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Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance : “To arms !” cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiy
On a rock, whose haughty brow
Robed in the sable garb of woe,
“ 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;
"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hush'd the stormy main :
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 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 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.
“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 roof 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.
“Mighty victor, mighty lord ! Low on his funeral couch he lies !
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
Is the sable warrior fled ?
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm