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 cold 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); "Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave, 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: Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, 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. II. I. "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. II. 2. 66 '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. Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm |