I. 2.

On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Rob'd in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the Poet stood
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair
Stream'd like a meteor, to the troubled air),
And with a master's hand and Prophet's fire
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

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Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!

O'er thee, oh 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.

I. 3.

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

That hushed the stormy main :

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:

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Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'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,

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

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II. I.

"Weave the warp and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race:

Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace.

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Mark the year, and mark the night,

When Severn shall re-echo with affright

The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing king!

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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! 60 Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,

And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

II. 2..

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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 Warrior fled?

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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.

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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.

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II. 3.

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Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare,

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair

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Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray,

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havock urge their destin'd course, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed,

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

And spare the meek Usurper's holy head!
Above, below, the rose of snow,

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,
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

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?

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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!

No more our long-ost Arthur we bewail.

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

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III. 2.

“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 divine!

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line;
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

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

Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,

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

III. 3.

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I 20

That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, 135

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 DESERTED VILLAGE.

SWEET AUBURN! loveliest village of the plain;

Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

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Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,

Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

ΙΟ

The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day,

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When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,

The young contending as the old surveyed;

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And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;

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