The living Throne, the faphire-blaze, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's lefs prefumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear Two courfers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-refounding pace. III. 3. Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed 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, Yet oft before his infant eyes would run -but far above the Great. Beneath the Good how far XXXX O XXXX DE. By the Same. The following Ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that EDWARD the First, when he compleated the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bards, that fell into his hands, to be put to death. R I. 1. UIN feize thee, ruthlefs King! • Tho' fann'd by Conqueft's crimson wing Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail, Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail • From Cambria's curfe, from Cambria's tears!? To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance. 3 I. 2. I. 2. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the fable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet ftood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air) Hark, how each giant-oak, and defart cave, Vocal no more, fince Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or foft Llewellyn's lay. • Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, • That hush'd the stormy main: • Brave Urien fleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whofe magic fong • Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head. On dreary Arvon's fhore they lie, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: • Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens fail; The famish'd Eagle fcreams, and passes by. Dear loft companions of my tuneful art, Dear, as the light, that visits these fad eyes, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries No more I weep. They do not fleep. On yonder cliffs, a griefly band, I fee them fit, they linger yet, Avengers of their native land : . With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tiffue of thy line. "Weave the warp, and weave the woof, "The winding-fheet 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 fhall re-echo with affright "The fhricks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring, "Shrieks of an agonizing King! "She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, "That tear'ft the bowels of thy mangled Mate, "From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs "The fcourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait! with Flight combin'd, "Amazement in his van, "And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. II. 2. "Mighty Victor, mighty Lord, "Low on his funeral couch he lies! "No pitying heart, no eye afford A tear to grace his obfequies. "Is the fable Warriour fled? "Thy fon is gone. He refts among the Dead. "The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born, "Fair laughs the Morn, and foft the Zephyr blows, "Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm n; 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 Thirft and Famine fcowl "A baleful fmile upon their baffled Gueft. "Heard ye the din of battle bray, "Lance to lance, and horfe to horfe? Long Years of havock 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 murther fed, "Revere his Confort's faith, his Father's fame, And fpare the meek Ufurper's holy head. * Richard the Second, (as we are told by Archbishop Scroop, Thomas of Walfingham, and all the older Writers,) was ftarved to death. The fiory of his assassination by Sir Piers of Exon, is of much later date. "Above, |