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The fond complaint, my song, disprove,
To chear the shiv'ring native's dull abode.
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!
Inspiration breath'd around ;
Murmur'd deep a solemn sound :
Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. .
And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
To him the mighty Mother did unveil
Nor second He, that rode sublime
He pass’d the flaming bounds of Place and Time :
Oh ! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit
Wakes thee now? Tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban Eagle bear,
Thro' the azure deep of air :
Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray,
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
“RUIN seize thee, ruthless King !
Confusion on thy banners wait;
They mock the air with idle state.
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.
On a rock, whose haughty brow
Rob'd in the sable garb of woe,
“ Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ;
“ Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hushed the stormy main :
Mountains, ye mourn in vain
Modred, whose magic song
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
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,
Avengers of their native land :
“Weave the warp and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race :
Give ample room, and verge enough
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
60 II. 2.
“ Mighty Victor, mighty Lord ! Low on his funeral couch he lies !
No: pitying heart, no eye, afford
Is the sable warriour fled ?
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
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 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.