8.

The Muses, still with Freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd
And manly hearts to guard the fair :-
Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves !
Britons never shall be slaves!

THE BARD

Pindaric Ode

'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,

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J. Thomson

CLIX.

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,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side

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He wound with toilsome march his long array :— Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance;

'To arms !' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance.

15

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 murmurs breathe;

Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

'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-topt head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie
Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof the 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,

335

40

I see them sit; They linger yet,

45

Avengers of their native land:

With me in dreadful harmony they join,

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

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.

50

Mark the year, and mark the night,

When Severn shall re-echo with affright

The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof 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!

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.

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 hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.

'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 havock 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 murder 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:

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

The bristled boar in infant-gore

Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom,

95

Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

'Edward, lo! to sudden fate

Half of thy heart we consecrate.

(The web is wove; The work is done.)

(Weave we the woof; The thread is spun ;)

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.

Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,

But oh what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height

105

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

'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:

115

Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play?

120

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-colour'd wings.

Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud

135

Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?

To-morrow he repairs the golden flood

-He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

10.

11.

There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

LAMENT FOR CULLODEN

The lovely lass'o' Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ;
For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!
And aye the saut tear blins her ee:
Drumossie moor-Drumossie day-
A waefu' day it was to me!
For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding-sheet in the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see:
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman's ee!
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be ;

For mony a heart thou hast made sair
That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.

W. Collins

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CLXI.

5

10

15

R. Burns

CLXII.

LAMENT FOR FLODDEN

I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day ;

But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae ;

Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;

At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

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