Part 4

To please that little hour is all I crave, Lov'd by my friends, I spurn the love of fame; High let the grass o'erspread my lonely grave, Let cankering moss obscure the rough-hewn name: There never may the pensive pilgrim go, Nor future minstrel drop the tear of woe, For all would fail to wake the slumbering earth below.

Be mine, whilst journeying life's rough road along O'er hill and dale the wandering bard shall go, To hail the hour of pleasure with the song, Or soothe with sorrowing strains the hour of woe; The song each passing moment shall beguile, Perchance too, partial friendship deigns to smile, Let fame reject the lay, I sleep secure the while.

Be mine to taste the humbler joys of life, Lull'd in oblivion's lap to wear away, And flee from grandeur's scenes of vice and strife, And flee from fickle fashion's empty sway: Be mine, in age's drooping hour, to see The lisping children climb their grandsire's knee, And train the future race to live and act like me.

Then, when the inexorable hour shall come To tell my death, let no deep requiem toll, No hireling sexton dig the venal tomb, Nor priest be paid to hymn my parted soul; But let my children, near their little cot, Lay my old bones beneath the turfy spot: So let me live unknown, so let me die forgot.

BION.

* * * * *

_ROSAMUND TO HENRY._

WRITTEN AFTER SHE HAD TAKEN THE VEIL.

HENRY, 'tis past! each painful effort o'er, Thy love, thy ROSAMUND, exists no more: She lives, but lives no longer now for you; She writes, but writes to bid the last adieu.

Why bursts the big tear from my guilty eye? Why heaves my love-lorn breast the impious sigh? Down, bosom! down, and learn to heave in prayer; Flow, flow, my tears, and wash away despair: Ah, no! still, still the lurking sin I see, My heart will heave, my tears will fall for thee. Yes, HENRY! through the vestal's guilty veins, With burning sway the furious passion reigns; For thee, seducer, still the tear will fall, And Love torment in Godstow's hallow'd wall.

Yet virtue from her deathlike sleep awakes, Remorse comes on, and rears her whip of snakes. Ah, HENRY! fled are all those fatal charms That led their victim to the monarch's arms; No more responsive to the evening air In wanton ringlets waves my golden hair; No more amid the dance my footsteps move, No more the languid eye dissolves with love; Fades on the cheek of ROSAMUND the rose, And penitence awakes from sin's repose.

Harlot! adultress! HENRY! can I bear Such aggravated guilt, such full despair! By me the marriage-bed defil'd, by me The laws of heaven forsook, defied for thee! Dishonour fix'd on CLIFFORD's ancient name, A father sinking to the grave with shame; These are the crimes that harrow up my heart, These are the crimes that poison memory's dart; For these each pang of penitence I prove, Yet these, and more than these, are lost in love.

Yes, even here amid the sacred pile, The echoing cloister, and the long-drawn aisle; Even here, when pausing on the silent air, The midnight bell awakes and calls to prayer; As on the stone I bend my clay-cold knee, Love heaves the sigh, and drops the tear for thee: All day the penitent but wakes to weep, 'Till nature and the woman sink in sleep; Nightly to thee the guilty dreams repair, And morning wakes to sorrow and despair! Lov'd of my heart, the conflict soon must cease, Soon must this harrow'd bosom rest in peace; Soon must it heave the last soul-rending breath, And sink to slumber in the arms of death.

To slumber! oh, that I might slumber there! Oh, that that dreadful thought might lull despair! That death's chill dews might quench this vital flame, And life lie mouldering with this lifeless frame! Then would I strike with joy the friendly blow, Then rush to mingle with the dead below. Oh, agonizing hour! when round my head Dark-brow'd despair his shadowing wings shall spread; When conscience from herself shall seek to fly, And, loathing life, still more shall loath to die! Already vengeance lifts his iron rod, Already conscience sees an angry God! No virtue now to shield my soul I boast, No hope protects, for innocence is lost!

Oh, I was cheerful as the lark, whose lay Trills through the ether, and awakes the day! Mine was the heartfelt smile, when earliest light Shot through the fading curtain of the night; Mine was the peaceful heart, the modest eye That met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why. At evening hour I struck the melting lyre, Whilst partial wonder fill'd my doating sire, 'Till he would press me to his aged breast, And cry, "My child, in thee my age is blest! Oh! may kind heaven protract my span of life To see my lovely ROSAMUND a wife; To view her children climb their grandsire's knee, To see her husband love, and love like me! Then, gracious heaven, decree old CLIFFORD's end, Let his grey hairs in peace to death descend."

The dreams of bliss are vanish'd from his view, The buds of hope are blasted all by you; Thy child, O CLIFFORD! bears a mother's name, A mother's anguish, and a harlot's shame; Even when her darling children climb her knee Feels the full force of guilt and infamy! Wretch, most unhappy! thus condemn'd to know, Even in her dearest bliss, her keenest woe; Curst be this form, accurst these fatal charms That buried virtue in seduction's arms; Or rather curst that sad, that fatal hour, When HENRY first beheld and felt their power; When my too-partial brother's doating tongue On each perfection of a sister hung; Told of the graceful form, the rose-red cheek, The ruby lip, the eye that knew to speak, The golden locks, that shadowing half the face Display'd their charms, and gave and hid a grace: 'Twas at that hour when night's englooming sway Steals on the fiercer glories of the day; Sad all around, as silence stills the whole, And pensive fancy melts the softening soul; These hands upon the pictur'd arras wove The mournful tale of EDWY's hapless love; When the fierce priest, inflam'd with savage pride, From the young monarch tore his blushing bride: Loud rung the horn, I heard the coursers' feet, My brothers came, o'erjoy'd I ran to meet; But when my sovereign met my wandering eye, I blush'd, and gaz'd, and fear'd, yet knew not why; O'er all his form with wistful glance I ran, Nor knew the monarch, 'till I lov'd the man: Pleas'd with attention, overjoy'd I saw Each look obey'd, and every word a law; Too soon I felt the secret flame advance, Drank deep the poison of the mutual glance; And still I ply'd my pleasing task, nor knew In shadowing EDWY I had pourtray'd you.

Thine, HENRY, is the crime! 'tis thine to bear The aggravated weight of full despair; To wear the day in woe, the night in tears, And pass in penitence the joyless years: Guiltless in ignorance, my love-led eyes Knew not the monarch in the knight's disguise; Fraught with deceit th' insidious monarch came To blast his faithful subject's spotless name; To pay each service of old CLIFFORD's race With all the keenest anguish of disgrace! Of love he talk'd; abash'd my down-cast eye Nor seem'd to seek, nor yet had power to fly; Still, as he urg'd his suit, his wily art Told not his rank 'till victor o'er my heart: Ah, known too late! in vain my reason strove, Fame, honour, reason, all were lost in love.

How heav'd thine artful breast the deep-drawn sigh? How spoke thy looks? how glow'd thine ardent eye? When skill'd in guile, that soft seductive tongue Talk'd of its truth, and CLIFFORD was undone. Oh, cursed hour of passion's maddening sway, Guilt which a life of tears must wash away! Gay as the morning lark no more I rose, No more each evening sunk to calm repose; No more in fearless innocence mine eye, Or met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why; No more my fingers struck the trembling lyre, No more I ran with joy to meet my sire; But guilt's deep poison ran through every vein, But stern reflection claim'd his ruthless reign; Still vainly seeking from myself to fly, In anxious guilt I shunn'd each friendly eye; A thousand torments still my steps pursue, And guilt, still lovely, haunts my soul with you. Harlot, adultress, each detested name, Stamps everlasting blots on CLIFFORD's fame! How can this wretch prefer the prayer to heaven? How, self-condemn'd, expect to be forgiven?

And yet, fond Hope, with self-deluding art, Still sheds her opiate poison o'er my heart; Paints thee most wretched in domestick strife, Curst with a kingdom, and a royal wife; And vainly whispers comfort to my breast-- "I curst myself that HENRY might be blest." Too fond deluder! impotent thy power To whisper comfort in the mournful hour; Weak, vain seducer, Hope! thy balmy breath To soothe Reflection on the bed of death; To calm stern Conscience' self-afflicting care, Or ease the raging pangs of wild Despair.

Why, nature, didst thou give this fatal face? Why heap with charms to load me with disgrace? Why bid mine eyes two stars of beauty move? Why form the melting soul too apt for love? Thy last best blessing meant, the feeling breast, Gave way to guilt, and poison'd all the rest; Now bound in sin's indissoluble chains, Fled are the charms, the guilt alone remains!

Oh! had fate plac'd amidst Earl CLIFFORD's hall Of menial vassals, me most mean of all; Low in my hopes, and homely rude my face, Nor form, nor wishes, rais'd above my place; How happy, ROSAMUND, had been thy lot, In peace to live unknown, and die forgot! Guilt had not then infix'd her piercing sting, Nor scorn revil'd the harlot of a king; Contempt had not revil'd my fallen fame, Nor infamy debas'd a CLIFFORD's name.

Oh, CLIFFORD! oh, my sire! thy honours now Thy child has blasted on thine ancient brow; Fallen is that darling child from virtue's name, And thy grey hairs sink to the grave with shame! Still busy fancy bids the scene arise, Still paints the father to these wretched eyes; Methinks I see him now, with folded arms, Think of his child, and curse her fatal charms; Those charms, her ruin! that in happier days, With all a father's love, he lov'd to praise: Unkempt his hoary locks, his head hung low In all the silent energy of woe; Yet still the same kind parent, still all mild, He prays forgiveness for his sinful child. And yet I live! if this be life, to know The agonizing weight of hopeless woe: Thus far, remote from every friendly eye, To drop the tear, and heave the ceaseless sigh; Each dreadful pang remorse inflicts to prove, To weep and pray, yet still to weep and love: Scorn'd by the virgins of this holy dome, A living victim in the cloyster'd tomb, To pray, though hopeless, justice should forgive, Scorn'd by myself--if this be life--I live!

Oft will remembrance, in her painful hour, Cast the keen glance to Woodstock's lovely bower: Recal each sinful scene of bliss to view, And give the soul again to guilt and you. Oh! I have seen thee trace the bower around, And heard the forest echo ROSAMUND; Have seen thy frantick looks, thy wildering eye, Heard the deep groan and bosom-rending sigh; Vain are the searching glance, the love-lorn groan, I live--but live to penitence alone; Depriv'd of every joy which life can give, Most vile, most wretched, most despis'd, I live.

Too well thy deep regret, thy grief, are known, Too true I judge thy sorrows by my own! Oh! thou hast lost the dearest charm of life, The fondest, tenderest, loveliest, more than wife; One who, with every virtue, only knew The fault, if fault it be, of loving you; One whose soft bosom seem'd as made to share Thine every joy, and solace every care; For crimes like these secluded, doom'd to know The aggravated weight of guilt and woe.

Still dear, still lov'd, I learnt to sin of thee, Learn, thou seducer, penitence from me! Oh! that my soul this last pure joy may know, Sometimes to soothe the dreadful hour of woe: HENRY! by all the love my life has shown, By all the sinful raptures we have known, By all the parting pangs that rend my breast, Hear, my lov'd lord, and grant my last request; And, when the last tremendous hour shall come, When all my woes are buried in the tomb, Then grant the only boon this wretch shall crave-- Drop the sad tear to dew my humble grave; Pause o'er the turf in fullness bent of woe, And think who lies so cold and pale below! Think from the grave she speaks the last decree, "What I am now--soon, HENRY, thou must be!" Then be this voice of wonted power possest, To melt thy heart, and triumph in thy breast: So should my prayers with just success be crown'd, Should HENRY learn remorse from ROSAMUND; Then shall thy sorrow and repentance prove, That even death was weak to end our love.

BION.

