II. 3

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,

Isles, that crown the Ægean° deep,
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Mæander's amber waves°

In lingering labyrinths creep,
How do your tuneful echoes languish,o
Mute, but to the voice of anguish!

Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breathed around:
Every shade and hallowed fountain
Murmured deep a solemn sound:
Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,

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75

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Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled

Far from the sun and summer-gale,
In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon strayed,

85

To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretched forth his little arms and smiled. "This pencil take, (she said,) whose colors clear Richly paint the vernal year:

90

Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy!
This can unlock the gates of joy;
Of horror that, and thrilling fears,

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears."

III. 2

Nor second He, that rode sublime

Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,
The secrets of the abyss to spy.

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He passed the flaming bounds of place and time:

The living throne, the sapphire blaze,°

Where angels tremble while they gaze,
He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,

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Closed his eyes in endless night.

Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car,

Wide o'er the fields of glory bear

Two coursers of ethereal race,°

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With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding

pace.

III. 3

Hark, his hands the lyre explore!

Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,

Scatters from her pictured urn

Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.° 110
But ah! 'tis heard no more°

Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit
Wakes thee now? Though he inherit

Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban eagle bear,o
Sailing with supreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air:
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray,
With orient hues, unborrowed of the sun:
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way°
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,

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Beneath the Good how far - but far above the Great.

THE BARD°
I. 1

"RUIN seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait;
Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.°
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,°
Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail

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10

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 scattered 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 couched his

1. 2

On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er cold Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the poet stood;
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair

:

15

Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air,) 20 And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

"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;

24

Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.o

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;
The famished eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,

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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 line.

II. 1

"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 reëcho with affright

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The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roof that

ring,

Shrieks of an agonizing king°!

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tearest the bowels of thy mangled mate,

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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.

II. 2

"Mighty victor, mighty lord!

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Low on his funeral couch he lies

.