Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray,

With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun :

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,

Beneath the Good how far !-but far above the Great.

THE BARD.

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I. I.

"RUIN seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait;
Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
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 scatter'd wild dismay,
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 couch'd his quiv'ring lance.

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ΙΟ

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 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 aweful 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.

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I. 3.

"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-top'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 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.

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The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,

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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!

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Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind,

II. 2.

"Mighty Victor, mighty Lord! Low on his funeral couch he lies!

No pitving heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the sable warriour fled?

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.

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The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising morn.

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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,

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That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening-prey.

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havock urge their destin'd course, And thro' the kindred

Ye towers of Julius, With many a foul and

squadrons mow their way.
London's lasting shame,
midnight murther 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 th' accursed Ioom,

Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

Half of thy heart we consecrate.

(The web is wove. The work is done.)

Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn :
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

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But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?

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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,

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What strains of vocal transport round her play, the 29 de

chief of the

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.

A voice, as of the Cherub-Choir, len

Gales from blooming Eden bear;

Millon

And distant warblings lessen on my ear,

That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, 1. 135
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 for me: with joy I see

The different doom our fates assign: Be thine Despair, and scept'red 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.

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