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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.
"RUIN seize thee, ruthless King!
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
On a rock, whose haughty brow
Rob'd in the sable garb of woe,
"Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,
"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
Modred, whose magic song
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head.
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.
"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,
The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
Is the sable warriour fled?
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
"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 destin'd course,
Ye towers of Julius,
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 loom,
"Edward, lo! to sudden fate
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)
Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
But oh what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
"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,
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
"The verse adorn again
In buskin'd measures move
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain
With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
A voice, as of the Cherub-Choir,
That lost in long futurity expire.
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,
And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
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