The Poetical Works of William Julius Mickle including several original pieces, with a new life of the author. By the Rev. John Sim |
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FRAGMENTS.
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 | The Poetical Works of William Julius Mickle |  |
FRAGMENTS.
[Tell me, gentle Echo, tell]
Tell me, gentle Echo, tell,
Where and how my lover fell?
On the cold grass did he lie,
Crown'd with laurels did he die?
Echo twice gave swift reply,
“Crown'd with laurels, crown'd with laurels, he did die.”
Where and how my lover fell?
On the cold grass did he lie,
Crown'd with laurels did he die?
Echo twice gave swift reply,
“Crown'd with laurels, crown'd with laurels, he did die.”
His snow-white breast was stain'd with gore,
A cruel sword his bosom tore.
Say, with his parting vital flame,
Did he sigh Ophelia's name?
Was he constant, still the same?
Echo sigh'd “Ophelia's name.”
A cruel sword his bosom tore.
Say, with his parting vital flame,
Did he sigh Ophelia's name?
Was he constant, still the same?
Echo sigh'd “Ophelia's name.”
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When in honour's bed he lay,
And breath'd his gallant soul away,
Ye gentler spirits of the air,
Why was not Ophelia there?
Echo answer'd her despair,
“Why was not Ophelia there?”
And breath'd his gallant soul away,
Ye gentler spirits of the air,
Why was not Ophelia there?
Echo answer'd her despair,
“Why was not Ophelia there?”
While the full moon's paly ray
Sleeping on the hill-side lay,
Thus to Echo thro' the glade
The lovely maniac talk'd and stray'd:
Strait on fancy's wild wings borne
By the glimpse of opening morn,
She saw—or thought she saw, her love
Lie bleeding [OMITTED]
Sleeping on the hill-side lay,
Thus to Echo thro' the glade
The lovely maniac talk'd and stray'd:
Strait on fancy's wild wings borne
By the glimpse of opening morn,
She saw—or thought she saw, her love
Lie bleeding [OMITTED]
[Come, gentle peace, on every breathing gale]
Come, gentle peace, on every breathing gale,O come, and guard the slumbers of the vale;
Awake, gay mirth and glee, with playful wile,
Wake with the morn, and o'er the landscape smile!
[“Upbraid me not, nor thankless fly]
“Upbraid me not, nor thankless fly“The grace I would bestow;”
(Sir Cadwal sat in window high,
King Edward stood below.)
“But friendly to thyself receive
“The bounties I intend;—
“A knight among my knights to live,
“And be my table friend.”
“Yestreen, at midnight's solemn hour,
“When deep the darkness lay,
“I rose my orisons to pour
“Before the opening day:
“When horrid yells my ears astound,
“And screams of dismal cry,
“Echo'd from every hill far round,
“Howl on the winds and die.
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“With yellow glimm'ring light,
“The scatter'd flames on every side
“Strike horror on the sight.
“Ah! what a scene the sun survey'd,
“When o'er yon lake he rose!
“Our villages in ashes laid,
“And prone in dust our brows;
“Our manly brows, form'd to command,
“Low bend beneath thy rage:
“Insult me not—from thy dire hand
“No off'ring can assuage!”
“Unbar, proud Cadwal,” Edward cried,
“Unbar thy gates of steel—” [OMITTED]
Black rose the smoke with dust inflate,
And red sparks darted through;
With brain benumb'd, and faltering gait
King Edward slow withdrew.
The gilded roofs and towers of stone
Now instant all around,
With sudden crash and dreadful groan
Rush thund'ring to the ground.
Sir Cadwal's harp his hand obey'd,
He felt a prophet's fire;
And 'mid the flames all undismay'd,
He struck the sacred lyre. [OMITTED]
| The Poetical Works of William Julius Mickle | |