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 aweful 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 Hoels 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-topp'd head.

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smeard 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 criesNo more I weep. They do not sleep.

On yonder cliffs, a griesly 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 roofs that ring,


Shrieks of an agonising 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 warriour 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 murther 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 accursèd loom,
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

"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, O 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.
But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height

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

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 !

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 :
Her lyon-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.
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 Heav'n her many-colourd wings.

“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 Horrour, Tyrant of the throbbing breast.
A voice as of the Cherub-Choir

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.



WHERE shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden's breast,

Parted for ever?
Where, through groves deep and high,

Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die,

Under the willow.


Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,

Cool streams are laving ;
There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving ;
There, thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,
Never again to wake,

Never, O never !


Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never !

Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden's breast,

Ruin, and leave her ?

In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying.


Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the eagle flap

O’er the false-hearted ;
His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

Ere life be parted.
Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever ;
Blessing shall hallow it,-

Never, O never !


Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never !


Kinmont Willie

O HAVE ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde?

O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroope ? How they hae ta'en bauld Kinmont Willie,

On Hairibee to hang him up?

Had Willie had but twenty men,

But twenty men as stout as he,
Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en,

Wi' eight score in his cumpanie.
They band his legs beneath the steed,

They tied his hands behind his back ; They guarded him, fivesome on each side,

And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack. They led him thro' the Liddel-rack,

And also thro' the Carlisle sands; They brought him on to Carlisle castell,

To be at my Lord Scroope's commands.

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