Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

To high-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewellyn's lay.

Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

I. 3.

That hushed 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-topped head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,

Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale!
Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail,
The famished 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 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.

II. I.

"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 roofs that ring,

Shrieks of an agonizing king!3

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,

That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,

3 Edward II., cruelly butchered in Berkley Castle.
Isabel of France, Edward II.'s queen.

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.

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 noontide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising morn :

8

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 hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

II. 3.

"Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare;

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast.

Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 9

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.

Heard ye the din of battle bray,"

5 Edward III.

6 Death of that king abandoned by his children, and robbed in his last moments by his courtiers.

7 Edward the Black Prince, dead some time before his father.

8 Magnificence of Richard II.'s reign.

9 Richard II.

10 Civil wars of York and Lancaster.

Lance to lance and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destined course,
And through the kindred squadrons mow their
way.

Ye Towers of Julius ! London's lasting shame!
With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere his consort's12 faith, his father's13 fame,
And spare the meek usurper's11 holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,15
Twined with her blushing foe, we spread;
The bristled Boar16 in infant gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

Now, brothers! bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

III. I.

Edward, lo! to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof; the thread is spun) Half of thy heart17 we consecrate;

(The web is wove; the work is done.")

66

'Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn.

In yon bright tract, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But oh! 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 !

"The Tower of London, vulgarly attributed to Julius Cæsar. 12 Margaret of Anjou.

13 Henry V.

14 Henry VI., very near being canonized.

15 The white and red Roses of York and Lancaster.

16 The silver Boar, the badge of Richard III.

17 Eleanor of Castile died a few years after the conquest of Wales. The monuments of Edward's regret are still to be seen at Northampton, Gaddington, Waltham, and other places.

No more our long-lost Arthur18 we bewail:

All hail, ye genuine Kings, 19 Britannia's issue, hail!

III. 2.

"Girt with many a baron bold,

Sublime their starry fronts they rear,

And gorgeous dames and statesmen old
In bearded majesty appear;

In the midst a form divine !20

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line,
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attempered sweet to virgin-grace.

21

What strings symphonious tremble in the air!
What strains of vocal transport round her play!
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin ! 21 hear!
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,
Waves in the eye of heaven her many-coloured wings.

"The verse adorn again

III. 3.

'Fierce War, and faithful Love,'

22

And Truth severe, by fairy fiction dressed.
In buskined measures move23

Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,

With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

18 It was the common belief of the Welsh nation, that King Arthur was still alive in Fairyland, and should return again to reign over Britain.

19 Both Merlin and Taliessin had prophesied that the Welsh should regain their sovereignty over this island, which seemed to be accomplished in the house of Tudor.

20 Queen Elizabeth.

21 Taliessin, chief of the Bards, flourished in the sixth century. His works are still preserved, and his memory held in high veneration among his countrymen.

22 See page 8.

23 Shakespeare.

A voice,24 as of the cherub-choir,
Gales from blooming Eden bear;
And distant warblings25 lessen on my ear,
That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious man! think'st thou yon sanguine cloud Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.

Enough for me: with joy I see

The different doom our fates assign!
Be thine despair and sceptred care;
To triumph and to die are mine."

He spoke, and, headlong from the mountain's height, Deep, in the roaring tide, he plunged to endless night.

24 Milton.

25 The succession of poets after Milton's time.

From A SONNET.

On the Death of Mr. Richard West.

I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
And weep the more because I weep in vain.

[Solon, when he wept his son's death, and one said to him, "Weeping will not help," he answered, "I weep for that very cause, that weeping will not avail."-DIOG., Laert., I. 39.]