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Ye died amidst your dying country's cries-
I see them sit; they linger yet,
"Weave the warp and weave the woof,
Give ample room and verge enough
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.
"Mighty victor, mighty lord!
Low on his funeral couch he lies:
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
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
Thy son is gone; he rests among the dead.
Fair laughs the morn and soft the zephyr blows,
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.
"Fill high the sparkling bowl,
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
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?
And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murther fed,
Above, below, the rose of snow,
"Edward, lo! to sudden fate
(Weave we the woof: the thread is spun)
(The web is wove. The work is done.)
Leave me unblest, unpitied, here to mourn!
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height,
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
"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!
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
"The verse adorn again
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
Pale Grief and Pleasing Pain,
With Horrour, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
And distant warblings lessen on my ear,
That, lost in long futurity, expire.
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,
And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
The different doom our Fates assign:
Be thine Despair and sceptred Care;
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE
Now the golden Morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing;
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground,