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The fond complaint, my song, disprove,
And justify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse?
Night and all her sickly dews,
Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry,
He gives to range the dreary sky;
Till down the eastern cliffs afar
Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.

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II. 2.
In climes beyond the solar road,
Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom

To chear the shiv'ring native's dull abode.
And oft, beneath the od’rous shade
Of Chili's boundless forests laid,
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,
In loose numbers wildly sweet,
Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves.
Her track, where'er the Goddess roves,
Glory pursue, and generous Shame,
Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.

II. 3. Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th' Ægean deep,

Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,

Or where Mæander's amber waves In lingering lab'rinths creep,

How do your tuneful echos languish,

Mute, but to the voice of Anguish!
Where each old poetic mountain

Inspiration breath'd around ;
Ev'ry shade and hallow'd fountain

Murmur'd deep a solemn sound :
Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,

Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. .
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant-Power,

And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
They sought, oh Albion ! next thy sea-encircled coast.

III. I.
Far from the sun and summer-gale,
In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,

To him the mighty Mother did unveil
Her aweful face : The dauntless Child
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smil'd.
“This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year :
Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy !
This can unlock the gates of Joy;
Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears."

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III. 2.

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Nor second He, that rode sublime
Upon the seraph-wings of Extasy,
The secrets of th' Abyss to spy.

He pass’d the flaming bounds of Place and Time :
The living Throne, the sapphire blaze,
Where Angels tremble, while they gaze,
He saw ; but, blasted with excess of light,
Clos'd his eyes in endless night.
Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car
Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear
Two Coursers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-resounding pace.

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11. 3.
Hark, his hands the lyre explore !
Bright-ey'd Fancy, hovering o’er,
Scatters from her pictur'd urn
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But ah ! 'tis heard no more-

Oh ! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit

Wakes thee now? Tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,

That the Theban Eagle bear,
Sailing with supreme dominion

Thro' the azure deep of air :
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run

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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.

THE BARD.

1. 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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1. 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.

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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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,
When Severn shall re-echo with affright
The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roofs 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.

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60 II. 2.

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

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

Is the sable warriour 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.
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.

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

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, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and 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 loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

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