[Ill.u.s.tration: THE AVON AND STRATFORD CHURCH.]

III. 1.

Far from the sun and summer gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, 85 To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms and smil'd.

"This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: 90 Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy!

This can unlock the gates of joy; Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears."

III. 2.

Nor second He, that rode sublime 95 Upon the seraph wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of th' abyss to spy.

He pa.s.s'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, 100 He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Clos'd his eyes in endless night.

Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, 105 With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resounding pace.

III. 3.

Hark, his hands the lyre explore!

Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. 110 But ah! 'tis heard no more---- Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? Tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban eagle bear, 115 Sailing with supreme dominion Thro' the azure deep of air, Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun: 120 Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the Good how far--but far above the Great.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE BARD.

_A Pindaric Ode_.

I. 1.

"Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!

Confusion on thy banners wait; Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state.

Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, 5 Nor e'en 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, 10 As down the steep of Snowdon's s.h.a.ggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array.

Stout Gloster stood aghast in speechless trance: "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance.

I. 2.

On a rock whose haughty brow 15 Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Rob'd in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood (Loose his beard, and h.o.a.ry hair Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air), 20 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, 25 Revenge on thee in hoa.r.s.er 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; 30 Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed; Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.

On dreary Arvon's sh.o.r.e they lie, 35 Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail; The famish'd eagle screams, and pa.s.ses by.

Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, 40 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, 45 Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with b.l.o.o.d.y hands the tissue of thy line.

II. 1.

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race. 50 Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of h.e.l.l to trace.

Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall reecho with affright The shrieks of death thro' Berkeley'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 heaven. What terrors round him wait! 60 Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd, 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 65 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 noontide beam were born?

Gone to salute the rising morn. 70 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, 75 That, hush'd 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 80 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, 85 And thro' 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. 90 Above, below, the rose of snow, Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled boar in infant gore Wallows beneath the th.o.r.n.y shade.

Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, 95 Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE b.l.o.o.d.y TOWER.]

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.) 100 Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, 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 105 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! 110

III. 2.

"Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear.