on this tepid coast.
This coast, the nearest to our central home,
That green Britannia’s watry zone displays,
Now gives the drooping frame a cheerful dome,[59]
Whose Lares smile, and promise lengthen’d days.
When gather’d fogs the pale horizon steep,
Falling in heavy, deep, continual rain,
If, ere the sun sink shrouded in the deep,
His crystal rays pervade the vapoury train,
Dry are the turfy downs, diffusive spread
O’er the light surface of the sandy mound,
Where e’en the languid form may safely tread,
Drink the pure gale, and eye the blue profound.
Dear scene!--that stretch’d between the silver arms
Of Deva, and of Mersey, meets the main,[60]
And when the sun-gilt day illumes its charms,
Boasts of peculiar grace, nor boasts in vain.
Tho’ near the beach, dark Helbrie’s lonely isle,
Reposes sullen in the watry way,
Hears round her rocks the tides, returning, boil,
And o’er her dusky sandals dash their spray.
Mark, to the left, romantic Cambria’s coast,
Her curtain’d mountains rising o’er the floods;
While seas on Orm’s beak’d promontory burst,
Blue Deva swells her mirror to the woods.
High o’er that varied ridge of Alpine forms,
Vast Moel-y-Fammau towers upon the sight,[61]
Lifts her maternal bosom to the storms,
And screens her filial mountains from their blight.
Far on the right, the dim Lancastrian plains,
In pallid distance, glimmer thro’ the sky,
Tho’, hid by jetting rocks, thy splendid fanes,
Commercial Liverpool, elude the eye.
Wide in the front the confluent oceans roll,
Amid whose restless billows guardian Hoyle,
To screen her azure Lake when tempests howl,
Spreads the firm texture of her amber Isle.[62]
And tho’ the surging tide’s resistless waves
Roll, day, and night, its level surface o’er,
Tho’ the skies darken, and the whirlwind raves,
They froth,--but rush innoxious to the shore.
When fear-struck seamen, ’mid the raging flood,
Hear thundering Shipwreck yell her dire decrees,
See her pale arm rend every sail, and shroud,
And o’er the high mast lift her whelming seas,
If to thy quiet harbour, gentle Hoyle,
The shatter’d navy thro’ the tempest flies,
Each joyous mariner forgets his toil,
And carols to the vainly angry skies.
What tho’ they vex the Lake’s cerulean stream,
And curl its billows on the shelly floor,
Yet, in despite of Fancy’s timid dream,
Age, and infirmity, may plunge secure.
How gay the scene when Spring’s fair mornings break,
Or Summer-noons illume the grassy mound,
When anchor’d navies crowd the peopled Lake,
Or deck the distant ocean’s skiey bound!
Like leafless forests, on its verge extreme
Rise the tall masts;--or spreading wide their sails,
Silvering, and shining in the solar beam,
Stand on that last blue line, and court the gales.
The peopled Lake, of song, and lively cheer,
And boatswain’s whistle bears the jovial sound;
While rosy pennants, floating on the air,
Tinge the soft seas of glass, that sleep around.
’Twas on these Downs the Belgian hero spread[63]
His ardent legions in auspicious hours,
Ere to Ierne’s hostile shores he led
To deathless glory their embattled powers.
When, like the conqueror of the Eastern World,
That stemm’d with dauntless breast the Granic flood,
His victor-sword immortal WILLIAM whirl’d,
And Boyne’s pale waters dyed with rebel blood.
Since now, to health devoted, this calm shore
Breathes renovation in its foamy wave,
For the kind Donor shall each heart implore,
The good his energies to others gave.
That long on him clear-cheek’d Hygeia’s smile,
And long on all he loves, serene may shine,
Who from thy sparkling coast, benignant Hoyle,
Diffused the blessings of her crystal shrine.
HERVA,[64]
AT THE TOMB OF
ARGANTYR.
A RUNIC DIALOGUE.
HERVA.
ARGANTYR, wake!--to thee I call,
Hear from thy dark sepulchral hall!
’Mid the forest’s inmost gloom,
Thy daughter, circling thrice thy tomb,
With mystic rites of thrilling power
Disturbs thee at this midnight hour!
