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The living Throne, the saphire-blaze,
Hark, his hands the lyre explore !
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.
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.
On a rock, whose haughty brow
Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath !
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 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,
- Dear, as the light, that visits these fad eyes,
They do not sleep.
Avengers of their native land :
“ 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.
ki Is the fable Warriour fled ?
*** Fill high the sparkling bowl,
the din of battle bray,
Long Years of havock urge their destined course,
* 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.