* * * * *

_THE RACE OF ODIN._

Loud was the hostile clang of arms, And hoarse the hollow sound, When POMPEY scatter'd wild alarms The ravag'd East around, The crimson deluge dreadful dy'd the ground: An iron forest of destructive spears Rear'd their stern stems, where late The bending harvest wav'd its rustling ears: Rome, through the swarming gate, Pour'd her ambitious hosts to slaughter forth: Such was the will of fate! From the cold regions of the North, At length, on raven wings, shall vengeance come, And justice pour the urn of bitterness on Rome.

"_Roman_! ('twas thus the chief of ASGARD cry'd) Ambitious _Roman_! triumph for a while; Trample on freedom in thy victor pride; Yet, though now thy fortune smile, Though MITHRIDATES fly forlorn, Once thy dread, but now thy scorn, ODIN will never live a shameful slave; Some region will he yet explore, Beyond the reach of Rome; Where, upon some colder shore, Freedom yet thy force shall brave, Freedom yet shall find a home: There, where the eagle dares not soar, Soon shall the raven find a safe retreat. ASGARD, farewell! farewell my native seat! Farewell for ever! yet, whilst life shall roll Her warm tide thro' thine injur'd chieftain's breast, Oft will he to thy memory drop the tear: Never more shall ODIN rest, Never quaff the sportive bowl, Or soothe in peace his slothful soul, Whilst Rome triumphant lords it here. Triumph in thy victor might, Mock the chief of ASGARD's flight; But soon the seeds of vengeance shall be sown, And ODIN's race hurl down thy blood-cemented throne."

Nurtur'd by Scandinavia's hardy soil, Strong grew the vigorous plant; Danger could ne'er the nation daunt, For war, to other realms a toil, Was but the pastime here; Skill'd the bold youth to hurl the unerring spear, To wield the falchion, to direct the dart, Firm was each warrior's frame, yet gentle was his heart.

Freedom, with joy, beheld the noble race, And fill'd each bosom with her vivid fire; Nor vice, nor luxury, debase The free-born offspring of the free-born sire; There genuine poesy, in freedom bright, Diffus'd o'er all her clear, her all-enlivening light.

From Helicon's meandering rills The inspiring goddess fled; Amid the Scandinavian hills In clouds she hid her head; There the bold, the daring muse, Every daring warrior wooes; The sacred lust of deathless fame Burnt in every warrior's soul: "Whilst future ages hymn my name, (The son of ODIN cries) I shall quaff the foaming bowl With my forefathers in yon azure skies; Methinks I see my foeman's skull With the mantling beverage full; I hear the shield-roof'd hall resound To martial music's echoing sound; I see the virgins, valour's meed,-- Death is bliss--I rush to bleed."

See where the murderer EGILL stands, He grasps the harp with skilful hands, And pours the soul-emoving tide of song; Mute admiration holds the listening throng: The royal sire forgets his murder'd son; ERIC forgives; a thousand years Their swift revolving course have run, Since thus the bard could check the father's tears, Could soothe his soul to peace, And never shall the fame of EGILL cease.

Dark was the dungeon, damp the ground, Beneath the reach of cheering day, Where REGNER dying lay; Poisonous adders all around On the expiring warrior hung, Yet the full stream of verse flow'd from his dauntless tongue: "We fought with swords," the warrior cry'd, "We fought with swords," he said--he dy'd.

Jomsburg lifts her lofty walls, Sparta revives on Scandinavia's shore; Undismay'd each hero falls, And scorns his death in terror to deplore. "Strike, THORCHILL, strike! drive deep the blow, Jomsburg's sons shall not complain, Never shall the brave appear Bound in slavery's shameful chain, Freedom ev'n in death is dear. Strike, THORCHILL, strike! drive deep the blow, We joy to quit this world of woe; We rush to seize the seats above, And gain the warrior's meed of happiness and love."

The destin'd hour at length is come, And vengeful heaven decrees the queen of cities' doom; No longer heaven withholds the avenging blow From those proud domes whence BRUTUS fled; Where just CHEREA bow'd his head, And proud oppression laid the GRACCHI low: In vain the timid slaves oppose, For freedom led their sinewy foes, For valour fled with liberty: Rome bows her lofty walls, The imperial city falls, "She falls--and lo, the world again is free!"

