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I. “RUIN seize thee, ruthless king! | |
| Confusion on thy banners wait; | |
| Though fanned by Conquest’s crimson wing, | |
| They mock the air with idle state. | |
| Helm, nor hauberk’s twisted mail, | 5 |
| Nor e’en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail | |
| To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, | |
| From Cambria’s curse, from Cambria’s tears!” | |
| Such were the sounds that o’er the crested pride | |
| Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, | 10 |
| As down the steep of Snowdon’s shaggy side | |
| He wound with toilsome march his long array. | |
| Stout Glo’ster stood aghast in speechless trance; | |
| “To arms!” cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance. | |
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| On a rock, whose haughty brow | 15 |
| Frowns o’er old Conway’s foaming flood, | |
| Robed in the sable garb of woe, | |
| With haggard eyes the poet stood | |
| (Loose his beard, and hoary hair | |
| Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air), | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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. | |
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| “Cold is Cadwallo’s tongue, | |
| That hushed the stormy main; | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| 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, | 45 |
| Avengers of their native land; | |
| With me in dreadful harmony they join, | |
| And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. | |
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II. “Weave the warp, and weave the woof, | |
| The winding-sheet of Edward’s race. | 50 |
| 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 roof that ring, | 55 |
| 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 him wait! | 60 |
| Amazement in his van, with flight combined, | |
| And sorrow’s faded form, and solitude behind. | |
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| “Mighty victor, mighty lord! | |
| Low on his funeral couch he lies! | |
| No pitying heart, no eye, afford | 65 |
| 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. | 70 |
| 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, | 75 |
| That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey. | |
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| “Fill high the sparkling bowl, | |
| The rich repast prepare; | |
| Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: | |
| Close by the regal chair | 80 |
| 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, | 85 |
| 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’s faith, his father’s fame, | |
| And spare the meek usurper’s holy head. | 90 |
| 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, | 95 |
| Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. | |
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III. “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.) | 100 |
| Stay, O, stay! nor thus forlorn | |
| Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn: | |
| In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, | |
| They melt, they vanish from my eyes. | |
| But, oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon’s height | 105 |
| 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! | 110 |
| “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! | 115 |
| Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line; | |
| Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, | |
| Attempered sweet to virgin grace. | |
| What strings symphonious tremble in the air, | |
| What strains of vocal transport round her play, | 120 |
| 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 heaven her many-colored wings. | |
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| “The verse adorn again | 125 |
| Fierce war, and faithful love, | |
| And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. | |
| In buskined measures move | |
| Pale grief, and pleasing pain, | |
| With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. | 130 |
| A voice, as of the cherub-choir, | |
| Gales from blooming Eden bear; | |
| And distant warblings lessen on my ear, | |
| That lost in long futurity expire. | |
| Fond impious man, think’st thou yon sanguine cloud, | 135 |
| 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. | 140 |
| 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. | |
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