Alack the change! in vain I look

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled, The level lawn, the trickling brook,

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled; The church is larger than before;

You reach it by a carriage entry; It holds three hundred people more, And pews are fitted up for gentry. Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, Whose phrase is very Ciceronian. Where is the old man laid?-look down. And construe on the slab before you, 'Hic jacet GVLIELMVS BROWN Vir nulla non donandus lauru.'

-

If thou shouldest ever come by choice or chance
To Modena, where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies is preserved
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; through their arched
walks,

Dim, at noonday, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song;
Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love,
Read only part that day. A summer sun
Sets ere one half is seen; but, ere thou go,
Enter the house-prithee, forget it not-
And look awhile upon a picture there.

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The very last of that illustrious race,
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not-
He who observes it, ere he passes on,

Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half-open, and her finger up, As though she said 'Beware!' Her vest of gold 'Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,

An emerald-stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.

Alone it hangs

Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken-chest, half eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With Scripture stories from the life of Christ.

She was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire.
Her mother dying of the gift she gave,
That precious gift, what else remained to him?
The young Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,

Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour:

And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,
When all sat down, the bride was wanting
there.

Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, 'Tis but to make a trial of our love!'

And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still:
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,
But that she was not! Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Orsini lived; and long mightest thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,

WHOE'ER thou art, approach, and, with a sigh,
Mark where the small remains of greatness lie.
There sleeps the dust of Fox-for ever gone;
How near the place where late his glory shone!
And, tho' no more ascends the voice of prayer,
Tho' the last footsteps cease to linger there,
Still, like an awful dream that comes again,
Alas, at best, as transient and as vain,
Still do I see (while thro' the vaults of night
The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite)
The moving pomp along the shadowy aisle,
That, like a darkness, filled the solemn pile;
The illustrious line, that in long order led,
Of those, that loved him living, mourned him
dead;

Of those the few, that for their Country stood
Round him who dared be singularly good;
All, of all ranks, that claimed him for their own;
And nothing wanting-but himself alone!
Oh say, of him now rests there but a name;
Wont, as he was, to breathe ethereal flame?
Friend of the absent, guardian of the dead!
Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed?
(Such as he shed on Nelson's closing grave;
How soon to claim the sympathy he gave!)
In him, resentful of another's wrong,
The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong.
Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew-
Ah, who so mighty and so gentle too?

What tho' with War the madding Nations
rung,

Something he could not find-he knew not what.

When he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, When on an idle day, a day of search 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, That mouldering chest was noticed: and 'twas said

By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
'Why not remove it from its lurking place?'
'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold!
All else had perished-save a nuptial ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
'Ginevra.' There then had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy the happiest of the happy;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down for ever!

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1806 'Peace,' when he spoke, was ever on his tongue!

Amidst the frowns of Power, the tricks of
State,

Fearless, resolved, and negligently great!
In vain malignant vapours gathered round;
He walked, erect, on consecrated ground.
The clouds, that rise to quench the orb of day,
Reflect its splendour, and dissolve away!

When in retreat he laid his thunder by,
For lettered ease and calm philosophy,
Blest were his hours within the silent grove,
Where still his God-like spirit deigns to rove;
Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's

prayer,

For many a deed, long done in secret there. There shone his lamp on Homer's hallowed

page;

There, listening sat the hero and the sage; And they, by virtue and by blood allied, Whom most he loved, and in whose arms he died.

Friend of all human-kind! not here alone (The voice, that speaks, was not to thee unknown)

Wilt thou be missed.-O'er every land and sea Long, long shall England be revered in thee! 5 And, when the storm is hushed-in distant years

Foes on thy grave shall meet, and mingle tears.

O GAY, yet fearful to behold,
Flashing with steel and rough with gold,

And bristled o'er with bills and spears,
With plumes and pennons waving fair,
Was that bright battle-front! for there

Rode England's King and Peers: And who, that saw that monarch ride, His kingdom battled by his side, Could then his direful doom foretell!— Fair was his seat in knightly selle, And in his sprightly eye was set Some spark of the Plantagenet. Though light and wandering was his glance, It flashed at sight of shield and lance. 'Know'st thou,' he said, 'De Argentine, Yon knight who marshals thus their line?''The tokens on his helmet tell

The Bruce, my liege: I know him well.''And shall the audacious traitor brave The presence where our banners wave!''So please my liege,' said Argentine, 'Were he but horsed on steed like mine, To give him fair and knightly chance, I would adventure forth my lance.''In battle-day,' the King replied, 'Nice tourney rules are set aside. -Still must the rebel dare our wrath? Set on him-Sweep him from our path!' And, at King Edward's signal, soon Dashed from the ranks Sir Henry Boune.

Of Hereford's high blood he came,
A race renowned for knightly fame.
He burned before his Monarch's eye
To do some deed of chivalry.

He spurred his steed, he couched his lance,
And darted on the Bruce at once.
-As motionless as rocks, that bide
The wrath of the advancing tide,

The Bruce stood fast.-Each breast beat high,
And dazzled was each gazing eye-
The heart had hardly time to think,
The eyelid scarce had time to wink,
While on the King, like flash of flame,
Spurred to full speed the war-horse came!
The partridge may the falcon mock,
If that slight palfrey stand the shock—
But, swerving from the knight's career,
Just as they met, Bruce shunned the spear.

Onward the baffled warrior bore

His course-but soon his course was o'er !--
High in his stirrups stood the King,
And gave his battle-axe the swing.
Right on De Boune, the whiles he passed,
Fell that stern dint-the first-the last!-
Such strength upon the blow was put,
The helmet crashed like hazel-nut;
The axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp,
Was shivered to the gauntlet grasp.
Springs from the blow the startled horse;
Drops to the plain the lifeless corse;
-First of that fatal field, how soon,
How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune!

One pitying glance the monarch sped,
Where on the field his foe lay dead;
Then gently turned his palfrey's head,
And, pacing back his sober way,
Slowly he gained his own array.
There round their King the leaders crowd,
And blamed his recklessness aloud,

That risked 'gainst each adventurous spear
A life so valued and so dear.

His broken weapon's shaft surveyed

The King, and careless answer made,-
'My loss may pay my folly's tax;
I've broke my trusty battle-axe.'

'What train of dust, with trumpet-sound And glimmering spears, is wheeling round Our leftward flank?'-the monarch cried, To Moray's earl who rode beside. 'Lo! round thy station pass the foes! Randolph, thy wreath hath lost a rose.' The earl his visor closed, and said

My wreath shall bloom, or life shall fade.—
Follow, my household!'-And they go
Like lightning on the advancing foe.

My liege,' said noble Douglas then,
'Earl Randolph has but one to ten:
Let me go forth his band to aid!'—
-'Stir not. The error he hath made,
Let him amend it as he may;

I will not weaken mine array.'
Then loudly rose the conflict-cry,
And Douglas's brave heart swelled high,-
'My liege,' he said, 'with patient ear
I must not Moray's death-knell hear!'

100

'Then go-but speed thee back again.'-
Forth sprung the Douglas with his train:
But, when they won a rising hill,
He bade his followers hold them still.-
'See, see! the routed Southron fly!
The earl hath won the victory!
Lo! where yon steeds run masterless,
His banner towers above the press.
Rein up; our presence would impair
The fame we come too late to share.'
Back to the host the Douglas rode,
And soon glad tidings are abroad,
That, Dayncourt by stout Randolph slain,
His followers fled with loosened rein.-
110 That skirmish closed the busy day,

And couched in battle's prompt array,
Each army on their weapons lay.

On Gillie's-hill, whose height commands
The battlefield, fair Edith stands,
With serf and page unfit for war,
the conflict from afar.

To eye

O, with what doubtful agony
She sees the dawning tint the sky!-
Now on the Ochils gleams the sun,
120 And glistens now Demayet dun;
Is it the lark that carols shrill,

Is it the bittern's early hum?
No!-distant, but increasing still,
The trumpet's sound swells up the hill,
With the deep murmur of the drum.
Responsive from the Scottish host,
Pipe-clang and bugle-sound were tossed,
His breast and brow each soldier crossed,
And started from the ground;
130 Armed and arrayed for instant fight,

Rose archer, spearman, squire and knight,
And in the pomp of battle bright

The dread battalia frowned.

Now onward, and in open view,
The countless ranks of England drew,
Dark rolling like the ocean-tide,
When the rough west hath chafed his pride,
And his deep roar sends challenge wide
To all that bars his way!
140 In front the gallant archers trode,
The men-at-arms behind them rode,
And midmost of the phalanx broad
The monarch held his sway.
Beside him many a war-horse fumes,
Around him waves a sea of plumes,
Where many a knight in battle known,
And some who spurs had first braced on,
And deemed that fight should see them won,
King Edward's hests obey.
150 De Argentine attends his side,

With stout De Valence, Pembroke's pride,
Selected champions from the train,
To wait upon his bridle-rein.

Upon the Scottish foe he gazed

-At once, before his sight amazed,

Sunk banner, spear, and shield;
Each weapon-point is downward sent,
Each warrior to the ground is bent.
'The rebels, Argentine, repent!

For pardon they have kneeled.'-
'Aye!--but they bend to other powers,
And other pardon sue than ours!
See where yon bare-foot Abbot stands,
And blesses them with lifted hands!
Upon the spot where they have kneeled,
These men will die, or win the field.'-
-'Then prove we if they die or win!
Bid Gloster's earl the fight begin.'

Earl Gilbert raised his truncheon high,
Just as the Northern ranks arose,
Signal for England's archery

To halt and bend their bows.
Then stepped each yeoman forth a pace,
Glanced at the intervening space,

And raised his left hand high; To the right ear the cords they bring-At once ten thousand bow-strings ring, Ten thousand arrows fly! Nor paused on the devoted Scot The ceaseless fury of their shot;

As fiercely and as fast,
Forth whistling came the grey-goose wing
As the wild hailstones pelt and ring
Adown December's blast.

