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Oft the pale matron from the threatening wall,
Suspicious, bids her heedless children fly;
Oft, as he views the meditated fall,

Full swiftly steps the frighted peasant by.

But more respectful views the' historic sage,
Musing, these awful relics of decay,
That once a refuge form'd from hostile rage,
In Henry's and in Edward's dubious day.

He pensive oft reviews the mighty dead,
That erst have trod this desolated ground;
Reflects how here unhappy Salisbury bled,
When faction aim'd the death-dispensing wound.

Rest, gentle Rivers! and ill-fated Gray!

A flower or tear oft strews your humble grave, Whom Envy slew, to pave Ambition's way, And whom a monarch wept in vain to save.

Ah! what avail'd the' alliance of a throne?

The pomp of titles what, or power rever'd? Happier! to these the humble life unknown, With virtue honour'd, and by peace endear'd..

Had thus the sons of bleeding Britain thought,
When hapless here inglorious Richard lay,
Yet many a prince, whose blood full dearly bought
The shameful triumph of the long-fought day;

Yet many a hero, whose defeated hand

In death resign'd the well-contested field,
Had in his offspring sav'd a sinking land,
The tyrant's terror, and the nation's shield.

Ill could the Muse indignant grief forbear,
Should Memory trace her bleeding country's woes;
Ill could she count, without a bursting tear,

The' inglorious triumphs of the varied Rose!

While York with conquest and revenge elate,
Insulting, triumphs on Saint Alban's plain,
Who views, nor pities Henry's hapless fate,
Himself a captive, and his leaders slain?

Ah prince! unequal to the toils of war,
To stem ambition, Faction's rage to quell :
Happier! from these had fortune plac'd thee far,
In some lone convent, or some peaceful cell.
For what avail'd that thy victorious queen
Repair'd the ruins of that dreadful day?
That vanquish❜d York, on Wakefield's purple green,
Prostrate amidst the common slaughter lay:

In vain fair Victory beam'd the gladdening eye,
And, waving oft her golden pinions, smil'd;
Full soon the flattering goddess meant to fly,

Full rightly deem'd unsteady Fortune's child.

Let Towton's field—but cease the dismal tale :
For much its horrors would the Muse appal;
In softer strains suffice it to bewail

The patriot's exile, or the hero's fall.

Thus silver Wharf, whose crystal-sparkling urn Reflects the brilliance of his blooming shore, Still, melancholy-mazing seems to mourn,

But rolls, confus'd, a crimson wave no more.

• A river near the scene of battle, in which were slain 35,000



LAMB! could the muse that boasts thy forming care, Unfold the grateful feelings of my heart,

Her hand for thee should many a wreath prepare, And cull the choicest flowers with studious art.

For mark'd by thee was each imperfect ray
That haply wander'd o'er my infant mind;
The dawn of genius brighten'd into day,
As thy skill open'd, as thy lore refin❜d.

Each uncouth lay that falter'd from my tongue, At eve or morn from Eden's murmurs caught; Whate'er I painted, and whate'er I sung,

Though rude the strain, though artless was the draught;

You wisely prais'd, and fed the sacred fire,

That warms the breast with love and honest fame; You swell'd to nobler heights the infant lyre, Rais'd the low thought, and check'd the' exuberant flame.

O could the Muse in future times obtain
One humble garland from the' Aonian tree!
With joy I'd bind thy favour'd brows again,
With joy I'd form a fairer wreath for thee.

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'FAR from the smiles of blue hesperian skies, Far from those vales where flowery pleasures


(Dear scenes of freedom, lost to these sad eyes,) How hard to languish in this lonely cell!

When genial gales relume the fires of love, When laughing Spring leads round the jocund year;

Ah! view with pity, gentle maid, your dove,
From every heart-felt joy secluded here!

To me no more the laughing Spring looks gay; Nor annual loves relume my languid breast; Time slowly drags the long, delightless day, Through one dull scene of solitary rest.

Ah! what avails, that dreaming Fancy roves Through the wild beauties of her native reign! Breathes in green fields, and feeds in freshening groves,

To wake to anguish in this hopeless chain?

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