Chapter VII

O modest EVENING! oft let me appear
A wandering votary in thy pensive train;
Listening to every wildly-warbling note,
That fills with farewel sweet thy darkening plain.

ODE

TO

EVENING.

BY MR. WILLIAM COLLINS.

If ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear;
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales,
O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed:
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat,
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum;
Now teach me, Maid compos'd,
To breathe some soften'd strain,
Whose numbers stealing thro' thy darkening vale,
May not unseemly with it's stillness suit,
As musing slow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd return!
For when thy folding star arising shews
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in flowers the day,
And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with sedge,
And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still,
The Pensive Pleasure's sweet
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then lead, calm Votress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile,
Or up-land fallows grey
Reflect its last cool gleam.
But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Forbid my willing feet; be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's side,
Views wilds, and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.
While spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport,
Beneath thy ling'ring light:
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;
Or Winter yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes;
So long, sure-found beneath thy sylvan shed,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lip'd Health,
Thy gentlest influence own,
And hymn thy fav'rite name!

ISIS.

AN

ELEGY.

WRITTEN BY MR. MASON OF CAMBRIDGE, 1748.

Far from her hallow'd grot, where mildly bright,
The pointed crystals shot their trembling light,
From dripping moss where sparkling dew-drops fell,
Where coral glow'd, where twin'd the wreathed shell,
Pale ISIS lay; a willow's lowly shade
Spread its thin foliage o'er the sleeping maid;
Clos'd was her eye, and from her heaving breast
In careless folds loose flow'd her zoneless vest;
While down her neck her vagrant tresses flow,
In all the awful negligence of woe;
Her urn sustain'd her arm, that sculptur'd vase
Where Vulcan's art had lavish'd all its grace;
Here, full with life, was heav'n-taught Science seen,
Known by the laurel wreath, and musing mien:
There cloud-crown'd Fame, here Peace sedate and bland,
Swell'd the loud trump, and wav'd the olive wand;
While solemn domes, arch'd shades, and vistas green,
At well-mark'd distance close the sacred scene.
On this the Goddess cast an anxious look,
Then dropt a tender tear, and thus she spoke:
Yes, I could once with pleas'd attention trace
The mimic charms of this prophetic vase;
Then lift my head, and with enraptur'd eyes
View on yon plain the real glories rise.
Yes, ISIS! oft hast thou rejoic'd to lead
Thy liquid treasures o'er yon fav'rite mead;
Oft hast thou stopt thy pearly car to gaze,
While ev'ry Science nurs'd it's growing bays;
While ev'ry Youth with fame's strong impulse fir'd,
Prest to the goal, and at the goal untir'd,
Snatch'd each celestial wreath, to bind his brow,
The Muses, Graces, Virtues could bestow.
E'en now fond Fancy leads th' ideal train,
And ranks her troops on Mem'ry's ample plain;
See! the firm leaders of my patriot line,
See! SIDNEY, RALEIGH, HAMDEN, SOMERS shine.
See HOUGH superior to a tyrant's doom
Smile at the menace of the slave of Rome,
Each soul whom truth could fire, or virtue move,
Each breast, strong panting with it's country's love,
All that to Albion gave the heart or head,
That wisely counsel'd, or that bravely bled,
All, all appear; on me they grateful smile,
The well-earn'd prize of every virtuous toil
To me with filial reverence they bring,
And hang fresh trophies o'er my honour'd spring.
Ah! I remember well yon beachen spray,
There ADDISON first tun'd his polish'd lay;
'Twas there great CATO'S form first met his eye,
In all the pomp of free-born majesty;
"My son, he cry'd, observe this mein with awe,
"In solemn lines the strong resemblance draw;
"The piercing notes shall strike each British ear;
"Each British eye shall drop the patriot tear!
"And rous'd to Glory by the nervous strain,
"Each Youth shall spurn at slav'ry's abject reign,
"Shall guard with CATO'S zeal Britannia's laws,
"And speak, and act, and bleed in freedom's cause."
The Hero spoke; the bard assenting bow'd
The lay to liberty and CATO flow'd;
While Echo, as she rov'd the vale along,
Join'd the strong cadence of his Roman song.
But ah! how Stillness slept upon the ground,
How mute Attention check'd each rising sound;
Scarce stole a breeze to wave the leafy spray,
Scarce trill'd sweet Philomel her softest lay,
When LOCKE walk'd musing forth; e'en now I view
Majestic Wisdom thron'd upon his brow,
View Candor smile upon his modest cheek,
And from his eye all Judgment's radiance break.
'Twas here the sage his manly zeal exprest,
Here stript vain falshood of her gaudy vest;
Here Truth's collected beams first fill'd his mind,
E'er long to burst in blessings on mankind;
E'er long to shew to reason's purged eye,
That "NATURE'S FIRST BEST GIFT WAS LIBERTY."
Proud of this wond'rous son, sublime I stood,
(While louder surges swell'd my rapid flood)
Then vain as Niobe, exulting cry'd,
Ilissus! roll thy fam'd Athenian tide;
Tho' Plato's steps oft mark'd thy neighb'ring glade,
Tho' fair Lycæum lent it's awful shade,
Tho' ev'ry Academic green imprest
It's image full on thy reflecting breast,
Yet my pure stream shall boast as proud a name,
And Britain's ISIS flow with Attic fame.
Alas! how chang'd! where now that Attic boast?
See! Gothic Licence rage o'er all my coast;
See! Hydra Faction spread it's impious reign,
Poison each breast, and madden ev'ry brain:
Hence frontless crouds, that not content to fright
The blushing Cynthia from her throne of night,
Blast the fair face of day; and madly bold,
To Freedom's foes infernal orgies hold;
To Freedom's foes, ah! see the goblet crown'd,
Hear plausive shouts to Freedom's foes resound;
The horrid notes my refluent waters daunt,
The Echoes groan, the Dryads quit their haunt;
Learning, that once to all diffus'd her beam,
Now sheds, by stealth, a partial private gleam,
In some lone cloister's melancholy shade,
Where a firm few support her sickly head,
Despis'd, insulted by the barb'rous train,
Who scour like Thracia's moon-struck rout the plain,
Sworn foes like them to all the Muse approves,
All Phæbus favours, or Minerva loves.
Are these the sons my fost'ring breast must rear,
Grac'd with my name, and nurtur'd by my care?
Must these go forth from my maternal hand
To deal their insults thro' a peaceful land,
And boast while Freedom bleeds, and Virtue groans,
That "ISIS taught Rebellion to her Sons?"
Forbid it heaven! and let my rising waves
Indignant swell, and whelm the recreant slaves!
In England's cause their patriot floods employ,
As Xanthus delug'd in the cause of Troy.
Is this deny'd? then point some secret way
Where far far hence these guiltless streams may stray;
Some unknown channel lend, where Nature spreads
Inglorious vales, and unfrequented meads,
There, where a hind scarce tunes his rustic strain,
Where scarce a pilgrim treads the pathless plain,
Content I'll flow; forget that e'er my tide
Saw yon majestic structures crown it's side;
Forget, that e'er my rapt attention hung
Or on the Sage's or the Poet's tongue;
Calm and resign'd my humbler lot embrace,
And pleas'd, prefer oblivion to disgrace.

THE

TRIUMPH

OF

ISIS.

OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING POEM.

BY MR. THOMAS WARTON, OF OXFORD.

_Quid mihi nescio quam, proprio cum Tybride Romam,
Semper in ore geris? referunt si vera parentes,
Hanc urbem insano nullus qui marte petivit
Lætatus violasse redit. Nec numina sedem
Destituunt._---- CLAUDIAN.

On closing flow'rs when genial gales diffuse
The fragrant tribute of refreshing dews;
When chaunts the milk-maid at her balmy pail,
And weary reapers whistle o'er the vale;
Charm'd by the murmurs of the quiv'ring shade,
O'er ISIS' willow-fringed banks I stray'd:
And calmly musing thro' the twilight way,
In pensive mood I fram'd the Doric lay.
When lo! from op'ning clouds, a golden gleam
Pour'd sudden splendors o'er the shadowy stream;
And from the wave arose it's guardian queen,
Known by her sweeping stole of glossy green;
While in the coral crown that bound her brow,
Was wove the Delphic laurel's verdant bough.
As the smooth surface of the dimply flood,
The silver-slipper'd ISIS lightly trod,
From her loose hair the dropping dew she press'd,
And thus mine ear in accents mild address'd.
No more, my son, the rural reed employ,
Nor trill the trifling strain of empty joy;
No more thy love-resounding sonnets suit
To notes of pastoral pipe or oaten flute.
For hark! high-thron'd on yon majestic walls,
To the dear Muse afflicted Freedom calls:
When Freedom calls, and OXFORD bids thee sing,
Why stays thy hand to strike the sounding string?
While thus, in Freedom's and in Phoebus' spite,
The venal sons of slavish CAM, unite;
To shake yon tow'rs, when Malice rears her crest,
Shall all my sons in silence idly rest?
Still sing, O CAM, your fav'rite Freedom's cause;
Still boast of Freedom, while you break her laws:
To pow'r your songs of Gratulation pay,
To courts address soft flattery's soothing lay.
What tho' your gentle MASON'S plaintive verse
Has hung with sweetest wreaths MUSÆUS' hearse;
What tho' your vaunted bard's ingenuous woe,
Soft as my stream, in tuneful numbers flow?
Yet strove his Muse, by same or envy led,
To tear the laurels from a sister's head?----
Misguided youth! with rude unclassic rage
To blot the beauties of thy whiter page;
A rage that sullies e'en thy guiltless lays,
And blasts the vernal bloom of half thy bays.
Let GRANTA boast the patrons of her name,
Each pompous fool of fortune and of fame:
Still of preferment let her shine the queen,
Prolific parent of each bowing dean:
Be her's each prelate of the pamper'd cheek,
Each courtly chaplain sanctify'd and sleek;
Still let the drones of her exhaustless hive,
On fat pluralities supinely thrive:
Still let her senates titled slaves revere,
Nor dare to know the patriot from the peer;
For tinsel'd courts their laurel'd mount despise,
In stars and strings superlatively wise:
No longer charm'd by virtue's golden lyre,
Who sung of old amid th'Aonian choir,
Where CAM, slow winding thro' the breezy reeds,
With kindly wave his groves of laurel seeds.
'Tis ours, my son, to deal the sacred bay,
Where Honour calls, and Justice points the way;
To wear the well-earn'd wreath which merit brings.
And snatch a gift beyond the reach of kings.
Scorning, and scorn'd by courts, yon Muses' bow'r
Still nor enjoys, nor asks the smile of pow'r.
Tho' wakeful Vengeance watch my chrystal spring,
Tho' persecution wave her iron wing,
And o'er yon spiry temples as she flies,
"These destin'd feats be mine" exulting cries;
On ISIS still each gift of fortune waits,
Still peace and plenty deck my beauteous gates.
See Science walks with freshest chaplets crown'd;
With songs of joy my festal groves resound;
My muse divine, still keeps her wonted state,
The front erect, and high majestic gait:
Green as of old, each oliv'd portal smiles,
And still the graces build my Parian piles:
My Gothic spires in ancient grandeur rise,
And dare with wonted pride to rush into the skies.
Ah should'st thou fall (forbid it heav'nly pow'rs!)
Dash'd into dust with all thy cloud-capt tow'rs;
Who but would mourn to British virtue dear,
What patriot could refuse the manly tear!
What British MARIUS could refrain to weep
O'er mighty CARTHAGE fall'n, a prostrate heap!
E'en late when RADCLIFFE'S delegated train
Auspicious shone in ISIS' happy plain;
When yon proud [11]dome, fair Learning's amplest shrine,
Beneath its Attic roofs receiv'd the Nine;
Mute was the voice of joy and loud applause,
To RADCLIFFE due, and ISIS' honour'd cause?
What free-born crouds adorn'd the festive day,
Nor blush'd to wear my tributary bay!
How each brave breast with honest ardors heav'd,
When SHELDON'S fane the patriot band receiv'd;
While, as we loudly hail'd the chosen few,
Rome's awful senate rush'd upon our view!
O may the day in latest annals shine,
That made a BEAUFORT, and an HARLEY mine:
Then bade them leave the loftier scene awhile,
The pomp of guiltless state, the patriot toil,
For bleeding Albion's aid the sage design,
To hold short dalliance with the tuneful Nine.
Then Music left her golden sphere on high,
And bore each strain of triumph from the sky;
Swell'd the full song, and to my chiefs around,
Pour'd the full Pæans of mellifluous sound.
My Naiads blythe the floating accents caught,
And list'ning danc'd beneath their pearly grot:
In gentler eddies play'd my wanton wave,
And all my reeds their softest whispers gave;
Each lay with brighter green adorn'd my bow'rs,
And breath'd a fresher fragrance on my flow'rs.
But lo! at once the swelling concerts cease,
And crouded theatres are hush'd in peace.
See, on yon sage how all attentive stand,
To catch his darting eye, and waving hand.
Hark! he begins, with all a TULLY'S art
To pour the dictates of a CATO'S heart.
Skill'd to pronounce what noblest thoughts inspire,
He blends the speaker's with the patriot's fire;
Bold to conceive, nor tim'rous to conceal,
What Britons dare to think, he dares to tell.
'Tis his alike the ear and eye to charm,
To win with action, and with sense to warm;
Untaught in flow'ry diction to dispense
The lulling sounds of sweet impertinence;
In frowns or smiles he gains an equal prize,
Nor meanly fears to fall, nor creeps to rise;
Bids happier days to ALBION be restor'd,
Bids ancient Justice rear her radiant sword;
From me, as from my country, wins applause,
And makes an OXFORD'S a BRITANNIA'S cause.
While arms like these my steadfast sages wield,
While mine is Truth's impenetrable shield;
Say, shall the PUNY CHAMPION fondly dare
To wage with force like this, scholastic war?
Still vainly scribble on with pert pretence,
With all the rage of pedant impotence?
Say, shall I foster this domestic pest,
This parricide that wounds a mother's breast?
Thus in the stately ship that long has bore
Britain's victorious cross from shore to shore,
By chance, beneath her close sequester'd cells,
Some low-born worm, a lurking mischief dwells;
Eats his blind way, and saps with secret toil
The deep foundations of the watry pile.
In vain the forest lent its stateliest pride,
Rear'd her tall mast, and fram'd her knotty side;
In vain the thunder's martial rage she stood,
With each fierce conflict of the stormy flood;
More sure the reptile's little arts devour,
Than waves, or wars, or Eurus' wintry pow'r,
Ye venerable bow'rs, ye seats sublime,
Clad in the mossy vest of fleeting time;
Ye stately piles of old munificence,
At once the pride of Learning and defence,
Where ancient Piety, a matron hoar,
Still seems to keep the hospitable door;
Ye cloisters pale, that length'ning to the sight,
Still step by step to musings mild invite;
Ye high-archt walks where oft the bard has caught
The glowing sentiment, the lofty thought;
Ye temples dim, where pious duty pays
Her holy hymns of ever-echoing praise;
Lo! your lov'd ISIS, from the bord'ring vale,
With all a mother's fondness bids you hail!----
Hail, OXFORD, hail! of all that's good and great,
Of all that's fair, the guardian and the seat;
Nurse of each brave pursuit, each generous aim,
By truth exalted to the throne of fame!
Like Greece in science and in liberty,
As Athens learn'd, as Lacedæmon free!
Ev'n now, confess'd to my adoring eyes,
In awful ranks thy sacred sons arise;
With ev'ry various flower their temples wreath'd,
That in thy gardens green its fragrance breath'd,
Tuning to knightly tale his British reeds,
Thy crouding bards immortal CHAUCER leads:
His hoary head o'erlooks the gazing choir,
And beams on all around celestial fire:
With graceful step see ADDISON advance,
The sweetest child of Attic Elegance:
To all, but his belov'd embrace deny'd,
See LOCKE leads reason, his majestic bride:
See sacred HAMMOND, as he treads the field,
With godlike arm uprears his heav'nly shield.
All who, beneath the shades of gentle peace,
Best plan'd the labours of domestic ease;
Who taught with truth, or with persuasion mov'd;
Who sooth'd with numbers, or with sense improv'd;
Who told the pow'rs of reason or refin'd,
All, all that strengthen'd or adorn'd the mind;
Each priest of health, who mix'd the balmy bowl,
To rear frail man, and stay the fleeting soul;
All croud around, and echoing to the sky,
Hail, OXFORD, hail! with filial transport cry.
And see yon solemn band! with virtuous aim,
'Twas theirs in thought the glorious deed to frame:
With pious plans each musing feature glows,
And well weigh'd counsels mark their meaning brows:
"Lo! these the leaders of thy patriot line,"
HAMDEN, and HOOKER, HYDE, and SIDNEY shine.
These from thy source the fires of freedom caught:
How well thy sons by their example taught!
While in each breast th' hereditary flame
Still blazes, unextinguish'd and the same!
Nor all the toils of thoughtful peace engage,
'Tis thine to form the hero as the sage.
I see the sable-suited prince advance
With lillies crown'd, the spoils of bleeding France,
EDWARD----the Muses in yon hallow'd shade
Bound on his tender thigh the martial blade:
Bade him the steel for British freedom draw,
And OXFORD taught the deeds that CRESSY saw.
And see, great father of the laureat band,
The [12]BRITISH KING before me seems to stand.
He by my plenty-crowned scenes beguil'd,
And genial influence of my seasons mild,
Hither of yore (forlorn, forgotten maid)
The Muse in prattling infancy convey'd;
From Gothic rage the helpless virgin bore,
And fix'd her cradle on my friendly shore:
Soon grew the maid beneath his fost'ring hand,
Soon pour'd her blessings o'er th' enlighten'd land.
Tho rude the [13]dome, and humble the retreat,
Where first his pious care ordain'd her seat,
Lo! now on high she dwells in Attic bow'rs,
And proudly lifts to heav'n her hundred tow'rs.
He first fair Learning's and Britannia's cause
Adorn'd with manners, and advanc'd with laws;
He bade relent the Briton's savage heart,
And form'd his soul to social scenes of art,
Wisest and best of kings!----with ravish'd gaze
Elate the long procession he surveys:
Joyful he smiles to find, that not in vain
He plan'd the rudiments of Learning's reign:
Himself he marks in each ingenuous breast,
With all the founder in the race exprest:
With rapture views, fair Freedom still survive
In yon bright domes (ill-fated fugitive)
(Such seen, as when the goddess pour'd the beam
Unsullied on his ancient diadem)
Well-pleas'd that in his own Pierian seat
She plumes her wings, and rests her weary feet;
That here at last she takes her fav'rite stand,
"Here deigns to linger, ere she leave the land."

FOOTNOTES:

[11] RADCLIFFE'S library.

[12] Alfred. Regis Romani. V. Virg. Æn. 6.

[13] ----------------------------Ad Capitolia ducit
Aurea nunc, olim sylvestribus horrida dumis.
VIRG. ÆN.

LOVE ELEGY.

BY MR. HAMMOND.

I.

Let others boast their heaps of shining gold,
And view their fields with waving plenty crown'd,
Whom neigb'ring foes in constant terror hold,
And trumpets break their slumbers, never found.

II.

While calmly poor, I trifle life away,
Enjoy sweet leisure by my chearful fire,
No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,
But cheaply bless'd, I'll scorn each vain desire.

III.

With timely care I'll sow my little field,
And plant my orchard with it's master's hand,
Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield,
Or range the sheaves along the sunny land.

IV.

If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,
I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,
Under my arm I'll bring the wand'rer home,
And not a little chide it's thoughtless dam.

V.

What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast?
Or lull'd to slumber by the beating rain,
Secure and happy sink at last to rest.

VI.

Or if the sun in flaming Leo ride,
By shady rivers indolently stray,
And with my DELIA walking side by side,
Hear how they murmur, as they glide away.

VII.

What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
To stop and gaze on DELIA as I go!
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And teach my lovely scholar all I know!

VIII.

Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream,
In silent happiness I rest unknown;
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for DELIA, and myself alone.

IX.

Ah foolish man! who thus of her possest,
Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
And if his outward trappings spoke him blest,
Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind.

X.

With her I scorn the idle breath of praise,
Nor trust to happiness that's not our own,
The smile of fortune might suspicion raise,
But here, I know, that I am lov'd alone.

XI.

STANHOPE, in wisdom, as in wit divine,
May rise, and plead Britannia's glorious cause,
With steady rein his eager wit confine,
While manly sense the deep attention draws:

XII.

Let STANHOPE speak his list'ning country's wrong,
My humble voice shall please one partial maid,
For her alone, I pen my tender song,
Securely sitting in his friendly shade.

XIII.

STANHOPE shall come, and grace his rural friend,
DELIA shall wonder at her noble guest,
With blushing awe the riper fruit commend,
And for her husband's Patron cull the best.

XIV.

Her's be the care of all my little train,
While I with tender Indolence am blest,
The favourite subject of her gentle reign,
By love alone distinguish'd from the rest.

XV.

For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plow,
In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock,
For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow,
And sleep extended on the naked rock.

XVI.

Ah! what avails to press the stately bed,
And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep,
By marble fountains lay the pensive head,
And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep.

XVII.

DELIA alone can please, and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight,
With her, enjoyment wakens new desire,
And equal rapture glows thro' every night.

XVIII.

Beauty and worth, alone in her, contend
To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind:
In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd.

XIX.

On her I'll gaze, when others loves are o'er,
And dying, press her with my clay-cold hand----
Thou weep'st already, as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.

XX.

Oh! when I die, my latest moments spare,
Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill,
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair,
Tho' I am dead my soul shall love thee still.

XXI.

Oh quit the room, oh quit the deathful bed,
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart!
O leave me, DELIA! ere thou see me dead,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part.

XXII.

Let them extended on the decent bier,
Convey the corse in melancholy state,
Thro' all the village spread the tender tear,
While pitying maids our wond'rous loves relate.

THE

TEARS

OF

SCOTLAND.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCXLVI.

I.

Mourn, hapless CALEDONIA, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hospitable roofs no more,
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoaky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.

II.

The wretched owner sees afar
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast, and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain;
Thy infants perish on the plain.

III.

What boots it then, in every clime,
Thro' the wide spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage, and rancour fell.

IV.

The rural pipe, and merry lay
No more shall chear the happy day:
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains, but those of sorrow flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe;
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

V.

Oh baneful cause, oh! fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The sons, against their fathers stood,
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's soul was not appeas'd:
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel!

VI.

The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread,
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes and dies.