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Such were the sounds 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 toilsome march his long array:
Stout Gloster stood aghast in speechless trance:
To arms! cry'd Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring

lance.

1

I. 2. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,, Rob'd in the sable garb of Woe, With haggard eye 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 sorrows of his lyre. • Hark how each giant oak and desert cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! O'er thee, O King ! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; Vocal no more, sing 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-topp'd head. On drear, Arvon's shore they lie, Smear'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 dy'd 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. 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 thro' Berkley's roofs that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing king! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thoe be born who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him

wait ! Amazement iu his van, with Flight combin'd, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

II. e. Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his fun'ral 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: 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 ev’ning 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 A baleful smile upon the baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance and horse to horse? Long years of havock urge their destin'd course, And thro' 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 fame, 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 the 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, unpity'd 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 glitt'ring 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!

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, Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line, Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air! What strains of vocal transport round her play! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin ! hear! They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of heav'n her many-colour'd wings.

III. 3. The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice as of the cherub-choir Gales from blooming Eden bear, And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That lost in long turity expire. Fond impious man! thivk'st thou yon sanguine cloud Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough with 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 plung'd to endless night.

ODE.
The Progress of Poesy. Pindaric.

I. 1.
A WAKE, Æolian lyre! awake,

And give to rapture all thy trembling strings;
From Helicon's harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take;
The laughing flow'rs that round them blow,
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Now the rich stream of music winds along,
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
Thro' verdant vales and Ceres' golden reign ;
Now, rolling down the steep amain,
Headlong, impetuous see it pour;
The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.

I. 2.
Oh! Sov'reign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares
And frantic Passions hear thy soft control.
On Tracia's hills, the Lord of War
Has curb'd the fury of his car,
And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command:
Perching on the sceptred hand
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
With ruffled plumes and flagging wing ;
Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie
The terror of his beak and lightnings of his eye.

I. 3
Thee the voice, the dance obey,
Temper'd to thy warbled lay !
O'er Idalia's velvet green
The rosy-crowned Loves are seen
On Cytherea's day,
With antic sports and blue-ey'd Pleasures,
Frisking light in frolic measures :

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