Aн, stay thy treacherous hand, forbear to trace Those faultless forms of elegance and grace! Ah, cease to spread the bright transparent mass, With Titian's pencil, o'er the speaking glass! Nor steal, by strokes of art with truth combined, The fond illusions of my wayward mind! For long enamour'd of a barbarous age, A faithless truant to the classic page; Long have I loved to catch the simple chime Of minstrel-harps, and spell the fabling rime; To view the festive rites, the knightly play, That deck'd heroic Albion's elder day; To mark the mouldering halls of barons bold, And the rough castle, cast in giant mould; With Gothic manners Gothic arts explore, And muse on the magnificence of yore.

But chief, enraptured have I loved to roam, A lingering votary, the vaulted dome, Where the tall shafts, that mount in massy pride, Their mingling branches shoot from side to side; Where elfin sculptors, with fantastic clew, O'er the long roof their wild embroidery drew; Where Superstition with capricious hand In many a maze the wreathed window plann'd, With hues romantic tinged the gorgeous pane, To fill with holy light the wondrous fane ; To aid the builder's model, richly rude, By no Vitruvian symmetry subdued; To suit the genius of the mystic pile: Whilst as around the far-retiring aisle, And fretted shrines, with hoary trophies hung, Her dark illumination wide she flung, With new solemnity, the nooks profound, The caves of death, and the dim arches frown'd. From bliss long felt unwillingly we part: Ah, spare the weakness of a lover's heart! Chase not the phantoms of my fairy dream, Phantoms that shrink at Reason's painful gleam! That softer touch, insidious artist, stay, Nor to new joys my struggling breast betray ! Such was a pensive bard's mistaken strain.— But, oh, of ravish'd pleasures why complain? No more the matchless skill I call unkind, That strives to disenchant my cheated mind. For when again I view thy chaste design, The just proportion, and the genuine line; Those native portraitures of Attic art, That from the lucid surface seem to start ; Those tints, that steal no glories from the day, Nor ask the sun to lend his streaming ray : The doubtful radiance of contending dyes, That faintly mingle, yet distinctly rise; "Twixt light and shade the transitory strife; The feature blooming with immortal life :

The stole in casual foldings taught to flow,
Not with ambitious ornaments to glow;
The tread majestic, and the beaming eye,
That lifted speaks its commerce with the sky;
Heaven's golden emanation, gleaming mild
O'er the mean cradle of the Virgin's child:
Sudden, the sombrous imagery is fled,
Which late my visionary rapture fed :

Thy powerful hand has broke the Gothic chain,
And brought my bosom back to truth again;
To truth, by no peculiar taste confined,
Whose universal pattern strikes mankind;
To truth, whose bold and unresisted aim
Checks frail caprice, and fashion's fickle claim;
To truth, whose charms deception's magic quell,
And bind coy Fancy in a stronger spell.

Ye brawny Prophets, that in robes so rich,
At distance due, possess the crisped niche ;
Ye rows of Patriarchs, that sublimely rear'd
Diffuse a proud primeval length of beard :
Ye Saints, who, clad in crimson's bright array,
More pride than humble poverty display:
Ye Virgins meek, that wear the palmy crown
Of patient faith, and yet so fiercely frown:
Ye Angels, that from clouds of gold recline,
But boast no semblance to a race divine:
Ye tragic Tales of legendary lore,
That draw devotion's ready tear no more;
Ye Martyrdoms of unenlighten'd days,
Ye Miracles, that now no wonder raise :
Shapes, that with one broad glare the gazer strike,
Kings, bishops, nuns, apostles, all alike!
Ye Colours, that th' unwary sight amaze,
And only dazzle in the noontide blaze!
No more the sacred window's round disgrace,
But yield to Grecian groups the shining space.
Lo, from the canvas Beauty shifts her throne,
Lo, Picture's powers a new formation own!
Behold, she prints upon the crystal plain,
With her own energy, th' expressive stain !
The mighty Master spreads his mimic toil
More wide, nor only blends the breathing oil;
But calls the lineaments of life complete
From genial alchymy's creative heat;
Obedient forms to the bright fusion gives,
While in the warm enamel Nature lives.
Reynolds, 'tis thine, from the broad window's
height,

To add new lustre to religious light:
Not of its pomp to strip this ancient shrine,

But bid that pomp with purer radiance shine:

With arts unknown before, to reconcile
The willing Graces to the Gothic pile.

INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE.

AT ANSLEY-HALL, IN WARWICKSHIRE.

BENEATH this stony roof reclined,
I soothe to peace my pensive mind;
And while, to shade my lowly cave,
Embowering elms their umbrage wave;
And while the maple dish is mine,
The beechen cup, unstain'd with wine;
I scorn the gay licentious crowd,
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.

Within my limits lone and still
The blackbird pipes in artless trill;
Fast by my couch, congenial guest,
The wren has wove her mossy nest;
From busy scenes, and brighter skies,
To lurk with innocence, she flies;
Here hopes in safe repose to dwell,
Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.

At morn I take my custom'd round,
To mark how buds yon shrubby mound;
And every opening primrose count,
That trimly paints my blooming mount:
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy solitude,
I teach in winding wreaths to stray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.

At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossed book,
Portray'd with many a holy deed

Of martyrs, crown'd with heavenly meed :
Then, as my taper waxes dim,

Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn ;
And, at the close, the gleams behold
Of parting wings bedropt with gold.

While such pure joys my bliss create,
Who but would smile at guilty state?
Who but would wish his holy lot
In calm Oblivion's humble grot?
Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take my staff, and amice gray;
And to the world's tumultuous stage
Prefer the blameless hermitage?

Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear,
Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear :
On green untrodden banks they view
The hyacinth's neglected hue:

In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds,
They spy the squirrel's airy bounds:
And startle from her ashen spray,
Across the glen, the screaming jay:
Each native charm their steps explore
Of Solitude's sequester'd store.

For them the moon with cloudless ray
Mounts, to illume their homeward way:
Their weary spirits to relieve,

The meadows incense breathe at eve,
No riot mars the simple fare,

That o'er a glimmering hearth they share :
But when the curfeu's measured roar
Duly, the darkening valleys o'er,
Has echoed from the distant town,
They wish no beds of cygnet-down,
No trophied canopies, to close
Their drooping eyes in quick repose.

Their little sons, who spread the bloom
Of health around the clay-built room,
Or through the primrosed coppice stray,
Or gambol in the new-mown hay;
Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twine,
Or drive afield the tardy kine;
Or hasten from the sultry hill,

To loiter at the shady rill;

Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest,
To rob the raven's ancient nest.

Their humble porch with honey'd flowers
The curling woodbine's shade embowers:
From the small garden's thymy mound
Their bees in busy swarms resound:
Nor fell Disease, before his time,
Hastes to consume life's golden prime :
But when their temples long have wore
The silver crown of tresses hoar ;
As studious still calm peace to keep,
Beneath a flowery turf they sleep.

To soothe a lone, unhallow'd shade, This votive dirge sad duty paid,

Within an ivied nook:

Sudden the half-sunk orb of day More radiant shot its parting ray,

[knell.

Though doom'd hard penury to prove,
And the sharp stings of hopeless love;
To griefs congenial prone,

More wounds than nature gave he knew,
While misery's form his fancy drew

In dark ideal hues, and horrors not its own.

THE CRUSADE.

AN ODE.

BOUND for holy Palestine,
Nimbly we brush'd the level brine,
All in azure steel array'd;

O'er the wave our weapons play'd,
And made the dancing billows glow;
High upon the trophied prow,
Many a warrior-minstrel swung
His sounding harp, and boldly sung :
"Syrian virgins, wail and weep,
English Richard ploughs the deep!
Tremble, watchmen, as ye spy,

From distant towers, with anxious eye,
The radiant range of shield and lance
Down Damascus' hills advance :
From Sion's turrets as afar

Ye ken the march of Europe's war!

Saladin, thou paynim king,
From Albion's isle revenge we bring!
On Acon's spiry citadel,

Though to the gale thy banners swell,
Pictured with the silver moon;
England shall end thy glory soon!
In vain, to break our firm array,
Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray :
Those sounds our rising fury fan:
English Richard in the van,
On to victory we go,

A vaunting infidel the foe."

Blondel led the tuneful band,

And swept the wire with glowing hand.
Cyprus, from her rocky mound,
And Crete, with piny verdure crown'd,
Far along the smiling main
Echoed the prophetic strain.

Soon we kiss'd the sacred earth
That gave a murder'd Saviour birth;
Then, with ardour fresh endued,
Thus the solemn song renew'd.

"Lo, the toilsome voyage past, Heaven's favour'd hills appear at last! Object of our holy vow,

We tread the Tyrian valleys now.
From Carmel's almond-shaded steep
We feel the cheering fragrance creep :
O'er Engaddi's shrubs of balm
Waves the date-empurpled palm.
See Lebanon's aspiring head
Wide his immortal umbrage spread!
Hail, Calvary, thou mountain hoar,
Wet with our Redeemer's gore!
Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn,
Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn;
Your ravish'd honours to restore,
Fearless we climb this hostile shore !
And thou, the sepulchre of God!
By mocking pagans rudely trod,
Bereft of every awful rite,

And quench'd thy lamps that beam'd so bright;
For thee, from Britain's distant coast,
Lo, Richard leads his faithful host!

Aloft in his heroic hand,

Blazing, like the beacon's brand,

O'er the far-affrighted fields,

Resistless Kaliburn he wields.

Proud Saracen, pollute no more

The shrines by martyrs built of yore!

From each wild mountain's trackless crown

In vain thy gloomy castles frown:

Thy battering engines, huge and high,

In vain our steel-clad steeds defy;

And, rolling in terrific state,

On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate.
When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp,
Amid the moonlight vapours damp,
Thy necromantic forms, in vain,
Haunt us on the tented plain :

We bid those spectre-shapes avaunt,

Ashtaroth, and Termagaunt!

With many a demon, pale of hue,
Doom'd to drink the bitter dew
That drops from Macon's sooty tree,
Mid the dread grove of ebony.
Nor magic charms, nor fiends of hell,
The christian's holy courage quell.

Salem, in ancient majesty
Arise, and lift thee to the sky!
Soon on thy battlements divine
Shall wave the badge of Constantine.
Ye Barons, to the sun unfold

Our Cross with crimson wove and gold!"

THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR.

AN ODE.

STATELY the feast, and high the cheer:
Girt with many an armed peer,
And canopied with golden pall,
Amid Cilgarran's castle hall,
Sublime in formidable state,
And warlike splendour, Henry sate;
Prepared to stain the briny flood
Of Shannon's lakes with rebel blood.
Illumining the vaulted roof:

A thousand torches flamed aloof :
From massy cups, with golden gleam
Sparkled the red metheglin's stream:
To grace the gorgeous festival,
Along the lofty window'd hall,
The storied tapestry was hung:
With minstrelsy the rafters rung
Of harps that with reflected light'
From the proud gallery glitter'd bright :
While gifted bards, a rival throng,
(From distant Mona, nurse of song,
From Teivi, fringed with umbrage brown,
From Elvy's vale, and Cader's crown,
From many a shaggy precipice,
That shades Ierne's hoarse abyss,
And many a sunless solitude

Of Radnor's inmost mountains rude,)
To crown the banquet's solemn close,
Themes of British glory chose;
And to the strings of various chime
Attemper'd thus the fabling rhyme.

"O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roar'd,
High the screaming sea-mew soar'd;
On Tintaggel's topmost tower
Darksome fell the sleety shower;
Round the rough castle shrilly sung
The whirling blast, and wildly flung
On each tall rampart's thundering side
The surges of the tumbling tide :
When Arthur ranged his red-cross ranks
On conscious Camlan's crimson'd banks :
By Mordred's faithless guile decreed
Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed!

