feet around,
  Prostrate warriors gnaw the ground. 30
  Where his glowing eye-balls turn,
  Thousand banners round him burn;
  Where he points his purple spear,
  Hasty, hasty rout is there;
  Marking, with indignant eye,
  Fear to stop and Shame to fly: 
  There Confusion, Terror’s child,
  Conflict fierce, and Ruin wild,
  Agony, that pants for breath,
  Despair and honourable Death. 40

[Footnote 1:  ‘Gwyneth:’  North Wales.]

[Footnote 2:  ‘Lochlin:’  Denmark.]

[Footnote 3:  ‘Dragon son:’  the Red Dragon is the device of Cadwalladar, which all his descendants bore on their banners.]

* * * * *

  XI.—­FOR MUSIC.[1]

  I.

    ’Hence, avaunt! (’tis holy ground,)
      Comus and his midnight crew,
    And Ignorance, with looks profound,
      And dreaming Sloth, of pallid hue,
    Mad Sedition’s cry profane,
    Servitude that hugs her chain,
    Nor in these consecrated bowers,
  Let painted Flattery hide her serpent-train in flowers;

  CHORUS.

  Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain,
  Dare the Muse’s walk to stain, 10
  While bright-eyed Science watches round: 
  Hence, away! ‘tis holy ground.’

  II.

  From yonder realms of empyrean day
  Bursts on my ear the indignant lay;
  There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine,
  The few whom Genius gave to shine
  Through every unborn age and undiscover’d clime. 
  Rapt in celestial transport they,
  Yet hither oft a glance from high
  They send of tender sympathy, 20
  To bless the place where on their opening soul
  First the genuine ardour stole. 
  ’Twas Milton struck the deep-toned shell,
  And, as the choral warblings round him swell,
  Meek Newton’s self bends from his state sublime,
  And nods his hoary head, and listens to the rhyme.

  III.

  Ye brown o’er-arching groves! 
  That Contemplation loves,
  Where willowy Camus lingers with delight;
  Oft at the blush of dawn 30
  I trod your level lawn,
  Oft wooed the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright,
  In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly,
  With Freedom by my side, and soft-eyed Melancholy.

  IV.

  But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth,
  With solemn steps and slow,
  High potentates, and dames of royal birth,
  And mitred fathers, in long orders go: 
  Great Edward,[2] with the Lilies on his brow
  From haughty Gallia torn, 40
  And sad Chatillon,[3] on her bridal morn,
  That wept her bleeding love, and princely Clare,[4]
  And Anjou’s heroine,[5] and the paler Rose,[6]