V.

Such was this ditty of Tradition's days, Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys 80 In song, where Fame as yet hath left no sign Beyond the sound whose charm is half divine; Which leaves no record to the sceptic eye, But yields young History all to Harmony; A boy Achilles, with the Centaur's lyre In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire. For one long-cherished ballad's[378] simple stave, Rung from the rock, or mingled with the wave, Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side, Or gathering mountain echoes as they glide, 90 Hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear, Than all the columns Conquest's minions rear;[fk] Invites, when Hieroglyphics[379] are a theme For sages' labours, or the student's dream; Attracts, when History's volumes are a toil,-- The first, the freshest bud of Feeling's soil. Such was this rude rhyme--rhyme is of the rude-- But such inspired the Norseman's solitude, Who came and conquered; such, wherever rise Lands which no foes destroy or civilise, 100 Exist: and what can our accomplished art Of verse do more than reach the awakened heart?[380]