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More wounds than nature gave he knew,

While misery's form his fancy drew
In dark ideal hues, and horrors not its own.

Then wish not o'er his earthy tomb
The baleful nightshade's lurid bloom

To drop its deadly dew:
Nor oh! forbid the twisted thorn,

That rudely binds his turf forlorn,
With spring's green-swelling buds to vegetate anew.

What though no marble-piled bust
Adorn his desolated dust,

With speaking sculpture wrought?
Pity shall woo the weeping Nine,

To build a visionary shrine, Hung with unfading flowers, from fairy regions

brought.

What though refus'd each chanted rite?
Here viewless mourners shall delight

To touch the shadowy shell:
And Petrarch's harp, that wept the doom

Of Laura, lost in early bloom,
In many a pepsive pause shall seem to ring his

knell.

To sooth a lone, unhallow'd shade,
This votive dirge sad duty paid,
Within an ivied nook:

Sudden the half-sunk orb of day

More radiant shot its parting ray, And thus a cherub-voice my charm’d attention took,

“ Forbear, fond bard, thy partial praise;
Nor thus for guilt in specious lays

The wreath of glory twine:
In vain with hues of gorgeous glow

Gay Fancy gives her vest to flow,
Unless Truth's matron-hand the floating folds con-

fine.

“ Just heaven, man's fortitude to prove,
Permits through life at large to rove

The tribes of hell-born Woe:
Yet the same power that wisely sends

Life's fiercest ills, indulgent lends
Religion's golden shield to break th' embattled foe.

Her aid divine had lull'd to rest
Yon foul self-murderer's throbbing breast,

And stay'd the rising storm:
Had bade the sun of hope appear

To gild his darken’d hemisphere,
And give the wonted bloom to nature's blasted

form.

“ Vain man! 'tis heaven's prerogative
To take, what first it deign'd to give,

Thy tributary breath :

In awful expectation plac'd,

Await thy doom, nor impious haste To pluck from God's right hand his instruments of

death."

THE CRUSADE.

AN ODE.

Bound for holy Palestine,
Nimbly we brush'd the level brine,
All in azure steel array'd ;
O’er the wave our weapons play'd,
And made the dancing billows glow;
High upon the trophied prow,
Many a warrior-minstrel swung
His sounding harp, and boldly sung:

Syrian virgins, wail and weep,
“ English Richard ploughs the deep!
« Tremble, watchmen, as ye spy,
“ From distant towers, with anxious eye,
“ The radiant range of shield and lance
" Down Damascus' hills advance:
66 From Sion's turrets as afar
“ Ye ken the march of Europe's war!
“ Saladin, thou paynim king,
« From Albion's isle revenge we bring!
“ On Açon's spiry citadel,
“ Though to the gale thy banners swell,

“ Pictur'd 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 endu'd, Thus the solemn

“ 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 !

song renew'd.

“ 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

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