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On Acon's spiry citadel,

Though to the gale thy banners swell,
Pictured with the silver moon;

England shall end thy glory soon!
In vain, to break our firm array,

Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray:
Those sounds our rising fury fan:
English Richard in the van,
On to victory we go,

A vaunting infidel the foe."

Blondel led the tuneful band,
And swept the wire with glowing hand.
Cyprus, from her rocky mound,
And Crete, with piny verdure crown'd,
Far along the smiling main
Echoed the prophetic strain.

Soon we kiss'd the sacred earth

That gave a murder'd Saviour birth;
Then, with ardour fresh endued,
Thus the solemn song renew'd.

"Lo, the toilsome voyage past, Heaven's favour'd hills appear at last! Object of our holy vow,

We tread the Tyrian valleys now.
From Carmel's almond-shaded steep
We feel the cheering fragrance creep:
O'er Engaddi's shrubs of balm
Waves the date-empurpled palm.
See Lebanon's aspiring head
Wide his immortal umbrage spread!
Hail, Calvary, thou mountain hoar,
Wet with our Redeemer's gore!
Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn,
Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn;
Your ravish'd honours to restore,
Fearless we climb this hostile shore!
And thou, the sepulchre of God!
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!

Aloft in his heroic hand,

Blazing, like the beacon's brand,
O'er the far-affrighted fields,
Resistless Kaliburn he wields.
Proud Saracen, pollute no more
The shrines by martyrs built of yore!
From each wild mountain's trackless crown

In vain thy gloomy castles frown;
Thy battering engines, huge and high,
In vain our steel-clad steeds defy;
And, rolling in terrific state,
On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate.
When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp,
Amid the moonlight vapours damp,
Thy necromantic forms, in vain,
Haunt us on the tented plain :
We bid those spectre-shapes avaunt,
Ashtaroth, and Termagaunt!
With many a demon pale of hue,
Doom'd to drink the bitter dew
That drops from Macon's sooty tree,
Mid the dread grove of ebony.

Nor magic charms, nor fiends of hell,
The Christian's holy courage quell.

Salem, in ancient majesty
Arise, and lift thee to the sky!
Soon on thy battlements divine
Shall wave the badge of Constantine!
Ye Barons, to the sun unfold

Our Cross with crimson wove and gold!"

THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR.

AN ODE.

STATELY the feast, and high the cheer:
Girt with many an armed peer,
And canopied with golden pall,
Amid Cilgarran's castle hall,
Sublime in formidable state,
And warlike splendour, Henry sate;
Prepared to stain the briny flood
Of Shannon's lakes with rebel blood.
Illumining the vaulted roof:

A thousand torches flamed aloof:
From massy cups, with golden gleam
Sparkled the red metheglin's stream:
To grace the gorgeous festival,
Along the lofty window'd hall,
The storied tapestry was hung:
With minstrelsy the rafters rung
Of harps that with reflected light
From the proud gallery glitter'd bright:
While gifted bards, a rival throng,
(From distant Mona, nurse of song,
From Teivi, fringed with umbrage brown,
From Elvy's vale, and Cader's crown,
From many a shaggy precipice,
That shades Ierne's hoarse abyss,
And many a sunless solitude

Of Radnor's inmost mountains rude,)
To crown the banquet's solemn close,
Themes of British glory chose;
And to the strings of various chime
Attemper'd thus the fabling rhyme.
"O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roar'd,
High the screaming sea-mew soar'd;
On Tintaggel's topmost tower
Darksome fell the sleety shower;
Round the rough castle shrilly sung
The whirling blast, and wildly flung
On each tall rampart's thundering side
The surges of the tumbling tide:
When Arthur ranged his red-cross ranks
On conscious Camlan's crimson'd banks:
By Mordred's faithless guile decreed
Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed!
Yet in vain a paynim foe

Arm'd with fate the mighty blow;
For when he fell, an elfin queen,
All in secret, and unseen,
O'er the fainting hero threw
Her mantle of ambrosial blue:
And bade her spirits bear him far,
In Merlin's agate-axled car,
To her green isle's enamell'd steep,
Far in the navel of the deep.

