Oft will remembrance, in her painful hour,
Cast the keen glance to Woodstock's lovely bower:
Recal each sinful scene of bliss to view,
And give the soul again to guilt and you.
Oh! I have seen thee trace the bower around,
And heard the forest echo Rosamund;
Have seen thy frantick looks, thy wildering eye,
Heard the deep groan and bosom-rending sigh;
Vain are the searching glance, the love-lorn groan,
I live—but live to penitence alone;
Depriv'd of every joy which life can give,
Most vile, most wretched, most despis'd, I live.
Too well thy deep regret, thy grief, are known,
Too true I judge thy sorrows by my own!
Oh! thou hast lost the dearest charm of life,
The fondest, tenderest, loveliest, more than wife;
One who, with every virtue, only knew
The fault, if fault it be, of loving you;
One whose soft bosom seem'd as made to share
Thine every joy, and solace every care;
For crimes like these secluded, doom'd to know
The aggravated weight of guilt and woe.
Still dear, still lov'd, I learnt to sin of thee,
Learn, thou seducer, penitence from me!
Oh! that my soul this last pure joy may know,
Sometimes to soothe the dreadful hour of woe:
Henry! by all the love my life has shown,
By all the sinful raptures we have known,
By all the parting pangs that rend my breast,
Hear, my lov'd lord, and grant my last request;
And, when the last tremendous hour shall come,
When all my woes are buried in the tomb,
Then grant the only boon this wretch shall crave—
Drop the sad tear to dew my humble grave;
Pause o'er the turf in fullness bent of woe,
And think who lies so cold and pale below!
Think from the grave she speaks the last decree,
"What I am now—soon, Henry, thou must be!"
Then be this voice of wonted power possest,
To melt thy heart, and triumph in thy breast:
So should my prayers with just success be crown'd,
Should Henry learn remorse from Rosamund;
Then shall thy sorrow and repentance prove,
That even death was weak to end our love.
BION.
THE RACE OF ODIN.
Loud was the hostile clang of arms,
And hoarse the hollow sound,
When Pompey scatter'd wild alarms
The ravag'd East around,
The crimson deluge dreadful dy'd the ground:
An iron forest of destructive spears
Rear'd their stern stems, where late
The bending harvest wav'd its rustling ears:
Rome, through the swarming gate,
Pour'd her ambitious hosts to slaughter forth:
Such was the will of fate!
From the cold regions of the North,
At length, on raven wings, shall vengeance come,
And justice pour the urn of bitterness on Rome.
"Roman! ('twas thus the chief of Asgard cry'd)
Ambitious Roman! triumph for a while;
Trample on freedom in thy victor pride;
Yet, though now thy fortune smile,
Though Mithridates fly forlorn,
Once thy dread, but now thy scorn,
Odin will never live a shameful slave;
Some region will he yet explore,
Beyond the reach of Rome;
Where, upon some colder shore,
Freedom yet thy force shall brave,
Freedom yet shall find a home:
There, where the eagle dares not soar,
Soon shall the raven find a safe retreat.
Asgard, farewell! farewell my native seat!
Farewell for ever! yet, whilst life shall roll
Her warm tide thro' thine injur'd chieftain's breast,
Oft will he to thy memory drop the tear:
Never more shall Odin rest,
Never quaff the sportive bowl,
Or soothe in peace his slothful soul,
Whilst Rome triumphant lords it here.
Triumph in thy victor might,
Mock the chief of Asgard's flight;
But soon the seeds of vengeance shall be sown,
And Odin's race hurl down thy blood-cemented throne."
Nurtur'd by Scandinavia's hardy soil,
Strong grew the vigorous plant;
Danger could ne'er the nation daunt,
For war, to other realms a toil,
Was but the pastime here;
Skill'd the bold youth to hurl the unerring spear,
To wield the falchion, to direct the dart,
Firm was each warrior's frame, yet gentle was his heart.
Freedom, with joy, beheld the noble race,
And fill'd each bosom with her vivid fire;
Nor vice, nor luxury, debase
The free-born offspring of the free-born sire;
There genuine poesy, in freedom bright,
Diffus'd o'er all her clear, her all-enlivening light.