Himself appeared, and with terrific tread Stalked through his drear domain. And yet, my friends, (If shapes like his be but the fancy's coinage) Surely there is a hidden power, that reigns 'Mid the lone majesty of untamed nature, Controlling sober reason; tell me else, Why do these haunts of barb'rous superstition O'ercome me thus ? I scorn them, yet they awe me. Enter Vellinus and Elidurus. Ye pledges dear of Cartismandua's faith, Elid. Daring Roman, Know that thou stand'st on consecrated ground: Thus ranged in mystic order, mark the place The Druid leads his train. Aul. Did. Where dwells the seer? Vel. In yonder shaggy cave; on which the moon Now sheds a side-long gleam. His brotherhood Possess the neighb'ring cliffs. Aul. Did. Yet up the hill Eld. On the left Beside the sages skilled in nature's lore: This bold intrusion, thou wilt find it hard To foil their fury. Prince, I did not moor My light-armed shallops on this dangerous strand 1 come in quest of proud Caractacus ; Who, when our veterans put his troops to flight, Elid. If here the monarch rests, The soil we tread, a hundred secret paths, Though throned in noontide brightness. In such dens CAPTURE OF CARACTACUS. Aulus Didius bursts into the sanctuary of the Druids, with Vellinus, Elidurus, and soldiers. Druid, Evelina, Bard, and Caractacus. Aul. Did. Ye bloody priests, Behold we burst on your infernal rites, And bid you pause. Instant restore our soldiers, Did not our laws give license to all faiths, Druid. Servant of Cæsar, has thine impious tongue Aul. Did. Bold priest, I scorn thy curses, and thyself. Look to the beauteous maid, That tranced in grief, bends o'er yon bleeding corse— Respect her sorrows. Evel. Hence, ye barbarous men, Ye shall not take him weltering thus in blood, Aul. Did. Fear us not, princess, Would too to Heaven, We reverence the dead. Ye reverenced the gods but even enough Aul. Did. The Romans fight Not to enslave, but humanize the world. Druid. Go to, we will not parley with thee, Roman : Instant pronounce our doom. Aul. Did. Hear it, and thank us. This once our clemency shall spare your groves, Yet learn, when next ye aid the foes of Cæsar, Druid. Be they blasted, Wherever their shade forgets to shelter virtue! Caractacus is captive! And dost thou smile, false Roman? Do not think Seized his false throat; and as he gave him death Injustice dares impose Proud crested soldier, [To Didius. Who seem'st the master-mover in this business, Say, dost thou read less terror on my brow, Than when thou meet'st me in the fields of war Heading my nations? No, my free-born soul Has scorn still left to sparkle through these eyes, And frown defiance on thee— —Is it thus ! [Seeing his son's body. Then I'm indeed a captive. Mighty gods! My soul, my soul submits: patient it bears The ponderous load of grief ye heap upon it. Yes, it will grovel in this shattered breast, And be the sad tame thing it ought to be, Cooped in a servile body. Aul. Did. Droop not, king. When Claudius, the great master of the world, Shall hear the noble story of thy valour, His pity Car. Can a Roman pity, soldier? And if he can, gods! must a Briton bear it? Shall to thy tomb with annual reverence bring Aul. Did. The morn doth hasten our departure. Prepare thee, king, to go: a fav'ring gale Now swells our sails. Car. Inhuman that thou art! Dost thou deny a moment for a father To shed a few warm tears o'er his dead son? Arise, my daughter. Weep'st thou, my girl? I prithee hoard thy tears For the sad meeting of thy captive mother: For we have much to tell her, much to say But I'll be mute. Adieu! ye holy men; Yet one look more—Now lead us hence for ever. WARTON. Born 1728—Died 1790. Dr. Thomas Warton is best known as a poetical antiquary. He wrote a "History of English Poetry," and by his researches and criticisms turned the attention of English readers in his time from the mere perusal of contemporary poets to the neglected authors of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries. Dr. Warton is not memorable for inventive talent, but he was well acquainted with the earlier British writers, he admired the ancient architecture of his country, and he loved the legends of old romance. "His Crusade, and the Grave of Arthur," says Mr. Campbell, "have a genuine air of martial and minstrel enthusiasm. Those pieces exhibit, to the best advantage, the most striking feature of his poetical character, which was a fondness for the recollections of chivalry, and a minute intimacy of imagination with its gorgeous residences, and imposing spectacles. Dr. Warton may indeed be said to have revived the spirit of chivalry in the poetry of modern times." But a genius above the reach of Warton's, was destined, in a few years after him, to soar beyond the track in which he first essayed his flights. Those who read the Grave of Arthur, in order to enhance their estimation of it, must remember that it was written before the Lay of the Last Minstrel, and it is interesting as the precursor of a style of poetic composition, which, though somewhat ancient in its subjects, is altogether new in its present attractiveness and popularity. PRINCE ARTHUR. About the beginning of the sixth century, the Romans, who had been masters of Britain during four hundred years, withdrew |