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* RUIN seize thee, ruthless king !
* 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. voy. III. - T
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
On a rock, whose haughty brow v. Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Rob’d in the sable garb of wo, 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 sorrows of his lyre. ‘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 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 dreary 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 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.
‘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 scourg; of Heaven. What Terrors round him Walt . * . Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd, 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. Is the sable warrior fled 2 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:
outh on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his eveningprey. 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 their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse 2 Long years of havoc urge their destin’d course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their