O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew
From flowers that in Arabia grew:
On a rich inchanted bed

She pillow'd his majestic head;
O'er his brow, with whispers bland,
Thrice she waved an opiate wand;
And to soft music's airy sound,
Her magic curtains closed around.
There, renew'd the vital spring,
Again he reigns a mighty king;
And many a fair and fragrant clime,
Blooming in immortal prime,
By gales of Eden ever fann'd,
Owns the monarch's high command:
Thence to Britain shall return,
(If right prophetic rolls I learn,)
Borne on victory's spreading plume,
His ancient sceptre to resume;
Once more, in old heroic pride,
His barbed courser to bestride;
His knightly table to restore,
And brave the tournaments of yore."

They ceased: when on the tuneful stage Advanced a bard, of aspect sage; His silver tresses, thin besprent, To age a graceful reverence lent; His beard, all white as spangles frore That clothe Plinlimmon's forests hoar, Down to his harp descending flow'd; With Time's faint rose his features glow'd; His eyes diffused a soften'd fire,

And thus he waked the warbling wire.

"Listen, Henry, to my rede!
Not from fairy realms I lead
Bright-robed Tradition, to relate
In forged colours Arthur's fate;
Though much of old romantic lore
On the high theme I keep in store:
But boastful Fiction should be dumb,
Where Truth the strain might best become.
If thine ear may still be won

With songs of Uther's glorious son,
Henry, I a tale unfold,

Never yet in rhyme enroll'd,

Nor sung nor harp'd in hall or bower;
Which in my youth's full early flower,
A minstrel, sprung of Cornish line,
Who spoke of kings from old Locrine,
Taught me to chant, one vernal dawn,
Deep in a cliff-encircled lawn,
What time the glistening vapours fled
From cloud-enveloped Clyder's head;
And on its sides the torrents gray
Shone to the morning's orient ray.

"When Arthur bow'd his haughty crest,
No princess, veil'd in azure vest,
Snatch'd him, by Merlin's potent spell,
In groves of golden bliss to dwell;
Where, crown'd with wreaths of misletoe,
Slaughter'd kings in glory go:
But when he fell, with winged speed,
His champions, on a milk-white steed,
From the battle's hurricane,
Bore him to Joseph's tower'd fane,

3 F

In the fair vale of Avalon:*
There, with chanted orison,
And the long blaze of tapers clear,
The stoled fathers met the bier;
Through the dim aisles in order dread
Of martial woe, the chief they led,
And deep entomb'd in holy ground,
Before the altar's solemn bound.
Around no dusky banners wave,
No mouldering trophies mark the grave:
Away the ruthless Dane has torn

Each trace that Time's slow touch had worn;
And long, o'er the neglected stone,
Oblivion's vail its shade has thrown:
The faded tomb, with honour due,
'Tis thine, O Henry, to renew!
Thither, when Conquest has restored

Yon recreant isle, and sheath'd the sword,
When peace with palm has crown'd thy brows,
Haste thee, to pay thy pilgrim vows.
There, observant of my lore,

The pavement's hallow'd depth explore;
And thrice a fathom underneath

Dive into the vaults of death.

There shall thine eye, with wild amaze,
On his gigantic stature gaze;

There shalt thou find the monarch laid,
All in warrior-weeds array'd;
Wearing in death his helmet-crown,
And weapons huge of old renown.
Martial prince, 'tis thine to save
From dark oblivion Arthur's grave!
So may thy ships securely stem
The western frith thy diadem
Shine victorious in the van,
Nor heed the slings of Ulster's clan :
Thy Norman pikemen win their way
Up the dun rocks of Harald's bay :†
And from the steeps of rough Kildare
Thy prancing hoofs the falcon scare :
So may thy bow's unerring yew
Its shafts in Roderick's heart imbrue."

