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POEM,
ON THE
Regatta at Keswick, 1786.
O Muse! that nightly gliding through the hall
Of tuneful Ossian gently touch'd his harp,
And sweeping oft unseen the living string,
With airy fingers struck the fancy'd note,
Believ'd the music of departed Bards,
Oh! thou that sitt'st amidst the circling stones,
Crown'd with the sacred mistletoe! thy hand,
Grac'd with a seemly bough of Britain's oak,
(That oak which bears her thunders round the globe,
When she affrights the distant realms with war,)
Attend; and tune thy golden harp to notes
Of joy exulting: sing the festive day,
When, on the azure mirror of the Lake,
The princely Howard held his splendid feast;
When he himself, most like the god of mirth,
In placid grandeur view'd the noble scene.
Scarcely had day's bright god begun his course,
And chac'd the misty vapours from the lakes,
When, ardent all for pleasure, forth there sprung
A bright assemblage of firm, active youths,
And virgins blushing like the op'ning bud.
Nay, some there were who sought the sportive scene
Whom frozen age had bow'd with iron hand;
Drawn by the force of curiosity,
Or by the workings of parental care,
To watch and guard their blooming daughter's steps.
The neighb'ring rustics too, with massy limbs,
Inur'd to toil, inur'd to sun and rain;
Each led his fav'rite damsel to the sight,
And talk'd of Love, or laugh'd with hearty roar.
And now the vessels all in order range,
To try the fortune of the wat'ry race.
The rowers sit; their eyes with ardour glow,
Attentive watching the appointed sign.
And now the gun, the signal for the course,
Rends with its iron voice th' o'ervaulting sky,
And distant rocks redoubling the echo back
The horrid note. - Instantly they start,
And, adverse looking, try their utmost skill.
Big swells each mighty muscle, strain'd with toil;
O'er their knit brows the drops of labour pour,
Whilst on their faces anxious fear and hope
Alternate sat depicted. Now they come
Almost within the grasp of Victory:
Then, what rapture fires the Victor's mind,
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