Thomas Gray (थॉमस ग्रे)

Iron-sleet of arrowy shower,Hurtles in the darkened air.

Glittering lances are the loom,Where the dusky warp we strain.

Weaving many a soldier's doom,Orkney's woe and Randver's bane.

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 the 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 the dangers 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 Eirin 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 vale,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!.

Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,Fair Venus' train, appear.

Disclose the long-expecting flowers,And wake the purple year!.

The Attic warbler pours her throat,Responsive to the cuckoo's note.

The untaught harmony of spring,While, whisp'ring pleasure as they fly.

Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky,Their gathered fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch,A broader browner shade.

Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech,O'er-canopies the glade.

Beside some water's rushy brink,With me the Muse shall sit, and think.

(At ease reclined in rustic state),How vain the ardour of the Crowd.

How low, how little are the Proud,How indigent the Great!.

Still is the toiling hand of Care,The panting herds repose.

Yet hark, how through the peopled air,The busy murmur glows!.

The insect-youth are on the wing,Eager to taste the honied spring.

And float amid the liquid noon,Some lightly o'er the current skim.

Some show their gayly-gilded trim,Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye,Such is the race of Man.

And they that creep, and they that fly,Shall end where they began.

Alike the Busy and the Gay,But flutter thro' life's little day.

In Fortune's varying colours drest,Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance.

Or chilled by Age, their airy dance,They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,The sportive kind reply.

Poor moralist! and what art thou?,A solitary fly!.

Thy joys no glittering female meets,No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets.

No painted plumage to display,On hasty wings thy youth is flown.

Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—,We frolic while 'tis May.

A Pindaric Ode,Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake.

And give to rapture all thy trembling strings,From Helicon's harmonious springs.

A thousand rills their mazy progress take,The laughing flowers that round them blow.

Drink life and fragrance as they flow,Now the rich stream of Music winds along.

Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign.

Now rolling down the steep amain,Headlong, impetuous, see it pour.

The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar,Oh! Sov'reign of the willing soul.

Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares.

And frantic Passions hear thy soft control,On Thracia's hills the Lord of War.

Has curbed the fury of his car,And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.

Perching on the sceptred hand,Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king.

With ruffled plumes and flagging wing,Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie.

The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye,Thee the voice, the dance, obey.

Tempered to thy warbled lay,O'er Idalia's velvet-green.

The rosy-crowned Loves are seen,On Cytherea's day.

With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,Frisking light in frolic measures.

Now pursuing, now retreating,Now in circling troops they meet.

To brisk notes in cadence beating,Glance their many-twinkling feet.

Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare,Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay.

With arms sublime that float upon the air,In gliding state she wins her easy way.

O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move,The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

Man's feeble race what ills await!,Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain.

Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!.

The fond complaint, my song, disprove,And justify the laws of Jove.

Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse?,Night and all her sickly dews.

Her sceptres wan, and birds of boding cry,He gives to range the dreary sky.

Till down the eastern cliffs afar,Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.

Iron-sleet of arrowy shower,Hurtles in the darkened air.

Glittering lances are the loom,Where the dusky warp we strain.

Weaving many a soldier's doom,Orkney's woe and Randver's bane.

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 the 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 the dangers he shall live,(Weave the crimson web of war!).

They whom once the desert beach,Pent within its bleak domain.