See the grisly texture grow,
  (’Tis of human entrails made,)
  And the weights, that play below,
  Each a gasping warrior’s head.

  Shafts for shuttles, dipped in gore,
  Shoot the trembling cords along. 
  Sword, that once a monarch bore,
  Keep the tissue close and strong.

  Mista black, terrific maid,
  Sangrida, and Hilda see,
  Join the wayward work to aid: 
  ’Tis the woof of victory.

  Ere the ruddy sun be set,
  Pikes must shiver, javelins sing,
  Blade with clattering buckler meet,
  Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.

  (Weave the crimson web of war.)
  Let us go, and let us fly,
  Where our friends the conflict share,
  Where they triumph, where they die.

  As the paths of fate we tread,
  Wading through th’ ensanguined field: 
  Gondula, and Geira, spread
  O’er the youthful king your shield.

  We the reins to slaughter give,
  Ours to kill, and ours to spare: 
  Spite of danger he shall live. 
  (Weave the crimson web of war.)

  They, whom once the desert-beach
  Pent within its bleak domain,
  Soon their ample sway shall stretch
  O’er the plenty of the plain.

  Low the dauntless earl is laid,
  Gored with many a gaping wound: 
  Fate demands a nobler head;
  Soon a king shall bite the ground.

  Long his loss shall Erin weep,
  Ne’er again his likeness see;
  Long her strains in sorrow steep,
  Strains of immortality!

  Horror covers all the heath,
  Clouds of carnage blot the sun. 
  Sisters,—­weave the web of death;
  Sisters, cease, the work is done.

  Hail the task, and hail the hands! 
  Songs of joy and triumph sing! 
  Joy to the victorious bands;
  Triumph to the younger king.

  Mortal, thou that hear’st the tale,
  Learn the tenor of our song. 
  Scotland, through each winding Tale
  Far and wide the notes prolong.

  Sisters, hence with spurs of speed: 
  Each her thundering falchion wield;
  Each bestride her sable steed. 
  Hurry, hurry to the field.

ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE

  Now the golden Morn aloft
  Waves her dew-bespangled wing;
  With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
  She wooes the tardy Spring;
  Till April starts, and calls around
  The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
  And lightly o’er the living scene
  Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.

  New-born flocks, In rustic dance,
  Frisking ply their feeble feet;
  Forgetful of their wintry trance,
  The birds his presence greet;
  But chief the sky-lark warbles high
  His trembling, thrilling ecstasy,
  And, lessening from the dazzled sight,
  Melts into air and liquid light.

  Rise, my soul! on wings of fire
  Rise the rapturous choir among! 
  Hark! ’tis Nature strikes the lyre,
  And leads the general song.
[Four lines lacking in the MS.]