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The living Throne, the saphire-blaze,
Hark, his hands the lyre explore !
The following Ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales,
that EDWARD the First, when he compleated the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bards, that fell into his hands, to be put to death.
Confusion banners wait, • Tho' fann'd by Conqueft'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 foul 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 fcatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilfome march his long array. Stout Gloster stood aghaft in speechless trance : To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance.
I, 2. 3
On a rock, whose haughty brow
Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath !
Vocal no more, since Cambria’s fatal day,
Mountains, ye mourn in vain
« Dear, as the light, that visits these fad eyes,
Ye died amidit your dying country's cries
No more I weep. They do not sleep. • On yonder cliffs, a griefly band, " I see them fit, 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.
~ 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. “ 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 ! " 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 combin'd, “ And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.
“ Mighty Victor, mighty Lord, " Low on his funeral couch he lies! “ No pitying heart, no eye afford
A wear to grace his obsequies,
" Is the sable Warriour fled ?
the din of battle bray,
Long Years of havock urge their destined course,
* Richard the Second, (as 'we are told by Archbishop Scroop, Thomas of Walsingham, and all the older Writers,) was farved to death. The fiory of his asasination by Sir Piers of Exon, is of much later date.