Part 20 (1/2)

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 s.h.a.ggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array: Stout Glo'ster[2] stood aghast in speechless trance: To arms! cried Mortimer,[3] and couch'd his quivering lance.

I.--2.

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; (Loose his beard and h.o.a.ry 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 awful voice beneath!

O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoa.r.s.er 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 hush'd the stormy main; Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains! ye moan in vain Modrid, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head.

On dreary Arvon's sh.o.r.e[4] they lie, Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale; Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; The famish'd eagle screams and pa.s.ses 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 cries-- No more I weep. They do not sleep: On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit; they linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with b.l.o.o.d.y hands the tissue of thy line.

II.--1.

”Weave the warp and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race: Give ample room and verge enough The characters of h.e.l.l to trace.

Mark the year and mark the night When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death through Berkley's roofs that ring, Shrieks of an agonising king![5]

She-wolf of France,[6] with unrelenting fangs That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee[7] 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.

II.--2.

”Mighty Victor, mighty Lord, Low on his funeral couch[8] he lies!

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

Is the sable warrior[9] 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,[10] 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,[11]

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 the baffled guest.

Heard ye the din of battle bray,[12]

Lance to lance and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way; Ye Towers of Julius![13] London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's[14] faith, his father's[15] fame, And spare the meek usurper's[16] holy head.

Above, below, the Rose of snow,[17]

Twined with her blus.h.i.+ng foe, we spread; The bristled Boar[18] in infant gore Wallows beneath the th.o.r.n.y shade; Now, Brothers! bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

III.--I.

”Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun:) Half of thy heart[19] we consecrate; (The web is wove; the work is done.”) 'Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, 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!