A crowd is seen with earnest air to stand, REV. F. HODGSON. VERSES WRITTEN ON A TOUR THROUGH WARWICKSHIRE. As through Warwickshire valleys I ramble along, There walks the Spectator, and scatters around * At Bilston, near Rugby. Now sadly to Kenilworth onward I roam, And survey the fallen grandeur of Leycester's proud home; Here peerless Elizabeth deign'd to retreat, And forms more than mortal unite in the dance. 'Bold knights and fair dames,' in a glittering Bow low to the queen of their fortunate land; While, perchance, the fond soldier, retiring apart, Pays homage more true to the queen of his heart. Through the court love and honour alternately sway, And Glory looks pleased at the chivalrous day. Ah no! it is pass'd-and a dark shadow lours (The dark shadow of time) on these mouldering towers. All is silent-Oh Kenilworth! well may thy doom Remind haughty man of his path to the tomb : Thou too hast been young, and sublime in thy pride Hast the loud-rattling storm of the winter defied; But gone is thy vigour, and scarce canst thou save The remembrance of pomp from the ruinous grave. Not thus, lofty Warwick, declines thy gray head, Not thus, prince of castles, thy beauty has fled; Unimpair'd, only mellow'd by years, how serene Thy battlements smile o'er the valley of green, While thy soft-flowing Avon refreshes the scene. Yield, royalty's mansion, yield, Windsor, the prize, And bid thy shamed turrets less haughtily rise. Thy turrets at least, which, unworthy of thee, And imagine (so frail and so feeble they look) That the mason has here been exchanged for the cook, Whose bulwarks of pie-crust invitingly stand, To the fabulous earl and the terrible cow. Yes, whether the whirlwind of memory flies beast And imagines, like love, all is reason that's rhyme→→ On my life, the fierce combat appears in full sight, And I hear their short breath as at Warwick I write. Now Guy, and now Dun! 'tis as bloody a work As if Cow was a Christian, and Guy was a Turk. But away with vain story-my annals I'll crown With the king-setter-up and the king-puller-down. Oh, glorious offender! oh, traitor divine! How I wish thy irregular splendour were mine! Thy power unexampled, that taught silly kings When robb'd of the sceptre they are ludicrous things. [tiful, wild, Then with blaze short but dazzling, though beauFortune's heir, glory's toy, generosity's child, Darting meteorlike wonder, I'd nobly forgive The low offspring of pride, and permit them to live; Though harmless in heat, yet transcendent in light, Meet the world as it wanders, and bid it be right. But hold! in yon valley what magical form Waves its wand, and arouses the breath of the storm? Through the trees hollow murmurs presageful arise, And the chill evening blast rushes swift through the skies. What beautiful woodnymph approaches the seer Pale with horror? The roar of the ocean I hear, The cries of the shipwreck'd, the terrible sound Of the bellowing thunder that echoes aroundAll is hush'd! and the sailors, brought safe to the land, In astonishment range o'er the wonderful strand. Through the wild midnight track of the comfortless heath The king and the father advances to deathThough loud blows the wind o'er the heart-chilling scene, A daughter's neglect is more piercingly keen. Who is she newly laid in the sepulchre's gloom? Who scatters sweet flowers on his truelove's sad tomb? Alas! she awakes-but awakes not to blissHer lord has embraced her, and died with the kiss. Crown'd with fanciful garlands, and chanting wild lays, What maid by yon willow-fringed rivulet strays? Ah! headlong she plunges at once in the stream, And breaks the short thread of life's sorrowful [appear, dream. But now in vast crowds the strange shadows And a voice full of melody steals on my earLight fairies trip over the green, and around Kings, warriors, magicians seem fix'd by the sound "Where am I?' astonish'd, aroused from my trance, I exclaim and behold, with a rapturous glance, With exulting delight, upon Avon's fair side Thy birthplace, great Shakspeare! Britannia's pride, Pride of Nature! her first and her favourite son, Whose Muse, in no age, in no country outdone, Or smiling or weeping enchants us, and draws From virtue, from genius their heartfelt applause. REV. F. HODGSON. ALPINE SCENERY. ADDRESSED TO THE REV. T. S. WHALLEY, DURING HIS RESIDENCE ON THE CONTINENT. GLAD as the lone night-wanderer on his way Hails the mild dayspring reddening on the shore, We meet description's light-diffusing ray, Shining on climes not given us to explore. Powers that through distant scenes, or soft or dread, Lead the charm'd spirit with supreme control, Where icy hills or torrid plains are spread, Where winds might waft us or where seas might roll. Rich in those powers energic, warm, and bland, The leaves where Wraxall, More, and Coxe explain How clime prevails, thrones rise, or laws expand, To ravage or to bless each mark'd domain. |