s shall rove
To sigh thy name through every grove,
And call his heroes round.

The warlike dead of every age, 25
Who fill the fair recording page,
Shall leave their sainted rest;
And, half reclining on his spear,
Each wondering chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest: 30

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurel'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight;
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel, 35
And wish the avenging fight.

But lo, where, sunk in deep despair,
Her garments torn, her bosom bare,
Impatient Freedom lies!
Her matted tresses madly spread, 40
To every sod, which wraps the dead,
She turns her joyless eyes.

Ne'er shall she leave that lowly ground
Till notes of triumph bursting round
Proclaim her reign restored: 45
Till William seek the sad retreat,
And, bleeding at her sacred feet,
Present the sated sword.

If, weak to soothe so soft a heart,
These pictured glories nought impart, 50
To dry thy constant tear:
If, yet, in Sorrow's distant eye,
Exposed and pale thou see'st him lie,
Wild War insulting near:

Where'er from time thou court'st relief, 55
The Muse shall still, with social grief,
Her gentlest promise keep;
Even humbled Harting's cottaged vale[33]
Shall learn the sad repeated tale,
And bid her shepherds weep. 60

VARIATIONS.

Ver.
4. While sunk in grief he strives to tear

19. E'en now regardful of his doom
Applauding Honour haunts his tomb,
With shadowy trophies crown'd:
Whilst Freedom's form beside her roves,
Majestic through the twilight groves,
And calls her heroes round.

19. O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aerial forms shall sit at eve,
And bend the pensive head;
And, fallen to save his injured land,
Imperial Honour's awful hand
Shall point his lonely bed.

31. Old Edward's sons, untaught to yield,

49. If, drawn by all a lover's art,

58. Even humble Harting's cottaged vale

FOOTNOTES:

[33] Harting, a village adjoi