The Epode

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

O Lyre divine, what daring Spirit Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit

Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear Sailing with supreme dominion

Thro' the azure deep of air:

Yet oft before his infant eyes would run

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Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's 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.

The Antistrophe

On a rock, whose haughty brow

ΙΟ

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Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd

head.

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,

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 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,

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And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy

The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs 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 Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait!

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

The Antistrophe

"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.

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Sisters, hence with spurs of speed:

Each her thundering falchion wield; Each bestride her sable steed.

Hurry, hurry to the field.

WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759)

A SONG FROM SHAKESPEARE'S CYM

BELYNE

Sung by Guiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to be dead

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each op'ning 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 wither'd 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 ev'ning hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flow'rs,
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 ev'ry plain,

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ΤΟ

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By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung;

The tender thought on thee shall dwell,

Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed: Belov'd, till life could charm no more; And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.

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