THE BARD1 A PINDARIC ODE I Strophe "RUIN seize thee, ruthless King! Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing 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, To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance. Antistrophe On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, With haggard eyes the Poet stood (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air) "Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave, O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 1 Founded on the tradition that Edward I, having conquered Wales, ordered that the bards be put to death. Epode "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main; Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: 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 Strophe "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 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, 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. Antistrophe "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, 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. Epode "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 destin'd course, Twin'd 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 Strophe 66 6 '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 unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn! But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul! All-hail, ye genuine Kings, Britannia's Issue, hail! Antistrophe "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; What strings symphonious tremble in the air, 1 A noted Welsh bard of the 6th century. Epode "The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, Tyrant of the throbbing breast. 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, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. The different doom our Fates assign. He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. OLIVER GOLDSMITH [1728-1774] SONG WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, |