No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. 65 Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; 70 75 Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey. II. 3 "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,o Lance to lance, and horse to horse? 80 Long years of havoc urge their destined course, 85 And through 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, 。 90 10 The bristled boaro in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, 95 Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. III. 1 "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.) 100 Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn: They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 105 Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 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°; 115 Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, What strains of vocal transport round her play! 121 Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; III. 3 "The verse adorn again 125 Fierce war, and faithful love,o And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. In buskined measures move Pale grief, and pleasing pain, A voice, as of the cherub-choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear; And distant warblings lessen on my ear,° That lost in long futurity expire. 130 Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quenched 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. 136 140 Be thine despair, and sceptred care, To triumph, and to die, are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. THE FATAL SISTERS° AN ODE. FROM THE NORSE TONGUE Now the storm begins to lower, Glittering lances are the loom, See the griesly texture grow! ('Tis of human entrails made,) And the weights, that play below, Each a gasping warrior's head. Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore, 5 10 15 Mista, black terrific maid, Sangrida, and Hilda, see,° Join the wayward work to aid: 'Tis the woof of victory. Ere the ruddy sun be set, Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, Blade with clattering buckler meet, Hauberk crash, and helmet ring. (Weave the crimson web of war) As the paths of fate we tread, We the reins to slaughter give, They, whom once the desert-beach° 20 25 30 35 40 |