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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).

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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,

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

Each (for madness ruled the hour)
Would prove his own expressive power.
First fear, his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewildered laid,
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.
Next anger rushed; his eyes on fire,

In lightnings owned his secret stings:
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept, with hurried hand, the strings. With woful measures wan despair

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled; A solemn, strange, and mingled air;

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delightful measure?

Still it whispered promised pleasure,

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And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on echo still, through all the song; 35 And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close,

And hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she sung;-but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose:

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He threw his blood-stained sword, in thunder,

down;

And with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum, with furious heat;

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And though sometimes, each dreary pause be

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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

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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,

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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.

1 V. Cymbeline, Act IV, sc. ii.

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