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The trembling sun, far, far away
Shall pour on his couch a soften'd ray,
And his mantle shall wave in the flowing tide,
And the little fishes shall turn aside;
But the waves and the tides of the sea shall cease,
Ere wakes her love from his bed of peace.
No home!-no kiss !—No, never! never!
His couch is spread for ever and ever.
From The Queen's Wake.
Long has that harp, of magic tone,
To all the minstrel world been known:
Who has not heard her witching lays,
Of Ettrick banks and Yarrow braes?
But that sweet bard, who sung and play'd
Of many a feat and border raid,
Of many a knight and lovely maid,
When forced to leave his harp behind,
Did all her tuneful chords unwind;
And many ages pass’d and came
Ere man so well ould tune the same.
Bangour the daring task essay’d:
Not half the chords his fingers play'd ;
Yet even then some thrilling lays
Bespoke the harp of ancient days.
Redoubted Ramsay's peasant skill
Flung some strain d notes along the hill;
His was some lyre from lady's hall,
And not the mountain harp at all.
Langhorne arrived from southern dale,
And chimed his notes on Yarrow vale;
They would not, could not, touch the heart-
His was the modish lyre of art.
the harp to Logan's hand:
Then Leyden came from border land,
With dauntless heart and ardour high,
And wild impatience in his eye.
Though false his tones at times might be,
Though wild notes marrod the symphony
Between, the glowing measure stole
That spoke the bard's inspired soul.
Sad were those strains, when hymn'd afar,
On the green vales of Malabar:
O'er seas beneath the golden morn
They travell’d, on the monsoon borne,
Thrilling the heart of Indian maid,
Beneath the wild banana's shade.
Leyden, a shepherd wails thy fate,
And Scotland knows her loss too late!
The day arrived—blest be the day,
Walter the Abbot came that way!
The sacred relic met his view
Ah! well the pledge of heaven he knew.
He screw'd the chords, he tried a strain;
'Twas wild-he tuned and tried again;
Then pour’d the numbers bold and free,
The simple magic melody.
The land was charm’d to list his lays;
It knew the harp of ancient days.
The border chiefs, that long had been
In sepulchres unhearsed and green,
Pass'd from their mouldy vaults away,
In armour red, and stern array,
And by their moonlight halls were seen,
In visor, helm, and habergeon.
Even fairies sought our land again,
So powerful was the magic strain.
Blest be his generous heart for aye!
He told me where the relic lay;
Pointed my way with ready will,
Afar on Ettrick's wildest hill;
Watch'd my first notes with curious eye,
And wonder'd at my minstrelsy:
He little ween'd a parent's tongue
Such strains had o'er my cradle sung.
Tus vigorous but somewhat eccentric author, who has thrown out so many profound ideas in prose and verse, and who has defied his critics to match them if they can, was born at Ipsley Court, Warwicksbire, on the 30th of January 1775. After a classical education at Rugby, he was entered of Trinity College, Oxford, where that indifference to established rule, by which his works are distinguished, manifested itself so strongly, that he was subjected to the punishment of rustication. When the insurrection broke out in Spain, he joined the insurgents in 1808; but the events which followed, on the establishment of the royal authority, were so little to his taste, that he abandoned the country in disgust. In 1815, he settled in Florence, since which period his visits to England have only been incidental.
As an author, Landor has written much, and well, upon a great variety of subjects; and his Imaginary Conversations is a work in which extensive scholar. ship is blended with profound and original thought. But, unfortunately, all his writings are pervaded with that defiance of the literary world, which no author, however talented, can indulge in with impunity; and thus, notwithstanding his avowed merits, he has never attained a correspondent popularity, either as a poet or a prose writer. His very orthography is stamped with this love of singularity, as if he would even spell, as well as think, for himself. The scholar and the man of taste, however, in spite of these defects, will always appreciate the productions of Landor.
Queen of the double sea, beloved of him
Who shakes the world's foundations, thou hast seen
Glory in all her beauty, all her forms;
Seen her walk back with Theseus when he left
The bones of Sciron bleaching to the wind,
Above the ocean's roar and cormorant's flight,
So high that vastest billows from above
Shew but like herbage waving in the mead;
Seen generations throng thy Isthmian games,
And pass away-the beautiful, the brave,
And them who sang their praises.
But, O Queen,
Audible still, and far beyond thy cliffs,
As when they first were utter'd, are those words
Divine which praised the valiant and the just;
And tears have often stopt, upon that ridge
So perilous, him who brought before his eye
The Colchian babes.
“Stay! spare him! save the last !
Medea!-is that blood ? again! it drops
From my imploring hand upon my fee:--
I will invoke the Eumenides no more-
I will forgive thee-bless thee-bend to thee
In all thy wishes-do but thou, Meden,
Tell me, one lives."
“ And shall I too deceive?" Cries from the firy car an angry voice; And swifter than two falling stars descend Two breathless bodies-warm, soft, motionless, As flowers in stillest noon before the sun, They lie three paces from him-such they lie As when he left them sleeping side by side, A mother's arm round each, a mother's cheeks Between them, flush'd with happiness and love. He was more changed than they were—doom’d to shew Thee and the stranger, how defaced and scarr'd Grief hunts us down the precipice of years, And whom the faithless prey upon the last.
To give the inertest masses of our earth Her loveliest forms was thine, to fix the gods Within thy walls, and hang their tripods round With fruits and foliage knowing not decay. A nobler work remains : thy citadel Invites all Greece: o'er lands and floods remote Many are the hearts that still beat high for thee: Confide then in thy strength, and unappallid Look down upon the plain, while yokemate kings Run bellowing, where their herdsmen goad them on; Instinct is sharp in them and terror trueThey smell the floor whereon their necks must lie.
There is a creature, dear to Heaven,
Tiny and weak, to whom is given
To enjoy the world while suns are bright
And hut grim winter from its sight-
Tamest of hearts that beat on wilds,
Tamer and tenderer than a child's,
The Dormouse—this he loved and taught
(Docile it is the day it's caught,
And fond of music, voice or string)
To stand before and hear her sing,
Or lie within her palm half closed,
Until another's interposed,
And claim’d the alcove wherein it lay,
Or held it with divided sway.
Say ye, that years roll on and ne'er return?
Say ye, the Sun who leaves them all behind,
Their great creator, cannot bring one back
With all his force, though he draw worlds around?
Witness me, little streams! that meet before
My happy dwelling; witness, Africo
And Mensola! that ye have seen at once
Twenty roll back, twenty as swift and bright
As are your swiftest and your brightest waves,
When the tall cypress o'er the Doccia
Hurls from his inmost boughs the latent snow.
Go, and go happy, pride of my past days
And solace of my present, thou whom Fate
Alone hath sever'd from me! One step higher
Must yet be mounted, high as was the last:
Friendship, with faltering accent, says Depart!
And take the highest seat below the crown’d.