I. 1
|
‘Ruin seize thee,
ruthless king! |
Confusion on thy
banners wait, |
Though fanned by
Conquest’s crimson wing |
They mock the air with
idle state. |
Helm nor hauberk’s
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
scattered wild dismay, |
As down the steep of
Snowdon’s shaggy side |
He wound with toilsome
march his long array. |
Stout Gloucester stood
aghast in speechless trance: |
‘To arms! cried
Mortimer, and couched 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 bear and
hoary hair |
Streamed, 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, oh 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 hushed the stormy
main : |
Brave Urien sleeps
upon his craggy bed : |
Mountains, ye mourn in
vain |
Modred, whose magic
song |
Made huge Plinlimmon
bow his cloud-topped head, |
On dreary Arvon’s
shore they lie, |
Smeared with gore and
ghastly pale : |
Far, far aloof the
affrighted ravens sail; |
The famished 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 |
The shrieks of death,
through Berkeley’s roofs that ring, |
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! |
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 warrior
fled? |
Thy son is gone. He
rests among the dead. |
The swarm that in thy
noon-tide 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.
|
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, |
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 the 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? |
Tomorrow 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.
|
Thomas Gray |
Classic Poems |
|
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