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 even thy virtues,
tyrant, shall avail |
| 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 Gloucester stood
aghast in speechless trance: |
‘To arms! cried
Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance.
|
I. 2
|
| On a rock, whose
haughty brow |
| Frowns o’er old
Conway’s foaming flood, |
| Robed in the sable
garb of woe, |
| With haggard eyes the
Poet stood; |
| (Loose his bear and
hoary hair |
| Streamed, like a
meteor, to the troubled air) |
| 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; |
| 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 : |
| Mountains, ye mourn in
vain |
| Modred, whose magic
song |
| Made huge Plinlimmon
bow his cloud-topped 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, |
| 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
grisly 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.
|
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
re-echo with affright |
| The shrieks of death,
through Berkeley’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 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, |
| Low on his funeral
couch he lies! |
| No pitying heart, no
eye, afford |
| A tear to grace his
obsequies. |
| Is the sable warrior
fled? |
| Thy son is gone. He
rests among the dead. |
| The swarm that in thy
noon-tide beam were born? |
| Gone to salute the
rising morn. |
| 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, 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, |
| Lance to lance and
horse to horse? |
| Long years of havoc
urge their destined course, |
| And through the
kindred squadrons mow their way. |
| Ye Towers of Julius,
London’s lasting shame, |
| With many a foul and
midnight murther 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. |
| Now, brothers, bending
o’er the accursed loom, |
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.)" |
| Stay, oh stay! nor
thus forlorn |
| Leave me unblessed,
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
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. |
All-hail, ye genuine
kings, Britannia’s issue, hail!
|
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, |
| Attempered 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
heaven her many-coloured wings.
|
III. 3
|
| ‘The verse adorn again |
| Fierce war and
faithful love, |
| And truth severe, by
fairy fiction dressed. |
| In buskined measures
move |
| Pale Grief and
pleasing Pain, |
| With Horror, tyrant of
the throbbing breast. |
| 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. |
| Fond impious man,
think’st thou yon sanguine cloud, |
| Raised by thy breath,
has quenched the orb of day? |
| Tomorrow 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
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.
|
| Thomas Gray |
Classic Poems |
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