Or, if he meditate his wished escape, To some dim hill, that seems uprising near, Meantime the watery surge shall round him rise, What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs? His fear shook limbs have lost their youthly force, And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse. VIII. For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait, Then he, perhaps, with moist and watery hand, Nor e'er of me one helpless thought renew, While I lie weltering on the osiered shore, Drown'd by the kelpie's wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee more! IX. Unbounded is thy range; with varied style Thy muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle, In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found, Or thither, where, beneath the showery west, The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid; Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest, No slaves revere them, and no wars invade : Yet frequent now, at midnight's solemn hour, The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power, In pageant robes, and wreathed with sheeny gold, And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold. X. But, O! o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides, Go, just, as they, their blameless manners trace! With sparing temperance, at the needful time, Thus blest in primal innocence, they live, Sufficed and happy with that frugal fare Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give. Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare; Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there! XI. Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes engage Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest; For not alone they touch the village breast, But filled in elder time the historic page. There Shakespeare's self, with every garland crowned, [Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen 2,] In musing hour, his wayward sisters found, And with their terrors drest the magic scene. 1 Iona. 2 Inserted from the later editions. From them he sung, when 'mid his bold design, Before the Scot afflicted and aghast, The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant passed. Proceed, nor quit the tales which, simply told, Could once so well my answering bosom pierce; Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colours bold, The native legends of thy land rehearse; To such adapt thy lyre and suit thy powerful verse. XII. In scenes like these, which, daring to depart When each live plant with mortal accents spok, Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows; Melting it flows, pure, numerous, strong, and clear, And fills the impassioned heart, and wins the harmonious ear! XIII. All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail! Ye [spacious] friths and lakes, which, far away, Or Don's romantic springs, at distance hail! The time shall come when I, perhaps, may tread Inserted from the later editions. Then will I dress once more the faded bower, To him I lose, your kind protection lend, And, touched with love like mine, preserve my absent friend DIRGE IN CYMBELINE To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring No wailing ghost shall dare appear But shepherd lads assembled here, And melting virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen; The redbreast oft, at evening hours, Inserted from the later editions |