Yet Saxon,-proud Saxon,-thy fury has left me, "Ye towers, on whose rampire, all ruin'd and riven, I have seen when your banner waved broad to the Heaven, For ages still true, though for ages forsaken, Yet, Cambria, thy heart may to gladness awaken, Since thy monarch has smiled on the harp and the bow!" BOW-MEETING SONG. WE find it well observed by an ancient learned Rabbin, The man was raving mad who first to sea would go, Who would change the tented field for the quarter-deck and cabin, And the songs of blooming beauty for a Yo! heave oh! Yet since your bard is bent to try The fervours of an Eastern sky, And where, across the tepid main, Arabian breezes blow, While yet the northern gale Fans his cheek and swells his sail, Accept his latest tribute to the British bow! Dear scenes of unrepented joy, our nature's best physician, Can all Golconda's glittering mines so pure a bliss bestow? Oh deem not that for sordid gold he left you, or ambition, Or shall e'er forget your peaceful charms 'mid India's brightest glow! Oft, oft, will he be telling Of the glades of Nant-y-bellin, Of the lilies and the roses that in Gwersylt blow, Oft, oft, recall the snow-white wall of yonder ancient dwelling, Whose lords, in Saxon Edwin's days, so nobly bent the bow! Oh when the dog-star rides on high, how oft shall memory wander Where yonder oaks their aged arms 'mid blended poplars throw; And hollies join their glossy shade, and the brook with cool meander Steals like a silver snake thro' the copse below! And * Where many a mild and matron grace Adorn the mother's gentle face, * in beauteous garland blow, And proved in many a martial fray And flings his well-worn sword away To bend the British bow! The bard is gone, and other bards shall wake the call of pleasure That prompts to beauty's lip the smile, and lends her cheek its glow, And strike the sylvan lyre to a louder, livelier measure, And wear the oaken wreath, which he must now forego! But yet, though many a sweeter song Shall float th' applauding tent along, And many a friendly health to the Sons of Genius flow, Forget not them, who, doom'd to part, Will keep engraven on their heart The sons and the daughters of the British bow! BALLAD. I. "OH, captain of the Moorish hold, Unbar thy gates to me, And I will give thee gems and gold, To set Fernando free. For I a sacred oath have plight A pilgrim to remain, Till I return with Lara's knight, The noblest knight of Spain." II. "Fond Christian youth," the captain said, 66 Thy suit is soon denied: Fernando loves a Moorish maid, And will with us abide. Renounced is every Christian rite, The turban he hath ta'en, And Lara thus hath lost her knight, The boldest knight of Spain." Pale, marble pale, the pilgrim turn'd, Then in his cheeks the blushes burn'd, And anger in his eye. (From forth his cowl a ringlet bright Fell down of golden grain,) "Base Moor! to slander Lara's knight, The boldest knight of Spain! IV. "Go look on Lugo's gory field! Attest the worth of Lara's knight, V. "By Allah, yea!" with eyes of fire Who fell by Lara's blade; The ransom were but vain To purchase back thy Christian knight, The boldest knight of Spain." VI. "Ah, Moor! the life that once is shed No vengeance can repay; And who can number up the dead Thyself in many a manly fight Hast many a father slain; Then rage not thus 'gainst Lara's knight, The boldest knight of Spain." VII. "And who art thou, whose pilgrim vest Wilt thou our Moorish creed recite, And here with me remain? He may depart,—that captive knight, VIII. "Ah, speak not so!" with voice of woe, Nor live another's bride! Fernando's wife may yield her life, But not her honour stain, To loose the bonds of Lara's knight, IX. "And know'st thou, then, how hard a doom Thy husband yet may bear! The fetter'd limbs, the living tomb, The damp and noisome air? |