THE

BARONS OF FRANCE.

FROM the earliest blush of dawn
Had Moret* heard the warrior's horn,
Hurrying half the peers of France
To tournament with shield and lance.
But now the val'rous barons bore
Glory's lance and shield no more,
And in the gorgeous hall appear
With peaceful pomp and stately cheer.
Remembrance of their feats inspires
The pathos of resounding lyres ;
Whilst at times the drum's loud thunder
Oft would rive the sense asunder,

Did not the clarion's mellowing flow

Balm on the wounded ear bestow.

Now conscious Honour from each eye

Gleams with graceful courtesy,

And Health, and Love, and Friendship feed

Valour's throb for noble deed.

But, lo! in golden gallery seen,

Inspiration in his mien,

With waving hand, and fire-fed eye,

Thus the child of Extacy,

Moret castle in the ifle of France.

The bard Montalton, rolls his song O'er the wonder-stricken throng:"List, O list, heroic train,

"For some god inspires my strain, "And with more than poet's zeal "Warm'd, the Prophet's fire I feel. "Ah! me, what glories meet mine eyes,

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Flaming thro' yon opening skies! "His car I see, his star-girt crown, "And dread regard here bending down! "Ah! why, St. Louis, on thy race "Beams that look of godlike grace? "Wherefore northward bends thy brow, "And why that host's far-shining show? "'Tis the van of heroes old

("Temper'd now with heav'nly mould) "Which behind thy sun-bright car "Flames to warm our hearts for war. "O'er 'em Victory spreads her wings, "O'er 'em songs of triumph sings, "Northward points their glittering spears, "Gallia's standard northward rears, "Like a stream of lightning plays, "And shoots before their following blaze."

Instant all the heroes feel

Wild amaze, and burning zeal;

What the vision hints to know,

Racks their hearts with noble woe;

Doubt distracts, distraction pains,

And an awful silence reigns,

Till from Moret's every tow'r
All the trumps their blazon* pour;
Shouts, that shake the castle, rise,
And Philip† flashes on their eyes;
His visage speaking woe and ire,
Thus he pour'd his words of fire:
"Brethren of Fame, and each a star
"Flaming in the front of war,
"Blend your lustre, and unite

"In something more than semblant fight.
"In the realm of Honour born,
"True to Knighthood, sloth ye scorn;
"Then bid me Glory's path display,
"And, king-like, lead myself the way.
"To arms then, nor misdeem me slow,
"Where your duty points, to go.

"Grasp then your spears, your helms assume,

"And fix th' irrevocable doom

"Of English John, whose purchas'd slaves
"War-begirt Alenson braves.

"Lo! shouting Glory points to you.
"Normandy, your valour's due,
"Since blushing Normandy disdains
"The curb of his inglorious chains.
"Perish e'en France, if ever here

"Flourish fraud and abject fear;

"For know, dear France, 'tis Honour's flame "Feeds thy life-blood in thy fame.

Johnson's Dictionary-show; divulgation; publication. SHAKSPERE.

Philip Augustus, King of France. See Hume in the life of King John.

"Ah! now ye snatch your glittering spears, "And shine at length my warlike peers. "Great Henry now no more alive,

"Bids us no more for empire strive, "Nor the Cœur de Leon's star,

Set in glory, wakes our war;

'Tis John, th' inglorious John, who binds "In vengeance our indignant minds. "Hark! Henry's self, true Honour's child, "Calls from his grave with accents wild, "Nor more to tender love a prey, "Bids us th' unfilial monster slay; “And Richard cries with high disdain, "Be the trait'rous brother slain;

"Whilst Arthur, starting from his tomb, "Groans for the scepter'd murd'rer's doom.”

Then, then De Courtnai on the ground
Cast his eyes, that soon around
Flash'd the fires that well might make
All but godlike Philip quake.

Le Clare, he cries aloud, Le Clare,
"The lightning of thy falchion bare;
Lead on, heroic monarch, lead
To Alenson's war-worn mead
The dauntless knights that scorn delay,
When Fame and Philip lead the way.

THE

ALLEGORY OF LABOUR.

From the World.

FOLLOWING my fancies wheresoe'er they please,
O'er hill and dale, thro' glen and bosky bourn,
Sudden a sound, amid my reveries,

Made me mine eyes towards it quickly turn,
There I beheld, beneath a yew-tree's shade
(The tree by lightning rent), a mourner laid :-

"Pity me, stranger," said the son of Woe

:

(A poor old man he seem'd, bow-bent with years) "Hear my sad tale, and may the sad tale shew "How best thy feet may fly the vale of tears; "For I was happy once, and bless'd my lot, "Till Pride allur'd me from my lowly cot.

"Want was my sire, and I am Labour nam❜d,

“And Wisdom was my wife," (of heav'nly race) "Who, far and wide, above all nymphs was fam'd "For sage demeanour blent with modest grace: "Two fair twin-daughters pleas'd my parent pride, "And fifteen years, whilst Wisdom liv'd, I joy'd,

"Health, ever-blooming, was my eldest child,
"And still she tended duteous on her sire;
"Content her sister, dansel gayly mild,

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My widow'd heart with comfort wont inspire