(Loose his beard and hoary hair Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air ;) 'Hark how each giant-oak, and desert-cave, Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, 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 hushed the stormy main : Modred,1 whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie; Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale; Far, far aloof, the affrighted ravens sail; On yonder cliffs, a griesly3 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. 'Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's1 race; 1 Hoel, Llewellyn, Cadwallo, Urien, Modred, Welsh Bards. Give ample room, and verge enough, When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death, through Berkeley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonising 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 Heaven. What terrors round him wait! '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 warrior3 fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born? Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes ; Youth on the prow, and Pleasurea at the helm : Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey. ‘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. 1 She-wolf of France, Isabel, Queen of Edward II. * Scourge of Heaven, Edward III. 3 Sable warrior, the Black Prince. + Reign of Richard II. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havoc1 urge their destined course, Twined with her blushing foe we spread; Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, Brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, '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, O stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblessed, unpitied here to mourn : But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! 1 Long years of havoc, wars of York and Lancaster. 2 Towers of Julius. According to tradition, the Tower of London was built in part by Julius Cæsar. 3 Meek usurper, Henry VI. ✦ Bristled boar, badge of Richard III. 5 Infant gore, Edward V. and his brother. Half of thy heart, Queen Elinor died soon after the conquest of Wales. 7 Arthur, Henry VII. named his eldest son Arthur, 'in deference to British feelings and legends.' 8 Genuine Kings, the Tudors. '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 divine1! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line; What strings symphonious tremble in the air! Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, 'The verse adorn again Fierce War and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest : In buskined measures move, Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.2 A voice, as of the cherub-choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear,3 3 And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire. Fond, impious man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray, Enough for me with joy I see The different doom our fates assign. Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care : To triumph and to die, are mine.' He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height, Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. 1 A form divine, Queen Elizabeth. T. Gray. 3 Poetry of Milton. King. CCXLIX. KING HENRY IV. SECOND PART. ACT III. SCENE I.-Westminster. The Palace. Enter the KING. OW many thousand of my poorest subjects gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Under the canopies of costly state, And lulled with sound of sweetest melody? O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them |