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 hush'd the stormy main : Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale: The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. 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, With me in dreadful harmony they join, 30 35 40 45 And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.' "Weave the warp and weave the woof, Mark the year and mark the night 50 The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roofs that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing king! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, 56 From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. 66 Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! 60 No pitying heart, no eye, afford Is the sable warrior fled ? 65 Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 70 Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm : Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, 75 That, hush'din 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. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? 80 Long years of havoc urge their destined 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, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread The bristled boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 84 90 94 Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. "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 unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn : 100 In yon bright track that fires the western skies 104 But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, 109 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 ! 'Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line : 115 121 What strings symphonious tremble in the air, wings. That lost in long futurity expire. 134 Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud Raised 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 : 140 Be thine Despair and sceptred Care; -He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. T. GRAY. 124 ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI How sleep the Brave who sink to rest By fairy hands their knell is rung, To dwell, a weeping hermit, there! W. COLLINS. 9 125 LAMENT FOR CULLODEN The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; My father dear, and brethren three. Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves are growing green to see : 5 10 And by them lies the dearest lad A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 126 R. BURNS. LAMENT FOR FLODDEN I've heard them lilting at the ewe-milking, 15 But now they are moaning on ilka green loaningThe Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; 5 Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. 10 In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the fore most, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. J. ELLIOT. 19 |