1"This ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales that Edward I, when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the bards that fell into his hands to be put to death." Gray.

2 Cambria, the ancient name of Wales.

3 Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, who had conducted the war in South Wales before joining forces with the king.

Edward de Mortimer, who co-operated with the king in North Wales.

Probably Howel ab Owain, a bard of the latter 12th century. For many of the other bards, Gray appears simply to have selected appropriate national names, without having any specific Welsh poet in mind.

i. e., on the coast of Carnarvonshire (Arvon = Carnarvon Caer-yn-Arvon, the camp in Arvon).

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,

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,75 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:

7 The Severn flows near to Berkeley Castle, where Edward II was murdered.

The French Princess, Isabelle, wife of Edward II. who allied herself with Mortimer to compass the ruin of her husband. Edward III.

When music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The passions oft, to hear her shell,i
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possest beyond the muse's painting:
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,

50

5

10

1 Lyre. The primitive lyre was supposed to have been made by stretching strings across the shell of a tortoise.

Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;

And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess! why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As, in that loved Athenian bower,
You learned an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared,
Can well recall what then it heard;
Where is thy native simple heart,

Devote to virtue, fancy, art?

95

100

Arise, as in that elder time,2

105

Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!

Thy wonders, in that godlike age, Fill thy recording sister's page

'Tis said, and I believe the tale,

ODE

WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF THE YEAR 17461

How sleep the brave who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blessed!
When spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And freedom shall awhile repair,

To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!

SUNG

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE1

5

10

BY GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER
FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD

(First published in The Gentleman's Magazine, for October, 1749)

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No withered witch shall here be seen;
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase, on every plain,

5

10

15

The tender thought on thee shall dwell; 20 Each lonely scene shall thee restore; For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourned till pity's self be dead.

Thomas Percy

1729-1811

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY

It was a friar of orders gray,
Walked forth to tell his beads,
And he met with a lady fair,

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

1 In this year England was at war both on the continent and in Scotland. The Jacobite victory of Falkirk was Jan. 17, 1746, and the crushing Jacobite defeat of Culloden, April 16th of the same year.

IV. Cymbeline, Act IV, sc. ii.