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 lightening 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,[2] 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 heav'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[3]
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,[4]
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 wailed 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 views
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, sacril