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Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,

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Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail;

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 criesNo 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. I.

"Weave the warp and weave the woof,

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The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,

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Shrieks of an agonizing king!

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From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs

The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait!

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Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

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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,

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast :

Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

Heard ye the din of battle bray,

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Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havock urge their destin'd course,

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And spare the meek Usurper's holy head!

And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.

Ye towers of Julius,

With many a foul and

London's lasting shame,

Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame,

Above, below, the rose of snow,

midnight murther fed,

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Twin'd 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,

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Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

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III. I.

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, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn :

In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But oh what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.

All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail!

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What strains of vocal transport round her play,
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.

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Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,

Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings.

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A voice, as of the Cherub-Choir,

Gales from blooming Eden bear;

And distant warblings lessen on my car,

That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,

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Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd 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 scept'red Care;

To triumph and to die are mine."

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.

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GOLDSMITH.

THE TRAVELLER;

OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheld or wandering Po;
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lyes,
A weary waste expanding to the skies;
(Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend :
Blest be that spot where cheerful guests retire
To pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning fire:
Blest that abode where want and pain repair,
And every stranger finds a ready chair:
Blest be those feasts, with simple plenty crown'd,
Where all the ruddy family around

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Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,

Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;

Or press the bashful stranger to his food,

(And learn the luxury of doing good.\

But me, not destin'd such delights to share, My prime of life in wand'ring spent and care; Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue

Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view;

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