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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,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

II. I

"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

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 Warriour fled?

The shrieks of death through Berkley's roofs that ring, 55 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 Heav'n: what terrors round him

wait!

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Thy son is gone; he rests among the dead.
The swarm that in thy noontide 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.

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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,

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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 th' accursed loom,
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom!

III. I

"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 unblest, 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 glitt'ring 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!

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III. 2

"Girt with many a baron bold,

Sublime their starry fronts they rear;

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old

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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 Heav'n her many-coloured wings.

III. 3

"The verse adorn again
Fierce War and faithful Love

And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
In buskined measures move

Pale Grief and Pleasing Pain,

With Horrour, 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.

1754-57.

1757.

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ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE

Now the golden Morn aloft

Waves her dew-bespangled wing;
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
She wooes the tardy Spring;

Till April starts, and calls around

The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
And lightly o'er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.

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