VI—­THE BARD.

  PINDARIC.

ADVERTISEMENT.—­The following ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward I., when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the bards that fell into his hands to be put to death.

  I.—­1.

    ’Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! 
      Confusion on thy banners wait;
    Though fann’d by Conquest’s crimson wing,
      They mock the air with idle state. 
    Helm nor hauberk’s[1] 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 scatter’d wild dismay,
      As down the steep of Snowdon’s shaggy side
        He wound with toilsome march his long array: 
      Stout Glo’ster[2] stood aghast in speechless trance: 
  To arms! cried Mortimer,[3] and couch’d 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 beard and hoary hair,
    Stream’d 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, O 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 hush’d the stormy main;
    Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: 
      Mountains! ye moan in vain
    Modrid, whose magic song
    Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp’d head. 
      On dreary Arvon’s shore[4] they lie,
    Smear’d with gore and ghastly pale;
    Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;
      The famish’d 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