For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

66 There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woful-wan; like one forlorn,

Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless_love.

"One morn I missed him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

"The next, with dirges due in sad array

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne:

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown;
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,

He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a
friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

THE BARD

(From Odes, 1757)

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,

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 stood aghast in speechless trance: "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring 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, oh King! their hundred arms they

wave,

Revenge on thee in hoarser

breathe;

murmurs

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 mourn in vain
Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,

Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof th' 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 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. 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, thro' Berkley'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 Heav'n. 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 Warriour 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.

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, 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

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 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.
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. 1.

"Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) Half of thy heart we consecrate.