Amid the pealing symphony
The spiced goblets mantled high;
With passions new the song impress'd
The listening king's impatient breast:
Flash the keen lightnings from his eyes;
He scorns awhile his bold emprise ;
E'en now he seems, with eager pace,
The consecrated floor to trace,

And ope, from its tremendous gloom,
The treasure of the wondrous tomb:
E'en now he burns in thought to rear,
From its dark bed, the ponderous spear,
Rough with the gore of Pictish kings:
E'en now fond hope his fancy wings,
To poise the monarch's massy blade,
Of magic-temper'd metal made;
And drag to day the dinted shield
That felt the storm of Camlan's field.
O'er the sepulchre profound

E'en now, with arching sculpture crown'd,
He plans the chantry's choral shrine,
The daily dirge, and rites divine.

SONNET.

WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WILTON HOUSE.

FROM Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic

Art

Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bowers,
Its living hues where the warm pencil pours,
And breathing forms from the rude marble start,
How to life's humbler scene can I depart!
My breast all glowing from those gorgeous towers,
In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours!
Vain the complaint: for Fancy can impart
(To Fate superior and to Fortune's doom)
Whate'er adorns the stately storied hall:
She, 'mid the dungeon's solitary gloom,
Can dress the Graces in their Attic pall;
Bid the green landscape's vernal beauty bloom,
And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall.

THOMAS BLACKLOCK.

[Born, 1721. Died, 1791.]

THOMAS BLACKLOCK was born at Annan, in Dumfriesshire, where his father was a bricklayer. Before he was six months old he was totally deprived of sight by the small-pox. From an early age he discovered a fondness for listening to books, especially to those in poetry; and by the kindness of his friends and relations, he acquired a slight acquaintance with the Latin tongue, and with some of the popular English classics. He began also, when very young, to

[Glastonbury Abbey, said to be founded by Joseph of Arimathea, in a spot anciently called the island, or valley of Avalonia.]

[The bay of Dublin. Harald, or Harsager, the Fairhaired King of Norway, is said to have conquered Ireland, and to have founded Dublin.]

compose verses; and some of these having been shown to Dr. Stevenson, an eminent physician of the Scottish capital, the doctor benevolently took him to Edinburgh, where Blacklock improved his knowledge of Latin, and completed his studies at the university. The publication of his poems excited a general interest in his favour, and Professor Spence, of Oxford, having prefixed to them an account of his life and character, a second edition of them was liberally encouraged in London. In 1759, he was licensed as a preacher of the Scottish church. He soon afterward married a Miss Johnston, a very worthy, but homely woman; whose beauty, however, he was accustomed to extol with an ecstasy that

made his friends regard his blindness, as, in one instance, no misfortune. By the patronage of the Earl of Selkirk, he was presented to the living of Kirkcudbright; but in consequence of the violent objections that were made by the parishioners to having a blind man for their clergyman, he resigned the living, and accepted of a small annuity in its stead. With this slender provision he returned to Edinburgh, and subsisted, for the rest of his life, by taking young gentlemen as boarders in his house, whom he occasionally assisted in their studies.

He published an interesting article on Blindness in the Encyclopædia Britannica, and a work entitled "Paraclesis, or Consolations of Religion," in two dissertations, the one original, the other translated from a work which has been sometimes ascribed to Cicero, but which is more generally believed to have been written by Vigonius of Padua. He died of a nervous fever, at the age of seventy.

Blacklock was a gentle and social being, but prone to melancholy; probably more from constitution than from the circumstance of his blindness, which he so often and so deeply deplores. From this despondent disposition, he sought refuge in conversation and music. He

was a tolerable performer on the flute, and used to carry a flageolet in his pocket, on which he was not displeased to be solicited for a tune.

His verses are extraordinary for a man blind from his infancy; but Mr. Henry Mackenzie, in his elegant biographical account of him, has certainly over-rated his genius; and when Mr. Spence, of Oxford, submitted Blacklock's descriptive powers as a problem for metaphysicians to resolve, he attributed to his writings a degree of descriptive strength which they do not possess. Denina carried exaggeration to the utmost when he declared that Blacklock would seem a fable to posterity, as he had been a prodigy to his contemporaries. It is no doubt curious that his memory should have retained so many forms of expression for things which he had never seen; but those who have conversed with intelligent persons who have been blind from their infancy, must have often remarked in them a familiarity of language respecting the objects of vision which, though not easy to be accounted for, will be found sufficiently common to make the rhymes of Blacklock appear far short of marvellous. Blacklock, on more than one occasion, betrays something like marks of blindness.t

THE AUTHOR'S PICTURE.

WHILE in my matchless graces wrapt I stand, And touch each feature with a trembling hand; Deign, lovely self! with art and nature's pride, To mix the colours, and the pencil guide.

Self is the grand pursuit of half mankind; How vast a crowd by self, like me, are blind! By self the fop in magic colours shown, Though scorn'd by every eye, delights his own: When and wrinkles seize the conqu'ring maid, Self, not the glass, reflects the flattering shade. Then, wonder-working self! begin the lay; Thy charms to others as to me display.

age

Straight is my person, but of little size; Lean are my cheeks, and hollow are my eyes; My youthful down is, like my talents, rare; Politely distant stands each single hair. My voice too rough to charm a lady's ear; So smooth a child may listen without fear; Not form'd in cadence soft and warbling lays, To soothe the fair through pleasure's wanton ways. My form so fine, so regular, so new, My port so manly, and so fresh my hue; Oft, as I meet the crowd, they laughing say, "See, see Memento Mori cross the way." The ravish'd Proserpine at last, we know, Grew fondly jealous of her sable beau; But, thanks to nature! none from me need fly; One heart the devil could wound-so cannot I. Yet, though my person fearless may be seen, There is some danger in my graceful mien: For, as some vessel toss'd by wind and tide, Bounds o'er the waves and rocks from side to

side;

In just vibration thus I always move:
This who can view and not be forced to love?
Hail! charming self! by whose propitious aid
My form in all its glory stands display'd:
Be present still; with inspiration kind,
Let the same faithful colours paint the mind.
Like all mankind, with vanity I'm bless'd,
Conscious of wit I never yet possess'd.
To strong desires my heart an easy prey,
Oft feels their force, but never owns their sway.
This hour, perhaps, as death I hate my foe;
The next, I wonder why I should do so.
Though poor, the rich I view with careless eye;
Scorn a vain oath, and hate a serious lie.

I ne'er for satire torture common sense;
Nor show my wit at God's nor man's expense.
Harmless I live, unknowing and unknown;
Wish well to all, and yet do good to none.
Unmerited contempt I hate to bear;
Yet on my faults, like others, am severe.
Dishonest flames my bosom never fire;
The bad I pity, and the good admire;
Fond of the Muse, to her devote my days,
And scribble-not for pudding, but for praise.
These careless lines, if any virgin hears,
Perhaps, in pity to my joyless years,
She may consent a generous flame to own;
And I no longer sigh the nights alone.
But should the fair, affected, vain, or nice,
Scream with the fears inspired by frogs or mice;

In his Discorso della Literatura.

[ Blacklock's poetry sleeps secure in undisturbed me diocrity, and Blacklock himself is best remembered from Johnson's reverential look and the influence a letter of his had upon the fate and fortunes of Burns.]

Cry, "Save us, heaven! a spectre, not a man!"
Her hartshorn snatch or interpose her fan:
If I my tender overture repeat;

Oh! may my vows her kind reception meet!
May she new graces on my form bestow,
And with tall honours dignify my brow!

ODE TO AURORA, ON MELISSA'S BIRTH-DAY.

Or time and nature eldest born,
Emerge, thou rosy-finger'd morn,
Emerge, in purest dress array'd,

And chase from Heaven night's envious shade
That I once more may, pleased, survey,
And hail Melissa's natal day.

Of time and nature eldest born,
Emerge, thou rosy-finger'd morn;

In order at the eastern gate
The Hours to draw thy chariot wait;
Whilst zephyr, on his balmy wings,
Mild nature's fragrant tribute brings,
With odours sweet to strew thy way,
And grace the bland revolving day.
But as thou lead'st the radiant sphere,
That gilds its birth, and marks the year,
And as his stronger glories rise,
Diffused around th' expanded skies,
Till clothed with beams serenely bright,
All Heaven's vast concave flames with light;
So, when, through life's protracted day,
Melissa still pursues her way,
Her virtues with thy splendour vie,
Increasing to the mental eye:

Though less conspicuous, not less dear,
Long may they Bion's prospect cheer;
So shall his heart no more repine,

Bless'd with her rays, though robb'd of thine.

WILLIAM HAYWARD ROBERTS.

[Born, 1745. Died, 1791.]

HE was educated at Eton, and from thence was elected to King's college, Cambridge, where he took the degree of master of arts, and of doctor in divinity. From being an under-master at Eton he finally rose to be provost of the college, in the year 1781. He was also chaplain to the king, and rector of Farnham Royal, in Bucking

FROM "JUDAH RESTORED."

BOOK I.

The subject proposed-State of the Jews in CaptivityCharacter of Belshazzar-Feast of Baal-Daniel visited by the Angel Gabriel.

THE fall of proud Belshazzar, the return Of Benjamin, and Judah, captive tribes,

I sing. Spirit of God, who to the eyes

Of holy seers in vision didst reveal
Events far distant; thou who once didst touch
Their lips with heavenly fire, and tune their harps
To strains sublimer than the Tuscan stream
Caught from his Latian bards, or echoed round
The wide Ægean from Ionia's shore,
Inspire my soul; bless'd spirit, aid my song.

The sun full seventy times had pass'd the realm
Of burning Scorpius, and was hastening down
The steep convex of heaven, since Babylon
Received her mourning prisoners. Savage taunts,
And the rude insult of their barbarous lords,
Embitter all their woe. Meanwhile the Law,
Proclaim'd on Horeb's top, neglected lies;
Nor kid, nor evening lamb, nor heifer bleeds,
Nor incense smokes, nor holy Levite claims
Choice fruits, and rich oblations. On the trees,
That o'er the waters bend, their untuned harps,
Harps which their fathers struck to festal hymns,
Hang useless. "Twas the hill, 'twas Sion's hill,

hamshire. In 1771 he published, in three parts, "A Poetical Essay on the Attributes and Providence of the Deity." Two years afterward, "A Poetical Epistle to Christopher Anstey, on the English Poets, chiefly those who had written in blank verse;" and in 1774, his poem of "Judah Restored," a work of no common merit.

Which yet Jehovah loved. There once he dwelt;
There stood his temple; there from side to side
The cherub stretch'd his wings, and from the cloud
Beam'd bright celestial radiance. Thence, though
In early childhood to a stranger's land, [driven
Or born sad heirs of slavery, still they cast
An anxious look from Perath's willowy vale,
Toward Jordan, sacred stream; and when the sun
Sunk in the west, with eager eye pursued
His parting beams; and pointed to the place,
Where from their sight the faint horizon hid.
Those hills, which round deserted Salem's walls
Stood like a bulwark. And as some tired hart,
Driven by keen hunters o'er the champain wild,
Pants for the running brook, so long the tribes
Of captive Judah for their native clime,
Again to sing the strains of Jesse's son,
Again to raise a temple to their God.

But, oh! what hope, what prospect of return,
While fierce Belshazzar reigns? He, undismay'd
Though hostile banners stream near Babel's towers,
Round his gall'd prisoners binds the griping chain,
And scoffs at Judah's God. Even now a shout
Is heard through every street, and with loud voice
Arioch, an herald tall, proclaims a feast
To Bel, Chaldæan idol; and commands
That when the morrow dawns, soon as is heard
The sound of cornet, dulcimer, and harp,

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