AH me! the yellow western sky turns pale,
And leaves the cheerless sons of earth to mourn;
And yet I hear not in the silent vale,
A sound to tell me Arthur does return.
Ah, haste ye hours! quick plume the loit’ring wing!
Bring back my hero, crown’d with glorious spoils!
Let bards on lofty harps his triumphs sing,
And loud applause repay successful toils!
Reward the flame, ye great celestial pow’rs,
The noble flame that in his bosom glows!
Inspire him, Druids, from your holy bow’rs,
With strength to conquer iron-breasted foes!
With heighten’d vigour brace his nervous arm,
And let his lance with ten-fold fury fly,
Make him terrific by some potent charm,
And add new light’ning to his piercing eye!
Then may my lover gain unrivall’d fame,
The Roman banners may less proudly flow,
Then he may humble their detested name,
And their high plumes wave o’er a British brow!
Then may his chariot, wheeling o’er the plain,
Hurl death and desolation all around,
While his intrepid front appals their train,
And make our proud invaders bite the ground!
But yet I hear no lively foot advance;
No sound of triumph greets my list’ning ear!
And I may carve this eagle-darting lance
For one, whose voice I never more shall hear!
Perhaps my vows have never reach’d the skies,
Nor hear’n, propitious, smil’d upon my pray’r;
And ah! to morrow’s crimson dawn may rise
To plunge me in the horrors of despair!
Yet well he knows the dreadful spear to wield—-
Alas! their fearful limbs are fenc’d with care:
And, what can valour, when th’extended shield
May leave, so oft, his gen’rous bosom bare?
Say, reverend Druids, can you bless in vain?
Can you in vain extend your spotless hands?
Will not heav’n listen when its priests complain,
And save its altars from unhallow’d bands?
Oh yes! I’ll fear no more! The sacred groves
That rear their untouch’d branches to the skies;
Beneath whose shade its chosen servant roves,
Hidden from weak, unconsecrated eyes:
Beneath whose shade the choral bards rehearse,
Piercing, with uprais’d eyes, each mist that shrouds,
And, listening, catch the heav’n-dictated verse,
By airs etherial wafted from the clouds:
It ne’er can be—-but hark! I hear the sound
Of some one’s step; yet not the youth I love;
He would have flown, and scarcely touch’d the ground,
Not ling’ring thus, with weary caution, move.
The heavy wanderer approaches nigh,
But the drear darkness skreens him from my view:
Ah, gracious heav’n! it was my Arthur’s sigh,
Which the unwilling breeze so faintly blew.
Oh speak! inform me what I have to fear!
Speak, and relieve my doubting, trembling heart!
To thy Albina, with a tongue sincere,
A portion of thy wretchedness impart!’
“Sweet maid,” replied the wounded, dying youth,
In accents mournful, tremulous and slow,
“Yes, I will ever answer thee with truth,
“While yet the feeble tide of life shall flow.
“We made the haughty Roman chiefs retire,
“The tow’ring, sacrilegious eagle flew;
“Our bosoms swell’d with more than mortal fire,
“When from the field indignant they withdrew.
“But ill bespeaks my faint and languid tongue,
“The glowing beauties of that joyful sight;
“Ill can my breast, with keenest torture wrung,
“Dwell on the charming terrors of the fight.
“To others then I leave the envied strain,
“Which shall for ages rend the British air;
“Nor will thy partial ear expect, in vain,
“To find the humble name of Arthur there,
“I go, while now the victory is warm,
“The just reward of valour to obtain;
“Soon I return, clad in a nobler form
“Again to triumph, and again be slain.
“Ah! then, my dear Albina, cease to grieve,
“Nor at thy lover’s glorious fate repine;
“For, though my present favour’d form I leave,
“This constant heart shall still be only thine.
“Alas! e’en now I feel the icy hand
“Of hasty death, press down my swelling heart;
“E’en now I hear a sweet a
(Matilda Betham)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Life Poems, Sadness Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Youth Poems, Sense & Perception Poems, Name Poems, Fire Poems, Fear Poems, Success Poems, Truth PoemsBased on Keywords: fenc, loit, uprais, unconsecrated, be-but, ten-fold, skreens