I, thy Sauferlama’s child,
Of my filial right beguil’d,
Now adjure thee to resign
The charmed Sword by birth-right mine!
When the Dwarf, on Eyvor’s plain,
Dim glided by thy marriage-train,
In jewel’d belt of gorgeous pride,
To thy pale and trembling bride,
Gave he not, in whisper deep,
That dread companion of thy sleep?--
Fall’n before its edge thy foes,
Idly does it now repose
In the dark tomb with thee?--awake!
Spells thy sullen slumber break!
Now their stern command fulfill!--
Warrior, art thou silent still?--
Or are my gross senses found
Deaf to the low sepulchral sound?--
HERVARDOR,--HIARVARDOR,--hear!
HRANI, mid thy slumber drear!
Spirits of a dauntless race,
In armour clad, your tombs I trace.
Now, with sharp and blood-stain’d spear,
Accent shrill, and spell severe,
I wake you all from slumber mute,
Beneath the dark oak’s twisted root!--
Are Andgrym’s hated sons no more
That sleeps the Sword, that drank their gore?--
Living,--why, to Magic Rhyme,
Speaks no voice of former time,
Low as o’er your tombs I bend
To hear th’ expected sounds ascend,
Murmuring from your darksome hall,
At a virgin’s solemn call?--
HERVARDOR,--HIARVARDOR,--hear!
HRANI,--mark my spell severe!
Henceforth may the semblance cold,[65]
That did each warrior’s spirit hold,
Parch, as corse unblest, that lies
Withering in the sultry skies!--
Ghastly may your forms decay,
Hence the noisome reptile’s prey,
If ye force not, thus adjur’d,
My Sire to yield the charmed Sword!
ARGANTYR.
Arm’d amid this starless gloom,
Thou, whose steps adventurous roam;
Thou, that wav’st a magic spear
Thrice before our mansions drear,
Devoted virgin,--know in time
The mischiefs of the Runic Rhyme,
Forcing accents, mutter’d deep,
From the cold reluctant lip!
Me no tender father laid
Entomb’d beneath an hallow’d shade;
It was no friendly voice that gave
The oak, that screen’d a warrior’s grave,
Gave it, in malignant tone,
To the blasting thunderstone.--
Timeless now these bones decay,
Pervious to the baleful ray
Of the swart star.--’Mid battle’s yell
The charm’d, the fatal weapon fell
From my unwary grasp.--A knight
Seiz’d the Sword of magic might.
Virgin, of thy spells demand
His name,--and from his victor hand,
Try if thy intrepid zeal
May win the all-subduing Steel.
HERVA.
Warrior, thus, with falsehood wild,
Seek’st thou to deceive thy child?--
Sure as Odin doom’d thy fall,
And hides thee in this silent hall,
Here sleeps the Sword.--Pale Chief, resign
That, which is by birthright mine!
Fear’st thou, spirit of my sire,
At thy only child’s desire,
Glorious heritage to yield,
Conquest in the deathful field?
ARGANTYR.
Daring HERVA, listen yet,
Spare thy heart its long regret!
Why trembling shrunk thy mother’s frame
When the Fatal Present came?
Virgin, mark the boding word,
Sullen whisper’d o’er the Sword!
It prophesied Argantyr’s foes
Should rue its prowess;--yet that woes
Greater far his Race should feel,
Victims of the Cruel Steel,
When, in blood of millions dyed,
It arms an ireful fratricide.
Maid, no erring accents warn;--
Of sons to thee, hereafter born,
One thy Chiefs shall HYDRECK name,
Dark spirited!--but dear to fame
Shall blooming HIARALMO live.--
Maid, his doom thy mandates give!
Renounce, renounce the dire demand,
Or to thy sons, in HYDRECK’S hand,
Fatal proves, some future day,
The Charmed Sword.--Disturb it not!--away!
HERVA.
ARGANTYR,--hear thy daughter’s voice,
Spells decree an only choice!
Or, in perturbed tomb unblest,
The silence of sepulchral rest
Shall no more thy sunk eye steep,
Close no more thy pallid lip,
Or, ere this night’s shadows melt,
Mine the Sword, and gorgeous belt.
ARGANTYR.