BION.

* * * * *

_THE DEATH OF ODIN._

Soul of my much-lov'd FREYA! yes, I come! No pale disease's slow-consuming power Has hasten'd on thy husband's hour; Nor pour'd by victor's thirsty hand Has ODIN's life bedew'd the land: I rush to meet thee by a self-will'd doom. No more my clattering iron car Shall rush amid the throng of war; No more, obedient to my heavenly cause, Shall crimson conquest stamp his ODIN's laws. I go--I go; Yet shall the nations own my sway Far as yon orb shall dart his all-enlivening ray: Big is the death-fraught cloud of woe That hangs, proud Rome, impending o'er thy wall, For ODIN shall avenge his ASGARD's fall.

Thus burst from ODIN's lips the fated sound, As high in air he rear'd the gleaming blade; His faithful friends around In silent wonder saw the scene, affray'd: He, unappall'd, towards the skies Uplifts his death-denouncing eyes; "Ope wide VALHALLA's shield-roof'd hall, Virgins of bliss! obey your master's call; From these injurious realms below The sire of nations hastes to go."

Say, faulters now your chieftain's breath? Or chills pale terror now his death-like face? Then weep not, THOR, thy friend's approaching death, Let no unmanly tears disgrace The first of mortal's valiant race: Dauntless HEIMDAL, mourn not now, BALDER! clear thy cloudy brow; I go to happier realms above, To realms of friendship and of love.

This unmanly grief dispelling, List to glory's rapturous call; So with ODIN ever dwelling, Meet him in the shield-roof'd hall: Still shall ODIN's fateful lance Before his daring friends advance; When the bloody fight beginning, Helms and shields, and hauberks ringing, Streaming life each fatal wound Pours its current on the ground; Still in clouds portentous riding O'er his comrade host presiding. ODIN, from the stormy air, O'er your affrighted foes shall scatter wild despair.

'Mid the mighty din of battle, Whilst conflicting chariots rattle, Floods of purple slaughter streaming, Fate-fraught falchions widely gleaming; When MISTA marks her destin'd prey, When dread and death deform the day; Happy he amid the strife, Who pours the current of his life; Every toil and trouble ending, ODIN from his hall descending, Shall bear him to his blest retreat, Shall place him in the warrior's seat.

Not such the destin'd joys that wait The wretched dastard's future fate: Wild shrieks shall yell in every breath,-- The agonizing shrieks of death. Adown his wan and livid face Big drops their painful way shall trace; Each limb in that tremendous hour Shall quiver in disease's power. Grim HELA o'er his couch shall hang, Scoff at his groans, and point each pang; No Virgin Goddess him shall call To join you in the shield-roof'd hall; No Valkery for him prepare The smiling mead with lovely care: Sad and scorn'd the wretch shall lie, Despairing shriek--despairing die! No Scald in never-dying lays Shall rear the temple of his praise; No Virgin in her vernal bloom Bedew with tears his high-rear'd tomb; No Soldier sound his honor'd name; No song shall hand him down to fame; But rank weeds o'er the inglorious grave Shall to the blast their high heads wave; And swept by time's strong stream away, He soon shall sink--oblivion's prey; And deep in Niflehim--dreary cell, Aye shall his sprite tormented dwell, Where grim Remorse for ever wakes, Where Anguish feeds her torturing snakes, Where Disappointment and Delay For ever guard the doleful way; Amid the joyless land of woe Keen and bleak the chill blasts blow; Drives the tempest, pours the rain, Showers the hail with force amain; Yell the night-birds as they fly Flitting in the misty sky; Glows the adder, swells the toad, For sad is HELA's cold abode.

Spread then the Gothic banners to the sky, Lift your sable banners high; Yoke your coursers to the car, Strike the sounding shield of war; Go, my lov'd companions, go Trample on the opposing foe; Be like the raging torrent's force, That, rushing from the hills, speds on its foaming course.