By MR. MACPHERSON.
Hark! ’Tis the dismal sound that echoes on thy roofs, O Cornwall; Hail! double-face sage! Thou worthy son of the chair-borne Fletcher! The Great Council is met to fix the seats of the chosen Chief; their voices resound in the gloomy hall of Rufus, like the roaring winds of the cavern—Loud were the cries for Rays, but thy voice, O Foxan, rendered the walls like the torrent that gusheth from the Mountain-side. Cornwall leaped from his throne and screamed—the friends of Gwelfo hung their heads—How were the mighty fallen! Lift up thy face, Dundasso, like the brazen shield of thy chieftain! Thou art bold to confront disgrace, and shame is unknown to thy brow—but tender is the youth of thy leader; who droopeth his head like a faded lily—leave not Pitto in the day of defeat, when the Chiefs of the Counties fly from him like the herd from the galled Deer.—The friends of Pitto are fled. He is alone—he layeth himself down in despair, and sleep knitteth up his brow.—Soft were his dreams on the green bench—Lo! the spirit of Jenky arose, pale as the mist of the morn—twisted was his long lank form—his eyes winked as he whispered to the child in the cradle. Rise, he sayeth—arise bright babe of the dark closet! the shadow of the Throne shall cover thee, like wings of a hen, sweet chicken of the Back-stair brood! Heed not the Thanes of the Counties; they have fled from thee, like Cackling Geese from the hard-bitten Fox: but will they not rally and return to the charge? Let the host of the King be numbered; they are as the sands of the barren shore.—There Is Powno, who followeth his mighty leader, and chaceth the stall-fed stag all day on the dusty road.—There is Howard, great in arms, with the beaming star on his spreading breast.—Red is the scarf that waves over his ample shoulders—Gigantic are his strides on the terrace, in pursuit of the Royal footsteps of lofty Georgio.
No more will I number the flitting shades of Jenky; for behold the potent spirit of the black-browed Jacko.—’Tis the Ratten Robinso, who worketh the works of darkness! Hither I come, said Ratten—Like the mole of the earth, deep caverns have been my resting place; the ground Rats are my food.—Secret minion of the Crown, raise thy soul! Droop not at the spirit of Foxan. Great are thy foes in the sight of the many-tongued war.—Shake not they knees, like the leaves of the Aspen on the misty hill—the doors of the stairs in the postern are locked; the voice of thy foes is as the wind, which whistleth through the vale; it passeth away like the swift cloud of the night.
The breath of Gwelfo stilleth the stormy seas.——Whilst thou breathest the breath of his nostrils, thou shalt live for ever. Firm standeth thy heel in the Hall of thy Lord. Mighty art thou in the sight of Gwelfo, illustrious leader of the friends of Gwelfo! great art thou, O lovely imp of the interior closet! O lovely Guardian of the Royal Junto!
NUMBER VII.
MR. MASON having laid aside the more noble subject for a Probationary Ode, viz. the Parliamentary Reform, upon finding that the Rev. Mr. Wyvil had already made a considerable progress in it, has adopted the following.—The argument is simple and interesting, adapted either to the harp of Pindar, or the reed of Theocritus_,_ and as proper for the 4th of June, as any day of the year.
It is almost needless to inform the public, that the University of Oxford has earnestly longed for a visit from their Sovereign, and, in order to obtain this honour without the fatigue of forms and ceremonies, they have privately desired the Master of the Staghounds, upon turning the stag out of the cart, to set his head in as straight a line as possible, by the map, towards Oxford:—which probably, on some auspicious day, will bring the Royal Hunt to the walls of that city. This expedient, conceived in so much wisdom, as well as loyalty, makes the subject of the following,
IRREGULAR ODE,
By MR. MASON.
I.
O! green-rob’d Goddess of the hallow’d shade,
Daughter of Jove, to whom of yore
Thee, lovely maid, Latona bore,
Chaste virgin, Empress of the silent glade!
Where shall I woo thee?—Ere the dawn,
While still the dewy tissue of the lawn
Quivering spangles to the eye,
And fills the soul with Nature’s harmony!
Or ’mid that murky grove’s monastic night,
The tangling net-work of the woodbine’s gloom,
Each zephyr pregnant with perfume——
Or near that delving dale, or mossy mountain’s height,
When Neptune struck the scientific ground.