Young maid,--who as of warrior might,
Roamest thus to tombs by night,
In coat of mail, with voice austere,
Waving the corse-awakening Spear
O’er thy dead ancestors;--offence,
And danger threaten!--hie thee hence!
HERVA.
Obey, obey, or sleep no more!
Now my sacred right restore!
The Sword, that joys when foes assail,
Sword, that scorns the ribbed mail,
Scorns the car, in swift career,
Scorns the helmet, scorns the spear;
Scorns the nerv’d experienc’d arm;
ARGANTYR, yield it to my charm!
’Tis not well the victor’s pride,
With thee in silent tombs to hide;
Thy child, thy only child, demands,--
Reach it with thy wither’d hands!
ARGANTYR.
The death of HIARALMO lies
Beneath this mouldering arm!--and rise
Round its edge, the lurid fires,
Hostile to unaw’d desires.
Hie thee hence, nor madly dare
The death-denouncing grasp;--beware!
HERVA.
Not if thousand fires invade
Streaming from its angry blade.
Innoxious are the fires that play
Round the corse, with meteor ray,
And in these waste hours of night
Silent death-halls dimly light;
Yet, gliding with consuming force,
Undaunted would I meet their course.
ARGANTYR.
Thou, whose awless voice proclaims
Scorn of the sepulchral flames,
Lest their force around thee swell,
Punishing thy daring spell,
And thy mortal form consume,
HERVA, see!--thy father’s tomb
Opens!--mark, to thee restored,
Rising slow, the baneful Sword!--
See, it meets thy rash desire,
Bickering with funereal fire![66]
HERVA.
Warrior, now dost thou reclaim
The lustre of thy former fame;
Lo, the Sword, a seeming brand,
Blazes in thy daughter’s hand!
Nor perishes that hand beneath
Vapourous flames, that round it wreathe,
Gleam along the midnight air,
Illume the forest wide,--and glare
On the scath’d Oak!--Sepulchral wood,
Thee I quit for fields of blood!
Nor would I, on its fateful range,
This Sword, with all its meteors, change
For the Norweyan sceptre.--Lo,
Death, and conquest, wait me now!--
ARGANTYR.
HIARALMO’S future bane,
Grasp’d with exultation vain,
Fatal, fatal shall be found
To thee, and thine, in cureless wound!
By that wound ’tis now decreed
HYDREK’S self at length shall bleed!
HERVA, less thy long regret
Had thy chiefs in combat met
ANDGRYM’S sons, with warlike zeal,
Met them in uncharmed steel.
HERVA.
Sleep, ARGANTYR,--Chief of might,
Thro’ the long, the dreary night;
Nor let strife, and bitter scorn,
’Mid HERVA’S offspring, yet unborn,
Disturb thee in the tomb!--and mark,
The Spear, that broke thy slumber dark,
Round the blasted oak I wave,
That ill protects a warrior’s grave!
Soon shall its scath’d trunk be seen
Cloth’d in shielding bark, and green
As before the vengeful time,
When, by force of baleful Rhyme,
It shrunk amid the forest’s groan,
Smote by the red thunder-stone.
Thro’ the renovated boughs,
Guardians of thy deep repose,
Shall the hail no longer pour,
The livid dog-star look no more!
Spirits of the elder dead,
Spell-awak’d from slumber dread,
Not to your spears, in martial pride,
Resting by each hero’s side,
Not to your gore-spotted mail,
Steely shroud of warrior pale,
Shall, thro’ thousand winters, drain
Driving snow, or drenching rain;
Nor, while countless summers beam
On arid plain, or shrinking stream,
Thro’ the widening chink be known
Reptile vile of sultry noon,
To wind the slimy track abhorr’d!--
Fate is mine, since mine the Sword!
ARGANTYR.
HERVA, thine the source of woes,
Direful long to all thy foes,
Ere against thy peace it turn,
And thou thy bleeding race shalt mourn.
When extinct the tomb’s blue fires,
Whose light now gleams, and now retires,
Quivering o’er its edge, forbear
To touch the Venom’d Blade;--beware!
Venom, for the blood prepar’d
Of twelve brave chiefs, their dread reward.
HERVA, now thy father’s tomb
Slowly closes!--Ne’er presume
Again to breathe, in ODIN’S hall,
Shrill the corse-disturbing call!
HERVA.