The Poetical Works of Beattie, Blair, and Falconer Part 21

But hop'st thou, Muse, vain-glorious as thou art, With the weak impulse of thy humble strain, Hop'st thou to soften Pride's obdurate heart, When Errol's bright example shines in vain?

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Then cease the theme. Turn, Fancy, turn thine eye, Thy weeping eye, nor further urge thy flight; Thy haunts, alas! no gleams of joy supply, Or transient gleams, that flash and sink in night.

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Yet fain the mind its anguish would forego-- Spread then, historic Muse, thy pictured scroll; Bid thy great scenes in all their splendour glow, And swell to thought sublime the exalted soul.

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What mingling pomps rush boundless on the gaze!

What gallant navies ride the heaving deep!

What glittering towns their cloud-wrapt turrets raise!

What bulwarks frown horrific o'er the steep!

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Bristling with spears, and bright with burnish'd shields, The embattled legions stretch their long array; Discord's red torch, as fierce she scours the fields, With b.l.o.o.d.y tincture stains the face of day.

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And now the hosts in silence wait the sign.

How keen their looks whom Liberty inspires!

Quick as the G.o.ddess darts along the line, Each breast impatient burns with n.o.ble fires.

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Her form how graceful! In her lofty mien The smiles of Love stern Wisdom's frown control; Her fearless eye, determined though serene, Speaks the great purpose, and the unconquer'd soul.

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Mark, where Ambition leads the adverse band, Each feature fierce and haggard, as with pain!

With menace loud he cries, while from his hand He vainly strives to wipe the crimson stain.

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Lo! at his call, impetuous as the storms, Headlong to deeds of death the hosts are driven: Hatred to madness wrought, each face deforms, Mounts the black whirlwind, and involves the heaven.

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Now, Virtue, now thy powerful succour lend, Shield them for Liberty who dare to die-- Ah, Liberty! will none thy cause befriend?

Are these thy sons, thy generous sons, that fly?

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Not Virtue's self, when Heaven its aid denies, Can brace the loosen'd nerves or warm the heart!

Not Virtue's self can still the burst of sighs, When festers in the soul Misfortune's dart.

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See where, by heaven-bred terror all dismay'd The scattering legions pour along the plain; Ambition's car, with b.l.o.o.d.y spoils array'd, Hews its broad way, as Vengeance guides the rein.

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But who is he that, by yon lonely brook, With woods o'erhung and precipices rude, [1]

Abandon'd lies, and with undaunted look Sees streaming from his breast the purple flood?

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Ah, Brutus! ever thine be Virtue's tear!

Lo! his dim eyes to Liberty he turns, As scarce supported on her broken spear O'er her expiring son the G.o.ddess mourns.

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Loose to the wind her azure mantle flies, From her dishevell'd locks she rends the plume; No l.u.s.tre lightens in her weeping eyes, And on her tear-stain'd cheek no roses bloom.

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Meanwhile the world, Ambition, owns thy sway, Fame's loudest trumpet labours in thy praise, For thee the Muse awakes her sweetest lay, And Flattery bids for thee her altars blaze.

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Nor in life's lofty bustling sphere alone, The sphere where monarchs and where heroes toil, Sink Virtue's sons beneath Misfortune's frown, While Guilt's thrill'd bosom leaps at Pleasure's smile;

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Full oft, where Solitude and Silence dwell, Far, far remote, amid the lowly plain, Resounds the voice of Woe from Virtue's cell: Such is man's doom, and Pity weeps in vain.

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