Duncan, an Ode
I.
Abash'd the rebel squadrons yield--
MACBETH , the victor of the field,
Exulting, past the blasted wild;
And where his dark o'erhanging towers
Frown on the heath, with pleasures mild
Now DUNCAN hastes to wing the hours--
Sweet are the rosy beams that chase
The angry tempest from the sky;
When winds have shook the mountain's base,
Sweet is the zephyr's balmy sigh;
But sweeter to the breast the social charms
Whose grateful rapture sooths the toil of arms.
II.
'Twas not the season when the storm
Of winter wears its savage form;
Black'ning all, the frozen North
Wildly spreads its awful wings,
From yon bare summit rushes forth,
And on that barren desart, flings
All the rapid torrents might,
When with turbulence they sweep,
Mingling, with the winds of might,
Sounds majestically deep--
When nature form'd the hideous waste, she frown'd,
And gave to horror its deserted bound.
III.
'Twas not the hour when magic spells
Rock the heath's untrodden cells;
When slow the wither'd forms arise
From caves, which night with lasting sway,
Ever shrouds from mortal eyes,
Nor divides one hour with day--
Sounds unmeet for mortal ear
Chill with dread the human frame,
Then unreal shapes appear
By the blue unhallow'd flame--
Discordance strange disturbs the gentle air,
And pois'nous taints the thick'ning breezes bear.
IV.
[...] Read more
poem by Helen Maria Williams
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