Nor mountain targe of tough bull-hide,
Nor Lowland mail, that storm may bide;
Woe, woe to Scotland's bannered pride,
If the fell shower may last!
Upon the right, behind the wood,
Each by his steed dismounted, stood
The Scottish chivalry;—
-With foot in stirrup, hand on mane,
Fierce Edward Bruce can scarce restrain
His own keen heart, his eager train,
Until the archers gained the plain;

Then, Mount, ye gallants free!'
He cried; and vaulting from the ground,
His saddle every horseman found.
On high their glittering crests they toss,
As springs the wild-fire from the moss;
The shield hangs down on every breast,
Each ready lance is in the rest,

And loud shouts Edward Bruce,'Forth, Marshal! on the peasant foe! We'll tame the terrors of their bow, And cut the bow-string loose!'

Then spurs were dashed in chargers' flanks,
They rushed among the archer ranks;
No spears were there the shock to let,
No stakes to turn the charge were set;
And how shall yeoman's armour slight
Stand the long lance and mace of might?
Or what may their short swords avail,
'Gainst barbèd horse and shirt of mail?
Amid their ranks the chargers sprung,
High o'er their heads the weapons swung,

And shriek and groan and vengeful shout
Give note of triumph and of rout!
[Awhile, with stubborn hardihood,
Their English hearts the strife made good.
Borne down at length on every side,
Compelled to flight they scatter wide.-
Let stags of Sherwood leap for glee,
And bound the deer of Dallom-Lee!
The broken bows of Bannock's shore
Shall in the greenwood ring no more!
Round Wakefield's merry may-pole now
The maids may twine the summer bough,
May northward look with longing glance,
For those that wont to lead the dance,
For the blithe archers look in vain!
Broken, dispersed, in flight o'erta'en,

Pierced through, trod down, by thousands slain,

They cumber Bannock's bloody plain.]

The King with scorn beheld their flight.
'Are these,' he said, 'our yeomen wight?
Each braggart churl could boast before,
Twelve Scottish lives his baldric bore!
Fitter to plunder chase or park,
Than make a manly foe their mark.—
Forward, each gentleman and knight!
Let gentle blood show generous might,
And chivalry redeem the fight!'
To rightward of the wild affray,
The field showed fair and level way;

But, in mid-space, the Bruce's care Had bored the ground with many a pit, With turf and brushwood hidden yet,

That formed a ghastly snare. Rushing, ten thousand horsemen came, With spears in rest, and hearts on flame, That panted for the shock!

With blazing crests and banners spread,
And trumpet-clang and clamour dread,
The wide plain thundered to their tread

As far as Stirling rock.
Down! down! in headlong overthrow,
Horseman and horse, the foremost go,

Wild floundering on the field!
The first are in destruction's gorge,
Their followers wildly o'er them urge;-

The knightly helm and shield, The mail, the acton, and the spear, Strong hand, high heart, are useless here! Loud from the mass confused the cry Of dying warriors swells on high, And steeds that shriek in agony! They came like mountain-torrent red, That thunders o'er its rocky bed; They broke like that same torrent's wave, When swallowed by a darksome cave. Billows on billows burst and boil, Maintaining still the stern turmoil, And to their wild and tortured groan Each adds new terrors of his own!

[Bruce, with the pilot's wary eye,
The slackening of the storm could spy.
'One effort more, and Scotland's free!
Lord of the Isles, my trust in thee

Is firm as Ailsa Rock;
Rush on with Highland sword and targe,
I, with my Carrick spearmen charge;
Now, forward to the shock!'

At once the spears were forward thrown,
Against the sun the broadswords shone;
The pibroch lent its maddening tone,
And loud King Robert's voice was known--
'Carrick, press on-they fail, they fail!
Press on, brave sons of Innisgail,

The foe is fainting fast!

Each strike for parent, child, and wife,
For Scotland, liberty, and life,-
The battle cannot last!']

['The multitude that watched afar,
Rejected from the ranks of war,
Had not unmoved beheld the fight,
When strove the Bruce for Scotland's right;
[Each heart had caught the patriot spark,
Old man and stripling, priest and clerk,
Bondsman and serf; even female hand
Stretched to the hatchet or the brand;
But, when mute Amadine they heard
Give to their zeal his signal-word,

A frenzy fired the throng;-
'Portents and miracles impeach
Our sloth-the dumb our duties teach-
And he that gives the mute his speech,
Can bid the weak be strong!

To us, as to our lords, are given
A native earth, a promised heaven;
To us, as to our lords, belongs
The vengeance for our nation's wrongs;
The choice, 'twixt death or freedom, warms
Our breasts as theirs-To arms! to arms!']
To arms they flew,-axe, club, or spear,—
And mimic ensigns high they rear,
And, like a bannered host afar,
Bear down on England's wearied war.
Already scattered o'er the plain,
Reproof, command, and counsel vain,
The rearward squadrons fled amain,
Or made but doubtful stay;-

But when they marked the seeming show
Of fresh and fierce and marshalled foe,
The boldest broke array.

O give their hapless prince his due!
In vain the royal Edward threw