Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, 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. 'Weave the warp and weave the woof When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring, She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs 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. 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: 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. Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof; The thread Half of thy heart we consecrate. spun ;) (The web is wove; The work is done ;) Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! '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, 'The verse adorn again Fierce War and faithful Love And Truth severe by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move 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 Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow 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. T. Gray CXXIV ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI How sleep the Brave who sink to rest By fairy hands their knell is rung, CXXV LAMENT FOR CULLODEN The lovely lass o' Inverness, Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, CXXVI LAMENT FOR FLODDEN I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning- At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching— At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border! We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking; CXXVII THE BRAES OF YARROW Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, |