He faw; but blafted with excefs of light, Behold, where Dryden's lefs prefumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two courfers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-refounding III. 3. [pace. Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts, that breathe, and words, that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more Oh! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit Wakes thee now? though he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear Yet fhall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the Good how far, -but far above the Great. The following Ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that EDWARD the First, when be compleated the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bards, that fell into his hands, to be put to death. R I. 1. UIN feize thee, ruthless King! Confufion on thy banners wait, Though fann'd by Conqueft's crimson wing Helm, nor Hauberk's twifted mail, Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, fhall avail • To fave thy fecret foul from nightly fears, • From Cambria's curfe, from Cambria's tears !' Such were the founds, that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild difmay, As down the steep of Snowdon's fhaggy fide He wound with toilfome march his long array. Stout Stout Glofter stood aghast in speechless trance: Toarms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance. 1. 2. On a rock, whofe haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the fable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air) Hark, how each giant-oak, and desart cave, Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath! 'O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarfer numbers breathe; • Vocal no more, fince Cambria's fatal day, 'To high-born Hoel's harp, or foft Llewellyn's lay. I. 3. 'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, C That hush'd the ftormy main: "Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: 'Mountains, ye mourn in vain 'Modred, whofe magic fong Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head. • On dreary Arvon's coaft they lie, I fee them fit, they linger yet, 'Avengers of their native land: 'With me in dreadful harmony they join, * And weave with bloody hands the tiffue of thy line. II. 1. "Weave the warp, and weave the woof, "The winding-fheet of Edward's race, "Give ample room, and verge enough, "The characters of hell to trace. "Mark the year, and mark the night, "When Severn fhall re-echo with affright "The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roofs that ring, "Shrieks of an agonizing King! "She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, "That tear'ft the bowels of thy mangled Mate, "From "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 combin'd, "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 obfequies. "Is the fable Warriour fled? "Thy son is gone. He refts among the Dead. "The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born, "Gone to falute the rifing Morn. "Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows, "While proudly riding o'er the azure realm "In gallant trim the gilded Veffel goes; "Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm "Regardless of the fweeping Whirlwind's fway, "That, hufh'd in grim repofe, expects his evening-prey. II. 3. "Fill high the fparkling bowl, "The rich repaft prepare, Richard the Second, (as we are told by Archbishop Scroop, Thomas of Walfingham, and all the older Writers) was starved to death. The story of his affaffination by Sir Piers of Exon, is of much later date. Reft |