(Loose his beard, and hoary hair

Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air,)
And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

"Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

I. 3.

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

That hush'd the stormy main:

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:

Mountains, ye mourn in vain.

Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;
The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,

Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries— No more I weep. They do not sleep.

On yonder cliff, a grisly band,

I see them sit; they linger yet,

Avengers of their native land:

With me in dreadful harmony they join,

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

II. 1.

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,

The winding-sheet of Edward's race.
Give ample room, and verge enough

The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-echo with affright

The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roof that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing king!

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,

From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with flight combined,

And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.

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II. 2.

Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies!

No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies.