The foil'd oppressor's deep and sullen groan, A nation's choral hymn for tyranny o'erthrown.

3 But we, weak minstrels of a laggard day, Skill'd but to imitate an elder page,

Timid and raptureless, can we repay

The debt thou claim'st in this exhausted age ? Thou givest our lyres a theme, that might engage Those that could send thy name o'er sea and

land,

While sea and land shall last; for Homer's rage

A theme; a theme for Milton's mighty handHow much unmeet for us, a faint degenerate band!

4 Ye mountains stern! within whose rugged breast The friends of Scottish freedom found repose; Ye torrents! whose hoarse sounds have soothed their rest,

Returning from the field of vanquish'd foes;
Say, have ye lost each wild majestic close,
That erst the choir of Bards or Druids flung,
What time their hymn of victory arose,

And Cattraeth's glens with voice of triumph.

rung,

And mystic Merlin harp'd, and gray-hair'd Llywarch sung! A

5 0 if your wilds such minstrelsy retain,

As sure your changeful gales seem oft to say, When sweeping wild, and sinking soft again, Like trumpet-jubilee, or harp's wild sway; If ye can echo such triumphant lay,

Then lend the note to him has loved you long! Who pious gather'd each tradition gray,

That floats your solitary wastes along,

And with affection vain gave them new voice in

song.

6 For not till now, how oft soe'er the task

Of truant verse hath lighten'd graver care,
From Muse or Sylvan was he wont to ask,
In phrase poetic, inspiration fair;
Careless, he gave his numbers to the air,-

They came unsought for, if applauses came;
Nor for himself prefers he now the prayer;

Let but his verse befit a hero's fame, Immortal be the verse!-forgot the poet's name!

7 Hark, from yon misty cairn their answer toss'd :
Minstrel the fame of whose romantic lyre,
Capricious swelling now, may soon be lost,
Like the light flickering of a cottage fire;
If to such task presumptuous thou aspire,
Seek not from us the meed to warrior due:
Age after age has gather'd son to sire,

Since our gray cliffs the din of conflict knew, Or, pealing through our vales, victorious bugles blew.

8 'Decayed our old traditionary lore,

Save where the lingering fays renew their ring, By milk-maid seen beneath the hawthorn hoar, Or round the marge of Minchmore's haunted spring; B

Save where their legends gray-hair'd shepherds sing, That now scarce win a listening ear but thine, Of feuds obscure, and Border ravaging,

And rugged deeds recount in rugged line, Of moonlight foray made on Teviot, Tweed, or Tyne.

9 No! search romantic lands, where the near

Sun

Gives with unstinted boon ethereal flame,
Where the rude villager, his labour done,

C

In verse spontaneous chants some favour'd

name;

Whether Olalia's charms his tribute claim,

Her eye of diamond, and her locks of jet;
Or whether, kindling at the deeds of Græme,
He sing, to wild Morisco measure set,
Old Albin's red claymore, green Erin's bayonet !

10 Explore those regions, where the flinty crest
Of wild Nevada ever gleams with snows,
Where in the proud Alhambra's ruined breast
Barbaric monuments of pomp repose;

Or where the banners of more ruthless foes

D

Than the fierce Moor, float o'er Toledo's fane, From whose tall towers even now the patriot throws

An anxious glance, to spy upon the plain The blended ranks of England, Portugal, and Spain.

11 'There, of Numantian fire a swarthy spark

Still lightens in the sunburnt native's eye;
The stately port, slow step, and visage dark,
Still mark enduring pride and constancy.
And, if the glow of feudal chivalry

Beam not, as once, thy nobles' dearest pride,
Iberia oft thy crestless peasantry

Have seen the plumed Hidalgo quit their side, Have seen, yet dauntless stood-'gainst fortune fought and died.

12 And cherished still by that unchanging race,
Are themes for minstrelsy more high than thine;
Of strange tradition many a mystic trace,
Legend and vision, prophecy and sign;
Where wonders wild of Arabesque combine
With Gothic imagery of darker shade,
Forming a model meet for minstrel line.-

Go, seek such theme!'-the Mountain Spirit said: With filial awe I heard-I heard, and I obeyed.

THE VISION.

1 Rearing their crests amid the cloudless skies,
And darkly clustering in the pale moonlight,
Toledo's holy towers and spires arise,

As from a trembling lake of silver white;
Their mingled shadows intercept the sight
Of the broad burial-ground outstretched below,
And nought disturbs the silence of the night;

All sleeps in sullen shade, or silver glow,
All save the heavy swell of Teio's ceaseless flow.

2 All save the rushing swell of Teio's tide,

Or, distant heard, a courser's neigh or tramp;
Their changing rounds as watchful horsemen ride,
To guard the limits of King Rodérick's camp:
For, through the river's night-fog rolling damp,

Was many a proud pavilion dimly seen,
Which glimmer'd back, against the moon's fair lamp,
Tissues of silk and silver twisted sheen,

And standards proudly pitch'd, and warders armed between.

3 But of their Monarch's person keeping ward, Since last the deep-mouth'd bell of vespers toll'd, The chosen soldiers of the royal guard

Their post beneath the proud Cathedral hold: A band unlike their Gothic sires of old,

Who, for the cap of steel and iron mace, Bear slender darts, and casques bedeck'd with gold, While silver-studded belts their shoulders grace, Where ivory quivers ring in the broad falchion's place.

4 In the light language of an idle court,

They murmur'd at their master's long delay, And held his lengthen'd orisons in sport :What! will Don Roderick here till morning stay,

To wear in shrift and prayer the night away? And are his hours in such dull penance pass'd For fair Florinda's plunder'd charms to pay?'- A Then to the east their weary eyes they cast, And wish'd the lingering dawn would glimmer forth at last.

5 But, far within, Toledo's Prelate lent
An ear of fearful wonder to the King;
The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent,

So long that sad confession witnessing:
For Roderick told of many a hidden thing,

Such as are loathly uttered to the air, When Fear, Remorse, and Shame, the bosom wring,

And Guilt his secret burthen cannot bear, And Conscience seeks in speech a respite from Despair.