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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 ev’ning 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 havoc 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 accursed 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, oh 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 oh ! 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
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 heav'n her many-colour'd wings.
“ The verse adorn again
Fierce war, and faithful love,
In buskin'd measures move
A voice, as of the cherub-choir,
That lost in long futurity expire.
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 diff'rent 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.
“HENCE, avaunt ('tis holy ground),
Comus, and his midnight-crew, And Ignorance with looks profound,
And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue, Mad Sedition's cry profane, Servitude that hugs her chain, Nor in these consecrated bowers Let painted Flatt’ry hide her serpent-train in flowers.
Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain,