Full many a melancholy night O'er his sad couch, and in the balm Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to steep. Full oft, unknowing and unknown, Abrupt the social board to quit, And gaze with eager glance upon the tumbling flood. Beckoning the wretch to torments new, A spectre pale, appear'd; While, as the shades of eve arose, And brought the day's unwelcome close, More horrible and huge her giant-shape she rear'd. Is this, (mistaken Scorn will cry) Ah! from the Muse that bosom mild And roused to livelier pangs his wakeful sense of woe. Though doom'd hard penury to prove, More wounds than nature gave he knew, Then wish not o'er his earthy tomb Nor O forbid the twisted thorn With Spring's green-swelling buds to vegetate anew. What though no marble-piled bust With speaking sculpture wrought? To build a visionary shrine, [brought. Hung with unfading flowers, from fairy regions What though refused each chanted rite? And Petrarch's harp, that wept the doom In many a pensive pause shall seem to ring his knell. To soothe a lone, unhallow'd shade, Within an ivied nook. Sudden the half-sunk orb of day More radiant shot its parting ray, And thus a cherub-voice my charm'd attention took : 'Forbear, fond bard, thy partial praise; Nor thus for guilt in specious lays The wreath of glory twine: In vain with hues of gorgeous glow Gay Fancy gives her vest to flow, [fine. Unless Truth's matron-hand the floating folds con 'Just Heaven, man's fortitude to prove, Permits through life at large to rove The tribes of hell-born Woe: Yet the same Power that wisely sends Religion's golden shield to break the embattled foe. 'Her aid divine had lull'd to rest Had bade the sun of Hope appear To gild his darken'd hemisphere, And give the wonted bloom to Nature's blasted form. 'Vain man! 'tis Heaven's prerogative To take, what first it deign'd to give, In awful expectation placed, Await thy doom, nor impious haste To pluck from God's right hand his instruments of death.' THE CRUSADE. BOUND for holy Palestine, Nimbly we brush'd the level brine, O'er the wave our weapons play'd, 6 Syrian virgins, wail and weep, From Sion's turrets as afar Ye ken the march of Europe's war! From Albion's isle revenge we bring! Though to the gale thy banners swell, On to victory we go, A vaunting infidel the foe.' Blondel led the tuneful band, And swept the wire with glowing hand. And Crete, with piny verdure crown'd, Soon we kiss'd the sacred earth That gave a murder'd Saviour birth; 'Lo, the toilsome voyage past, We tread the Tyrian valleys now. By mocking pagans rudely trod, Bereft of every awful rite, And quench'd thy lamps that beam'd so bright; For thee, from Britain's distant coast, Lo, Richard leads his faithful host! |