THE BARD A PINDARIC ODE The following Ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward the First, when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bards that fell into his hands to be put to death.-GRAY. I. I. "RUIN seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait; Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance. I. 2. On a rock whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, 15 With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air) 20 "Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave, Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, 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: 25 30 Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: The famish'd 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. II. I. "Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding sheet of Edward's race. 35 40 45 50 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, 55 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 terrors round him wait! II. 2. "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? 60 65 Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising Morn. 70 Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows, In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, II. 3. "Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare, 75 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 now their way. Ye tower of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murther fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of snow, Twin'd 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, III. I. 66 6 '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 unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, 88 But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail! ΙΙΟ III. 2. 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; What strings symphonious tremble in the air, They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 115 120 That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, 135 Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? |