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Pindaric Ode
"Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy
banners wait! Tho' fanned 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 scattered 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
couched his quiv'ring lance.
On a rock, whose
haughty brow Frowns o'er cold Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe With haggard eyes the
Poet stood; (Loose his beard and hoary hair
Streamed 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 hoarser murmurs breathe;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To
high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
"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-topt head. On
dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smeared with gore, and
ghastly pale: Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens
sail; The famished 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 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 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 When Severn shall re-echo with affright
The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roof 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.
"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
warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the
dead. The swarm that in thy noon-tide 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,
hushed in grim repose, expects his ev'ning 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 havoc urge their destined
course, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their
way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his
consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the
meek usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of
snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: 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.
"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
unblessed, 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! No
more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. All hail, ye
genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!
"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, Attempered
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 heav'n her many-coloured wings.
"The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love,
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. In buskined
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
quenched the orb of day? Tomorrow he repairs the
golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled
ray. Enough for me: with joy I see The diff'rent
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.
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