Our church and laws, your common cause, On Evesham's plain, &c. Each righteous lord who braved the sword, With conscience pure shall aye endure, That martyr'd saint was never faint To ease the poor man's care; With gracious will he shall fulfil On Evesham's plain, &c. On Montfort's breast a hair-cloth vest With ruffian hand, the ruthless band And, to assuage their impious rage, His lifeless corpse defaced, Whose powerful arm long saved from harm On Evesham's plain, &c. Brave martyr'd chief! no more our grief For thee or thine shall flow; Among the bless'd in heaven ye rest 30 35 40 45 50 But, for the few, the gallant crew, Christ condescend their woes to end, 55 And break the tyrant's chain ! On Evesham's plain, &c. G. ELLIS. THE BARD (1283) A PINDARIC ODE Edward I in subduing Wales, which had supported Simon de Montfort, did his work thoroughly and ruthlessly, but at the same time made submission easy by granting a certain measure of local government. The massacre of the bards is legendary. 'RUIN seize thee, ruthless King! To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, 5 From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!' IO As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 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. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, With haggard eyes the Poet stood; Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air) 5. hauberk] coat of mail. 15 20 'Hark, how each giant oak and desert-cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, 25 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: Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit; They linger yet, With me in dreadful harmony they join, 30 35 40 45 And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. 'Weave the warp and weave the woof, Give ample room and verge enough Mark the year and mark the night When Severn shall re-echo with affright 50 The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring, 55 Shrieks of an agonizing king! 35. Arvon] Carnarvon. 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, 'Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford Is the sable warrior fled? 60 65 Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 70 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? 75 80 Long years of havock urge their destined course, 85 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, 90 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, 95 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: 100 But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 105 Descending slow their glittering 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! 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 What strings symphonious tremble in the air, |