"He leads yon shallow renegado band, "Yet since assurance is not giv'n to man, Nor can ev'n kings command th' event of war, Since peevish chance can foil the subtlest plan Of human skill, and hurl our schemes in air. "To-morrow's sun beholds me conqueror, Or sees me low among the slaughter'd lie; Richard shall never grace a victor's car, But glorious win the field, or glorious die. "But thou, my son, heed and obey my word, "North of our camp there stands a rising mound, (Thy guide awaits to lead thee on the way) Thence shalt thou rule the prospect wide around, And view each chance, each movement of the fray. "If righteous fate to me the conquest yield, Then shall thy noble birth to all be known; Then boldly seek the centre of the field, And midst my laurell'd bands my Son I'll own." "But if blind chance, that seld' determines right, Rob me at once of empire and renown, Be sure thy father's eyes are clos'd in night, Life were disgrace when chance had reft my crown. "No means are left thee then, but instant flight, In dark concealment must thou veil thy head; On Richard's friends their fellest rage and spite His foes will wreak, and fear ev'n Richard dead. "Begone, my son! This one embrace! Away! Some short reflections claim this awful night: Ere from the east peep forth the glimm'ring day, My knights attend to arm me for the fight." Once more I knelt, he clasp'd my lifted hands, Bless'd me, and seem'd to check a struggling tear; Then led me forth to follow his commands, O'erwhelm'd with tenderest grief, suspense, and fear. What need of more? Who knows not the event A son no more, what course was left to tread, O'er-ruling fate against my wishes wrought; With flowing eyes I left the sacred door, To God, the mourner's best and surest friend; That he would guide me to some soft retreat, Where daily toil my daily bread might earn, Where pious peace might sooth ambition's heat, And my taught heart sublimer ardour learn. He heard me-All I ask'd in thee was lent, The work is done, the structure is complete- Round the dear walls, Benevolence and Moyle! LOVE SONG. Adapted to the mercenary manners of the Age. BOAST not to me the charms that grace Come then, Oh come! and with thee bring Still keep unseen those auburn locks, Thy guineas shame the blushing rose, Give me thy India bonds and scrip. Meteor. STANZAS. 'Tis noon, and the cool-breathing zephyr is fled, For oh! vanish'd morn, as I feel thee depart,- Yet why should I mourn? on my opening mind Sport on, then, ye triflers-enjoy the gay beam, For me, as the pageant glides by, I can smile, Since few are the pleasures time pilfers from me, As I welcome the sentence that bids me be free! 1 |