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 thy thorny shade. 
  Now, brothers, bending o’er th’ 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! 
  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: 
  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

  How the storm begins to lower,
  (Haste, the loom of hell prepare,)
  Iron-sleet of arrowy shower
  Hurtles in the darkened air.

  Glittering lances are the loom,
  Where the dusky warp we strain,
  Weaving many a soldier’s doom,
  Orkney’s woe, and Randver’s bane.