Yet in vain a paynim foe

Arm'd with fate the mighty blow;

For when he fell, an elfin queen,
All in secret, and unseen,
O'er the fainting hero threw
Her mantle of ambrosial blue;
And bade her spirits bear him far,
In Merlin's agate-axled car,

To her green isle's enamell'd steep,
Far in the navel of the deep.
O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew
From flowers that in Arabia grew :
On a rich inchanted bed

She pillow'd his majestic head;
O'er his brow, with whispers bland,
Thrice she waved an opiate wand;
And to soft music's airy sound,
Her magic curtains closed around.
There, renew'd the vital spring,
Again he reigns a mighty king;
And many a fair and fragrant clime,
Blooming in immortal prime,
By gales of Eden ever fann'd,
Owns the monarch's high command:
Thence to Britain shall return,
(If right prophetic rolls I learn,)
Borne on victory's spreading plume,
His ancient sceptre to resume;
Once more, in old heroic pride,
His barbed courser to bestride;
His knightly table to restore,
And brave the tournaments of yore."

They ceased when on the tuneful stage
Advanced a bard, of aspect sage;
His silver tresses, thin besprent,
To age a graceful reverence lent;
His beard, all white as spangles frore
That clothe Plinlimmon's forests hoar,
Down to his harp descending flow'd ;
With Time's faint rose his features glow'd;
His eyes diffused a soften'd fire,
And thus he waked the warbling wire.

"Listen, Henry, to my rede!
Not from fairy realms I lead
Bright-robed Tradition, to relate
In forged colours Arthur's fate;
Though much of old romantic lore
On the high theme I keep in store :
But boastful Fiction should be dumb,
Where Truth the strain might best become.
If thine ear may still be won
With songs of Uther's glorious son,
Henry, I a tale unfold,
Never yet in rhyme enroll'd,

Nor sung nor harp'd in hall or bower;
Which in my youth's full early flower,
A minstrel, sprung of Cornish line,
Who spoke of kings from old Locrine,
Taught me to chant, one vernal dawn,
Deep in a cliff-encircled lawn,

What time the glistening vapours fled
From cloud-envelop'd Clyder's head;
And on its sides the torrents gray
Shone to the morning's orient ray.

"When Arthur bow'd his haughty crest,
No princess, veil'd in azure vest,
Snatch'd him, by Merlin's potent spell,
In groves of golden bliss to dwell;
Where, crown'd with wreaths of misletoe,
Slaughter'd kings in glory go:

But when he fell, with winged speed,
His champions, on a milk-white steed,
From the battle's hurricane,

Bore him to Joseph's tower'd fane,
In the fair vale of Avalon*:
There, with chanted orison,
And the long blaze of tapers clear,
The stolèd fathers met the bier;
Through the dim aisles in order dread
Of martial woe, the chief they led,
And deep entomb'd in holy ground,
Before the altar's solemn bound.
Around no dusky banners wave,

No mouldering trophies mark the grave :
Away the ruthless Dane has torn

Each trace that Time's slow touch had worn;
And long, o'er the neglected stone,
Oblivion's veil its shade has thrown:
The faded tomb, with honour due,
'Tis thine, O Henry, to renew!
Thither, when Conquest has restored

Yon recreant isle, and sheath'd the sword,
When peace with palm has crown'd thy brows,
Haste thee, to pay thy pilgrim vows.

There, observant of my lore,

The pavement's hallow'd depth explore;
And thrice a fathom underneath

Dive into the vaults of death.

There shall thine eye, with wild amaze,

On his gigantic stature gaze;

There shalt thou find the monarch laid,
All in warrior-weeds array'd ;
Wearing in death his helmet-crown,
And weapons huge of old renown.
Martial prince, 'tis thine to save
From dark oblivion Arthur's grave!
So may thy ships securely stem
The western frith: thy diadem
Shine victorious in the van,

Nor heed the slings of Ulster's clan :
Thy Norman pikemen win their way
Up the dun rocks of Harald's bay+:
And from the steeps of rough Kildare
Thy prancing hoofs the falcon scare :
So may thy bow's unerring yew
Its shafts in Roderick's heart imbrue."
Amid the pealing symphony

The spiced goblets mantled high;
With passions new the song impress'd
The listening king's impatient breast:

[* Glastonbury Abbey, said to be founded by Joseph of Arimathea, in a spot anciently called the island, or valley of Avalonia.]

[t The bay of Dublin. Harald, or Harsager, the Fairhaired King of Norway, is said to have conquered Ireland, and to have founded Dublin.]