CXXIII THE BARD Pindaric Ode 'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!' 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 quivering lance. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe With haggard eyes the Poet stood; Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air) 'Hark, how each giant oak and desert-cave 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 : I Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, I see them sit; They linger yet, With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. 'Weave the warp and weave the woof When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death thro' 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 scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 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, That hush'd 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 havock 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, O stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn : But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 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 ! '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 : What strings symphonious tremble in the air, 'The verse adorn again Fierce War and faithful Love And Truth severe by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 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 Raised 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 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. T. Gray CXXIV ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI How sleep the Brave who sink to rest By fairy hands their knell is rung, CXXV LAMENT FOR CULLODEN The lovely lass o' Inverness, Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, |