His martial master's knightly board,

And Arthur's ancient rites restored:

The prince in sable steel that sternly frown'd,

And Gallia's captive king, and Cressy's wreath renown'd.

Won from the shepherd's simple meed,

The whispers wild of Mulla's reed,

Sage Spenser waked his lofty lay,

To

grace Eliza's golden sway:

O'er the proud theme new lustre to diffuse,
He chose the gorgeous allegoric muse,

And call'd to life old Uther's elfin tale,

And roved through many a necromantic vale,
Pourtraying chiefs, that knew to tame
The goblin's ire, the dragon's flame,
To pierce the dark enchanted hall,
Where Virtue sat in lonely thrall.
From fabling Fancy's inmost store
A rich romantic robe he bore;

A veil with visionary trappings hung,

And o'er his virgin-queen the fairy texture flung.

At length the matchless Dryden came,

To light the muse's clearer flame;

To lofty numbers grace to lend,

And strength with melody to blend;

To triumph in the bold career of song,

And roll th' unwearied energy along.

Does the mean incense of promiscuous praise,
Does servile fear disgrace his regal bays?

I spurn his panegyric strings,

His partial homage tuned to kings!

Be mine, to catch his manlier chord,

That paints th' impassion'd Persian Lord,

By glory fired, to pity sued,

Roused to revenge, by love subdued:

And still, with transport new, the strains to trace,

That chaunt the Theban pair, and Tancred's deadly

vase.

Had these blest bards been call'd to pay

The vows of this auspicious day,

Each had confess'd a fairer throne,

A mightier sovereign than his own!
Chaucer had bade his hero-monarch yield
The martial fame of Cressy's well-fought field
To peaceful prowess, and the conquests calm,
That braid the sceptre with the patriot's palm;
His chaplets of fantastic bloom,

His colourings, warm from Fiction's loom,

Spenser had cast in scorn away,

And deck'd with truth alone the lay:

All real here the bard had seen

The glories of his pictured queen !

The tuneful Dryden had not flatter'd here,

His lyre had blameless been, his tribute all sincere!

LVI.

ODE FOR THE NEW YEAR, 1788.

-WARTON.

RUDE was the pile, and massy proof,

That first appear'd its haughty roof

On Windsor's brow sublime, in warlike state:
The Norman tyrant's jealous hand

The giant fabric proudly plann'd:

With recent victory elate,

"On this majestic steep," he cried,

"A regal fortress threatening wide,

"Shall spread my terrors to the distant hills;

"Its formidable shade shall throw

"Far o'er the broad expanse below,

"Where winds yon mighty flood, and amply fills,

"With flowery verdure, or with golden grain,

"The fairest fields that deck my new domain;

"And London's towers, that reach the watchman's

66 eye,

“Shall see, with conscious awe, my bulwark climb the

"sky."

Unchanged, through many a hardy race, Stood the rough dome in sullen grace; Still on its angry front defiance frown'd; Though monarchs kept their state within, Still murmur'd with the martial din

The gloomy gateway's arch profound;

And armed forms, in airy rows,

Bent o'er the battlements their bows,

And blood-stain'd banners crown'd its hostile head;

And oft its hoary ramparts wore

The rugged scars of conflict sore;

What time, pavilion'd on the neighbouring mead,
Th' indignant barons ranged in bright array

Their feudal bands, to curb despotic sway;