Elegies and Other Small Poems

Excerpt

ARTHUR and ALBINA.

Ah me! the yellow western sky turns pale,

And leaves the cheerless sons of earth to mourn;

And yet I hear net in the silent vale,

A sound to tell me Arthur does return.

Ah, haste ye hours! quick plume the loit'ring wing!

Bring back my hero, crown'd with glorious spoils!

Let bards on lofty harps his triumphs sing,

And loud applause repay successful toils!

Reward the flame, ye great celestial pow'rs,

The noble flame that in his bosom glows!

Inspire him, Druids, from your holy bow'rs,

With strength to conquer iron-breasted foes!

With heighten'd vigour brace his nervous arm,

And let his lance with ten-fold fury fly,

Make him terrific by some potent charm,

And add new lightening to his piercing eye!

Then may my lover gain unrivall'd fame,

The Roman banners may less proudly flow,

Then he may humble their detested name,

And their high plumes wave o'er' a British brow!

Then may his chariot, wheeling o'er the plain,

Hurl death and desolation all around,

While his intrepid front appals their train,

And make our proud invaders bite the ground!

But yet I hear no lively foot advance;

No sound of triumph greets my list'ning ear!'

And I may carve this eagle-darting lance

For one, whose voice I never more shall hear!

Perhaps my vows have never reach'd the skies,

Nor heav'n, propitious, smil'd upon my pray'r;

And ah! to morrow's crimson dawn may rise

To plunge me in the horrors of despair!

Yet well he knows the dreadful spear to wield—

Alas! their fearful limbs are fenc'd with care:

And, what can valour, when th'extended shield

May leave, so oft, his gen'rous bosom bare?

Say, reverend Druids, can you bless in vain?

Can you in vain extend your spotless hands?

Will not heav'n listen when its priests complain,

And save its altars from unhallow'd bands?

Oh yes! I'll fear no more! The sacred groves,

That rear their untouch'd branches to the skies;

Beneath whose shade its chosen servant roves,

Hidden from weak, unconsecrated eyes:

Beneath whose shade the choral bards rehearse,

Piercing, with uprais'd eyes, each mist that shrouds,

And, listening, catch the heav'n-dictated verse,

By airs etherial wailed from the clouds:

It ne'er can be—but hark! I hear the sound

Of some one's step; yet not the youth I love;

He would have flown, and scarcely touch'd the ground,

Not ling'ring thus, with weary caution, move.

The heavy wanderer approaches nigh,

But the drear darkness skreens him from my views

Ah, gracious heav'n! it was my Arthur's sigh,

Which the unwilling breeze so faintly blew.

Oh speak! inform me what I have to fear!

Speak, and relieve my doubting, trembling heart!

To thy Albina, with a tongue sincere,

A portion of thy wretchedness impart!"

"Sweet maid," replied the wounded, dying youth,

In accents mournful, tremulous and slow,

"Yes, I will ever answer thee with truth,

While yet the feeble tide of life shall flow.

We made the haughty Roman chiefs retire,

The tow'ring, sacrilegious eagle flew;

Our bosoms swell'd with more than mortal fire,

When from the field indignant they withdrew....