To the blown Baltic then, they say, The wild waves found another way, [ing: Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains roundTill all the banded west at once 'gan rise,
A wide wild storm e'en Nature's self confounding, Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth This pillar'd earth so firm and wide, [surprise. By winds and inward labours torn,
In thunders dread was push'd aside,
And down the shouldering billows borne.
And see, like gems, her laughing train,
The little isles on ev'ry side,
Mona, once hid from those who search the main, Where thousand elfin shapes abide,
And Wight who checks the westering tide,
For thee consenting Heaven has each bestow'd, A fair attendant on her sovereign pride:
To thee this bless'd divorce she ow'd,
For thou hast made her vales thy lov'd, thy last abode!
Then too, tis said, an hoary pile,
Midst the green navel of our isle,
There is a tradition in the Isle of Man, that a mermaid becoming enamoured of a young man of extraordinary beauty, took an opportunity of meeting him one day as he walked on the shore, and opened her passion to him, but was received with a coldness, occasioned by his horror and surprise at her appearance. This, however, was so misconstrued by the sea lady, that in revenge for his treatment of her, she punished the whole island, by covering it with a mist; so that all who attempted to carry on any commerce with it, either never arrived at it, but wandered up and down the sea, or were on a sudden wrecked upon its cliffs.
Thy shrine in some religious wood,
O soul-enforcing goddess, stood!
There oft the painted native's feet
Were wont thy form celestial meet:
Though now with hopeless toil we trace
Time's backward rolls, to find its place;
Whether the fiery-tressed Dane,
Or Roman's self o'erturn'd the fane,
Or in what heav'n-left age it fell,
"Twere hard for modern song to tell.
Yet still, if Truth those beams infuse
Which guide at once, and charm the Muse,
Beyond yon braided clouds that lie,
Paving the light-embroider'd sky,
Amidst the bright pavilion'd plains,
The beauteous model still remains.
There, happier than in islands bless'd,
Or bow'rs by Spring or Hebe dress'd,
The chiefs who fill our Albion's story,
In warlike weeds, retir'd in glory,
Hear their consorted Druids sing
Their triumphs to the' immortal string.
How may the Poet now unfold
What never tongue or numbers told?
How learn delighted, and amaz❜d,
What hands unknown that fabric rais'd?
E'en now before his favour'd eyes,
In gothic pride, it seems to rise!
Yet Græcia's graceful orders join,
Majestic through the mix'd design;
The secret builder knew to choose
Each sphere-found gem of richest hues :
Whate'er heav'n's purer mould contains,
When nearer suns emblaze its veins;
There on the walls the patriot's sight
May ever hang with fresh delight,
And, grav'd with some prophetic rage,
Read Albion's fame through every age.
Ye forms divine, ye laureat band,
That near her inmost altar stand!
Now soothe her, to her blissful train
Blithe Concord's social form to gain :
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep
E'en Anger's blood-shot eyes in sleep :
Before whose breathing bosom's balm
Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm;
Her let our sires and matrons hoar
Welcome to Britain's ravag'd shore;
Our youths, enamour'd of the fair,
Play with the tangles of her hair,
Till, in one loud applauding sound,
The nations shout to her around,
O how supremely art thou bless'd,
Thou, lady-thou shalt rule the west!
ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL ROSS, IN THE ACTION AT
WHILE, lost to all his former mirth,
Britannia's genius bends to earth,
And mourns the fatal day:
While stain'd with blood he strives to tear
Unseemly from his sea-green hair
The wreaths of cheerful May:
The thoughts which musing Pity pays,
And fond Remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend:
Still Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the soften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld's descending wave
His country's vows shall bless the grave,
Where'er the youth is laid:
That sacred spot the village hind
With every sweetest turf shall bind,
And Peace protect the shade.
Bless'd youth, regardful of thy doom,
Aërial hands shall build thy tomb,
With shadowy trophies crown'd:
Whilst Honour bath'd in tears shall rove
To sigh thy name through ev'ry grove,
And call his heroes round.*
The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,
Shall leave their sainted rest;
And, half reclining on his spear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.
* In Langhorne's edition of Collins, this stanza was thus given :
O'er him whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms shall sit at eve,
And bend the pensive head;
And, fallen to save his injur'd land,
Imperial Honour's awful hand
Shall point his lonely bed!
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurel'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight;
Again for Briton's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish the' avenging fight.
But lo, where, sunk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!
Her matted tresses madly spread,
To every sod, which wraps the dead,
She turns her joyless eyes.
Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground
Till notes of triumph bursting round
Proclaim her reign restor❜d:
Till William seek the sad retreat,
And, bleeding at her sacred feet,
Present the sated sword.
If, weak to soothe so soft an heart,
These pictur'd glories nought impart,
To dry thy constant tear :
If yet in Sorrow's distant eye,
Expos'd and pale thou see'st him lie,
Wild War insulting near:
Where'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Muse shall still, with social grief,
Her gentlest promise keep:
E'en humble Harting's cottag'd vale
Shall learn the sad repeated tale,
And bid her shepherds weep.
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