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I. 1. RUIN seize thee, ruthless king! | |
Confusion on thy banners wait; | |
Though fanned by Conquests crimson wing, | |
They mock the air with idle state. | |
Helm, nor hauberks twisted mail, | 5 |
Nor een thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail | |
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, | |
From Cambrias curse, from Cambrias tears! | |
Such were the sounds that oer the crested pride | |
Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, | 10 |
As down the steep of Snowdons shaggy side | |
He wound with toilsome march his long array. | |
Stout Gloster stood aghast in speechless trance: | |
To arms! cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance. | |
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I. 2. On a rock, whose haughty brow | 15 |
Frowns oer old Conways 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 masters hand, and prophets fire, | |
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. | |
Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave, | |
Sighs to the torrents awful voice beneath! | |
Oer thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, | 25 |
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; | |
Vocal no more, since Cambrias fatal day, | |
To high-born Hoels harp, or soft Llewellyns lay. | |
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I. 3. Cold is Cadwallos 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 Arvons 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 countrys 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. 1. Weave the warp, and weave the woof, | |
The winding sheet of Edwards 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 Berkleys roof that ring, | 55 |
Shrieks of an agonizing king! | |
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, | |
That tearst the bowels of thy mangled mate, | |
From thee be born, who oer thy country hangs | |
The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait! | 60 |
Amazement in his van, with flight combined, | |
And sorrows faded form, and solitude behind. | |
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II. 2. 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 oer the azure realm | |
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; | |
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; | |
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwinds sway, | 75 |
That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey. | |
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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 | 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, Londons lasting shame, | |
With many a foul and midnight murder fed, | |
Revere his consorts faith, his fathers fame, | |
And spare the meek usurpers 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 oer the accursed loom, | 95 |
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. | |
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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.) | 100 |
Stay, oh 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 Snowdons 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, Britannias issue, hail! | 110 |
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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! | 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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III. 3. 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, thinkst 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 mountains height | |
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. | |
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