They strike the ear of night,
Make weep the eyes of day;
They make mad the roaring winds,
And with tempests play.

Like a fiend in a cloud
With howling woe,
After night I do crowd

And with night will go ;

I turn my back to the east

From whence comforts have increased;

For light doth seize my brain

With frantic pain.

F

SONG.

RESH from the dewy hill, the merry year

Smiles on my head and mounts his flaming

car;

Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade And rising glories beam around my head.

My feet are wing'd while o'er the dewy lawn
I meet my maiden risen like the morn:
Oh bless those holy feet, like angels' feet;

Oh bless those limbs, beaming with heavenly light!

Like as an angel glittering in the sky
In times of innocence and holy joy ;

The joyful shepherd stops his grateful song
To hear the music of an angel's tongue.

So when she speaks, the voice of Heaven I hear; So when we walk, nothing impure comes near; Each field seems Eden, and each calm retreat ; Each village seems the haunt of holy feet.

But that sweet village, where my black-eyed maid
Closes her eyes in sleep beneath night's shade,
Whene'er I enter, more than mortal fire
Burns in my soul, and does my song inspire.

WHE

SONG.

HEN early morn walks forth in sober gray,
Then to my black-eyed maid I haste away,

When evening sits beneath her dusky bower
And gently sighs away the silent hour,
The village-bell alarms, away I go

And the vale darkens at my pensive woe.

To that sweet village where my black-eyed maid Doth drop a tear beneath the silent shade,

I turn my eyes; and pensive as I go

Curse my black stars, and bless my pleasing woe.

Oft when the summer sleeps among the trees,
Whispering faint murmurs to the scanty breeze,
I walk the village round; if at her side
A youth doth walk in stolen joy and pride,
I curse my stars in bitter grief and woe,
That made my love so high and me so low.

O should she e'er prove false, his limbs I'd tear
And throw all pity on the burning air;
I'd curse bright fortune for my mixed lot,
And then I'd die in peace, and be forgot.

WHE

TO THE MUSES.

́HETHER on Ida's shady brow Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the Sun, that now

From ancient melody have ceased;

Whether in heaven ye wander fair
Or the green corners of the earth,

Or the blue regions of the air,

Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,

Beneath the bosom of the sea
Wandering in many a coral grove,
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry!

How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoy'd in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few!

GWIN, KING OF NORWAY.

OME, Kings, and listen to my song:
When Gwin, the son of Nore,

Over the nations of the North
His cruel sceptre bore ;

The Nobles of the land did feed

Upon the hungry poor;

They tear the poor man's lamb, and drive The needy from their door!

The land is desolate; our wives
And children cry for bread;
Arise, and pull the tyrant down,
Let Gwin be humbled.

Gordred the giant roused himself
From sleeping in his cave ;

He shook the hills, and in the clouds
The troubled banners wave.

Beneath them roll'd, like tempests black,
The numerous sons of blood;
Like lions' whelps, roaring abroad,
Seeking their nightly food.

Down Bleron's hills they dreadful rush,
Their cry ascends the clouds ;
The trampling horse and clanging arms
Like rushing mighty floods!

Their wives and children, weeping loud,

Follow in wild array,

Howling like ghosts, furious as wolves
In the bleak wintry day.

"Pull down the tyrant to the dust, "Let Gwin be humbled,"

They cry, "and let ten thousand lives

From tower to tower the watchmen cry, "O Gwin, the son of Nore, "Arouse thyself! the nations black "Like clouds, come rolling o'er!"

Gwin rear'd his shield, his palace shakes, His chiefs come rushing round;

Each, like an awful thunder-cloud

With voice of solemn sound: