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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.

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III. 1.
“ 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, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
Leave me unbless'd, uppitied, here to mourn:
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height

Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
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!

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Ver. 93. The bristled boar in infant-gore] The silver boar was the badge of Richard the Third ; whence he was usually known in his own time by the name of the Boar.

Ver. 99. Half of thy heart we consecrate) Eleanor of Castile died a few years after the conquest of Wales. The heroic proof she gave of her affection for her lord is well known. The monuments of his regret and sorrow for the loss of her, are still to be seen at Northampton, Gaddington, Waltham, and other places.

Ver. 109. No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail] It was the common belief of the Welsh nation, that King Arthur was

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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,

What strains of vocal transport round her play!
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 heaven her many-colour'd wings.

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still alive in Fairyland, and would return again to reign over Britain.

Ver. 110. All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail] Both Merlin and Taliessin had prophesied, that the Welsh should regain their sovereignty over this island; which seemed to be accomplished in the house of Tudor,

Ver. 107. Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face] Speed, relating an audience given by Queen Elizabeth to Paul Dzialinski, ambassador of Poland, says, “ And thus she, lion-like rising, daunted the malapert orator no less with her stately port and majestical deporture, than with the tartnesse of her princelie checkes."

Ver. 121. Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear] Taliessin, chief of the bards, flourished in the sixth century. His works are still preserved, and his memory held in high veneration among his countrymen.

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III. 3. “ The verse adorn again.

“ Fierce war, and faithful love,
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

In buskin’d measures move
Pale grief, and pleasing pain,
With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

A voice, as of the cherub-choir,
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.

Ver. 128. In buskin'd measures move.] SHAKSPEARE.
Ver. 131. A voice, us of the cherub-choir.] Milton.

Ver. 133. And distant warblings lessen on my ear] The succession of poets after Milton's time.




Performed in the Senate-House at Cambridge, July 1, 1769,

at the installation of the Duke of Grafton, as Chancellor of the University.

guine cloed orb of dar'

“Hence, avaunt, ('tis holy ground)

Comus, and his midnight-crew,
And Ignorance with looks profound,

And dreaming Sloth of pallid hue,
Mad sedition's cry profane,
Servitude that hugs her chain,
Nor in these consecrated bowers
Let painted Flattery hide her serpent-train in flowers.
Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain,
Dare the Muse's walk to stain,
While bright-eyed Science watches round:
Hence, away, 'tis holy ground!”

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From yonder realms of empyrean day

Bursts on my ear the indignant lay :

There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine,

The few, whom genius gave to shine
Through every unborn age, and undiscover'd clime.

Rapt in celestial transport they;
Yet hither oft a glance from high

They send of tender sympathy
To bless the place, where on their opening soul

First the genuine ardour stole.
'Twas Milton struck the deep-toned shell,
And, as the choral warblings round him swell,
Meek Newton's self bends from his state sublime,
And nods his hoary head, and listens to the rhyme.

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“ Ye brown o'erarching groves,

That contemplation loves,
Where willowy Camus lingers with delight !

Oft at the blush of dawn

I trod your level lawn,
Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia silver-bright
In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly,
With Freedom by my side, and soft-eyed Melancholy."

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But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth

With solemn steps and slow,
High potentates, and dames of royal birth,
And mitred fathers in long order go:

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