Part 8

When Britain first at Heaven's command Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of her land, And guardian angels sung the strain: Rule Brittania! Brittania rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves.

The nations not so blest as thee Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free The dread and envy of them all.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, And work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine!

The Muses, still with Freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair; Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd, And manly hearts to guard the fair:-- Rule Britannia! Brittania rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves!

J. THOMSON.

123. THE BARD.

_Pindaric Ode._

"Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait! Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!" --Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array:-- Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd quivering lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose his beard and hoary hair Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air) 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! O'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 Llewellyn's lay.

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue That hush'd the stormy main; Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries-- No more I weep; They do not sleep; On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, I see them sit; They linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

"Weave the warp and weave the woof The winding-sheet of Edward's race: Give ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year and mark the night When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonising 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 Heaven! What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

"Mighty Victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born? --Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes: Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm: Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.

"Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast. Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havock urge their destined course, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye Towers of Julius! London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head! Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled boar in infant gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accurséd loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

"Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun;) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove; the work is done;) Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track that fires the western skies They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:-- All hail, ye genuine Kings! Britannia's issue, hail!

"Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line: Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play? Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd wings.

"The verse adorn again, Fierce War and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice as of the cherub-choir Gales from blooming Eden bear, And distant warblings lessen on my ear That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: with joy I see The different doom our fates assign: Be thine Despair and sceptred Care; To triumph and to die are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

T. GRAY.

124. ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their Country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung: There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay, And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell a weeping hermit, there!

W. COLLINS.

125. LAMENT FOR CULLODEN.

The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e'en and morn she cries, Alas! And aye the saut tear blink's her ee: Drumossie moor--Drumossie day-- A waefu' day it was to me! For there I lost my father dear, My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves are growing green to see: And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman's ee! Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be; For mony a heart thou hast made sair That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.

R. BURNS.

126. LAMENT FOR FLODDEN.

I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Bandsters are lyart, and runkled and gray; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie-- The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.

Dool and wae for the order, sent out lads to the border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

J. ELLIOTT.

127. THE BRAES OF YARROW.

Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, When first on them I met my lover; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover! For ever now, O Yarrow stream! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow!

He promised me a milk-white steed To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page To squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring,-- The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;-- Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!

Sweet were his words when last we met; My passion I as freely told him; Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought That I should never more behold him! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost; It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.

His mother from the window look'd With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walk'd The green-wood path to meet her brother; They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow.

No longer from thy window look-- Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou lovely maid; Alas, thou hast no more a brother! No longer seek him east or west And search no more the forest thorough; For, wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.

The tear shall never leave my cheek, No other youth shall be my marrow-- I'll seek thy body in the stream, And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. --The tear did never leave her cheek, No other youth became her marrow; She found his body in the stream, And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.

J. LOGAN.

128. WILLIE DROWNED IN YARROW.

Down in yon garden sweet and gay Where bonnie grows the lily, I heard a fair maid sighing say "My wish be wi' sweet Willie!

"Willie's rare, and Willie's fair, And Willie's wondrous bonny; And Willie hecht to marry me Gin e'er he married ony.

"O gentle wind, that bloweth south, From where my Love repaireth, Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth And tell me how he fareth!

"O tell sweet Willie to come doon And hear the mavis singing, And see the birds on ilka bush And leaves around them hinging.

"The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast And gentle throat sae narrow; There's sport eneuch for gentlemen On Leader haughs and Yarrow.

"O Leader haughs are wide and braid And Yarrow haughs are bonny; There Willie hecht to marry me If e'er he married ony.

"But Willie's gone, whom I thought on, And does not hear me weeping; Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e When other maids are sleeping.

"Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, The night I'll mak' it narrow, For a' the live-lang winter night I lie twined o' my marrow.

"O came ye by yon water-side? Pou'd you the rose or lily? Or came you by yon meadow green, Or saw you my sweet Willie?"

She sought him up, she sought him down, She sought him braid and narrow; Syne, in the cleaving of a craig, She found him drown'd in Yarrow!

ANON.

129. LOSS OF THE _ROYAL GEORGE_.

Toll for the Brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds And she was overset; Down went the _Royal George_, With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone: His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak, She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfeld went down With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main:

But Kempenfeld is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.

W. COWPER.

130. BLACK-EYED SUSAN.

All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd, The streamers waving in the wind, When black-eyed Susan came aboard; "O! where shall I my true-love find? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true If my sweet William sails among the crew."

William, who high upon the yard Rock'd with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below; The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark, high poised in air, Shuts close his pinions to his breast If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, And drops at once into her nest:-- The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet

"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall ever true remain Let me kiss off that falling tear; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee.

"Believe not what the landmen say Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind: They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, In every port a mistress find: Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

"If to fair India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

"Though battle call me from thy arms Let not my pretty Susan mourn; Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms William shall to his Dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye."

The boatswain gave the dreadful word, The sails their swelling bosom spread; No longer must she stay aboard; They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land; "Adieu!" she cries; and waved her lily hand.

J. GAY.

131. SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the girls that are so smart There's none like pretty Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry 'em; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy 'em; But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally! She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely; My master comes like any Turk, And bangs me most severely-- But let him bang his bellyful, I'll bear it all for Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week I dearly love but one day-- And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday; For then I'm drest all in my best To walk abroad with Sally: She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named; I leave the church in sermon-time And slink away to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again, O then I shall have money; I'll hoard it up, and box it all, I'll give it to my honey: I would it were ten thousand pound, I'd give it all to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbours all Make game of me and Sally, And, but for her, I'd better be A slave and row a galley; But when my seven long years are out O then I'll marry Sally,-- O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, But not in our alley!

H. CAREY.

132. A FAREWELL.

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, And fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink before I go A service to my bonnie lassie: The boat rocks at the pier of Leith, Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry, The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are rankéd ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar-- It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

R. BURNS.

133.

If doughty deeds my lady please Right soon I'll mount my steed; And strong his arm, and fast his seat That bears frae me the meed. I'll wear thy colours in my cap Thy picture in my heart; And he that bends not to thine eye Shall rue it to his smart! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take Tho' ne'er another trow me.

If gay attire delight thine eye I'll dight me in array; I'll tend thy chamber door all night, And squire thee all the day. If sweetest sounds can win thine ear, These sounds I'll strive to catch; Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell, That voice that nane can match.

But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue; For you alone I strive to sing, O tell me how to woo! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me.

GRAHAM OF GARTMORE.

134. TO A YOUNG LADY.

Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid-- Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng: With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course; Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and blest where'er she goes; Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass, And Heaven reflected in her face.

W. COWPER.

135. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile-- Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still wear a smile And move, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks And mantle o'er her neck of snow: Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks What most I wish--and fear to know!

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps! Her fair hands folded on her breast: --And now, how like a saint she sleeps! A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above controul Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee: And may the secret of thy soul Remain within its sanctuary!

S. ROGERS.

136.

For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove An unrelenting foe to Love, And when we meet a mutual heart Come in between, and bid us part?

Bid us sigh on from day to day, And wish and wish the soul away; Till youth and genial years are flown, And all the life of life is gone?

But busy, busy, still art thou, To bind the loveless joyless vow, The heart from pleasure to delude, To join the gentle to the rude.

For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer, And I absolve thy future care; All other blessings I resign, Make but the dear Amanda mine.

J. THOMSON.

137.

The merchant, to secure his treasure, Conveys it in a borrow'd name: Euphelia serves to grace my measure, But Cloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre Upon Euphelia's toilet lay-- When Cloe noted her desire That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, But with my numbers mix my sighs: And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise, I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.

Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd: I sung, and gazed; I play'd, and trembled: And Venus to the Loves around Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.

M. PRIOR.

138.

When lovely woman stoops to folly And finds too late that men betray,-- What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover And wring his bosom, is--to die.

O. GOLDSMITH.

139.

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon How can ye blume sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause Luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate.