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MOST EMINENT POETS,
PINDARIC, HORATIAN, AND OTHER
Confusion on thy banners wait!
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears !"
* This ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward the First, when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bards that fell into his hands to be put to death, VOL. III.
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
On a rock, whose haughty brow
Rob'd in the sable garb of wo,
of his lyre.
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hush'd the stormy main :
Mountains, ye mourn in vain
Modred, whose magic song,
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Sinear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof th' 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 criesNo more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs 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.
• 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 skrieks 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 hiin
wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd, And Sorrow's faded form and Solitude behind.
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. Is the sable warrior fled ? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born, Gone to salute the rising Morn. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes :
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his eveningprey.
Fill high the sparkling bowl,
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
Long years of havoc urge their destin'd course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their
way. Ye tow'rs of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere his consort's faith, his father's famne, And spare the meek usurper's holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread ; The bristled boar in infant-gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
III. 1. Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)
Half of thy heart we consecrate, (The web is wove. The work is done.) Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn : In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But ob! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight !
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail: All-hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail !
And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old