For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, 66 There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woful-wan; like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless_love. "One morn I missed him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: "The next, with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne: Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. THE BARD (From Odes, 1757) I. 1. "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail, Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail 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 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 Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air,) And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. "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, Revenge on thee in hoarser breathe; murmurs 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: Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd 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 griesly 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. 1. "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, 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 Terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, 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 obsequies. Is the sable Warriour fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead. The Swarm, that in thy noontide 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 Vessel 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: 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 mow their way. Ye Towers 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. Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled Boar in infant gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, Brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom." III. 1. "Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) Half of thy heart we consecrate. |