To-morrow I shall write from Aix-la-Chapelle, for here I must say, albeit not in the Byronic vein,
'Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long delighted
The stranger fain would linger on his way;
Thine is a scene alike where souls united,
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray;
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here,
Where nature, not too sombre nor too gay,
Wild, but not rude, awful, but not austere,
Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year.'
[THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.]
'Their voice shall be heard in other ages,
When the kings of Temora have failed.'
Ossian.
Ye say, we sing no household songs,
To those beside our hearths at play;
No minstrelsy to us belongs,
No legends of our by-gone day:
No old traditions of the hills,
Our giant land no memory fills—
We have no proud heroic lay!
Ye ask the time-worn storied page—
Ye ask the things of other age,
From us—a race of yesterday!
Of yore, in Britain's feudal halls,
Where many a warlike trophy hung,
With shield and banner on the walls,
The bard's high harp was sternly strung
To praise of war—its fierce delights—
To 'heroes of an hundred fights,'
Ever the 'sounding shell' outrung!
Gone is the ancient Bardic race—
Their song hath found perpetual place
Their country's proud archives among!