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The living Throne, the saphire-blaze,
Where Angels tremble while they gaze,
He saw ; but blafted with excess of light,
Closed his eyes in endless night.
Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car,
Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear
Two coursers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-resounding 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,
That the Theban Eagle bear
Sailing with supreme dominion
Thro' the azure deep of air :
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun :
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,
Beneath the Good how far -but far above the Great.

X 3



0 D DE.

By the Same.

The following Ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales,

that EDWARD the First, when be compleated the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bards, that fell into his hands, to be put to death.

1. I.

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UIN seize thee, ruthlefs King !

Confusion on thy banners wait, · Tho' fann'd by Conqueft's crimson wing • They mock the air with idle state. • Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail, • Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail • To save thy secret foul 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 toilfome march his long array. Stout Glofter stood aghaft in speechless trance : To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv’ring lance.


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 stood ;
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair
Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air)
And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire,
Struck the deep forrows of his lyre.
• Hark, how each giant-oak, and desart cave,

Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath !
• O'er thee, oh 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.

I. 3

« Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, • That hush'd 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-top'd head. « On dreary Arvon's More they lie, • Smear'd with gore, and ghaftly pale : • Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens fail ; « The familh'd Eagle screams, and passes by.

Dear loft companions of my tuneful art,

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- Dear, as the light, that visits these fad eyes,
• Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
* Ye died amidst your dying country's cries
No more


They do not sleep.
• On yonder cliffs, a griefly band,
• I see them fit, 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.

II. I.

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 roofs 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 Heav'n. What Terror's round him wait! « Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd, “ And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.


II. 2.

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ki Is the fable Warriour 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 Veffel 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,
“ The rich repast prepare,
“ Reft, of a crown, he yet may share the feast :
“ Clofe by the regal chair
66 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 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 spare the meek Usurper's holy head.

* Richard the Second, (as we are told by Archbishop Scroop, Thomas of Walsingham, and all the older Writers,) was farved to death. The fiory of his asasination by Sir Piers of Exon, is of much later date.

" Above,

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