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To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Gloster stood aghast ín speechless trance: 'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance.
On a rock, whose haughty brow
'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.
'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
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-topt head.
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 criesNo more I weep. They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs, a griesly 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,
The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roof that ring,
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
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.
'Mighty victor, mighty lord! Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born?
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
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.
'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 their baffled guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray,
Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And thro' 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's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twined 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.
'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 unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn :
But oh what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
'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;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
'The verse adorn again
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
Pale grief, and pleasing pain,
With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
A voice, as of the cherub-choir,
And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
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.
To triumph, and to die, are mine.'
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.
The curfew tolls the knell of part ng day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.