UIN feize thee, ruthlefs King. Tho' fann'd by Conqueft's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle ftate! Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail, Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To fave thy fecret foul from nightly fears, • From Cambria's curfe, from Cambria's tears!' Such were the founds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilfome march his long array. Stout Glo'fter stood aghaft in speechless trance! To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance. I. 2. On a rock, whofe haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the fable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (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 forrows of his lyre.. Hark, A PINDARIC ODE. 97 Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert-cave, 'Sigh to the torrent's awful voice beneath! 'O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms Revenge on thee in hoarfer murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, fince Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or foft Llewel lyn's lay. I. 3: • Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the ftormy main: < Brave Urien fleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain • Modred, whofe magic fong > |