The following Ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that EDWARD the First, when he compleated the conqueft of that country, ordered all the Bards, that fell into his bands, to be put to death..

R

I. 1.

UIN feize thee, ruthless King!

Confufion on thy banners wait,

Though fann'd by Conqueft's crimson wing

They mock the air with idle ftaté.

'Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, fhall avait que T To save thy fecret foul from nightly fears,

• From Cambria's curfe, from Cambria's tears!
Such were the founds, that o'er the crefted pride
Of the firft Edward fcatter'd wild difmay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's fhaggy fide
He wound with toilfome march his long array.

Stout

Stout Glofter stood aghaft in fpeechless trance: Toarms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiy'ring lance. 1.2

On a rock, whose haughty browĩ i dinà Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, i Robed in the fable garb of woe,

With haggard eyes the Poet ftood;

(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 forrows of his lyre.h dù muda q 'Hark, how each giant-oak, and defart cave, 'Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath! "O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser numbers breathe;

• Vocal no more, fince Cambria's fatal day.

* ་་

"To high-born Hoel's harp, or foft Llewellyn's lay.

Cold is Cadwalla's tongue,

'That hush'd the ftormy mainos nov odi dict 'Brave Urien fleeps upon his craggy bed:

6

Mountains, ye mourn in vainu

Modred, whofe magic fong

"Made huge Plinliinmon bow his cloud-top'd head,

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On

'On dreary Arvon's coaft they lie,
Smear'd with gore, and ghaftly pale:
'Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens fail;
The famish'd Eagle fcreams, and paffes by.
• Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,

Dear, as the light, that vifits these fad 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 griefly band,

"I see them fit, they linger yet,

Avengers of their native land:

'With me in dreadful harmony they join,

• And weave with bloody hands the tiffue of thy line. II. I.

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
"The winding-fheet 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 fhall re-echo with affright

"The fhrieks of death, through Berkley's roofs that ring,

"Shrieks of an agonizing King!

"She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,

་ That tear'ft the bowels of thy mangled Mate,

"From

"From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs "The fcourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait! "Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd,

"And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. II. 2.

Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,

"Low on his funeral couch he lies!

"No pitying heart, no eye afford "A tear to grace his obfequies.

"Is the fable Warriour fled?

"Thy fon is gone. He refts
gone. He refts among the Dead.

"The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born,

"Gone to falute the rifing Morn.

"Fair laughs the Morn, and foft the Zephyr blows, "While proudly riding o'er the azure realm "In gallant trim the gilded Veffel goes;

"Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; "Regardless of the fweeping Whirlwind's fway, "That, hufh'd in grim repose, expects his evening-prey. II. 3.

"* Fill high the sparkling bowl,

"The rich repast prepare,

Richard the Second, (as we are told by Archbishop Scroop, -Thomas of Walfingham, and all the older Writers) was ftarved to death. The story of his affaffination by Sir Piers of Exon, is of much later date.

Reft

"Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast :

"Close by the regal chair,

"Fell Thirft and Famine fcowl

"A baleful fmile upon their baffled Guest, "Heard ye the din of battle bray,

"Lance to lance, and horfe to horse?

"Long Years of havoc urge their deftin'd course, "And through the kindred fquadrons mow their way. "Ye Towers of Julius, London's lafting fhame, "With many a foul and midnight murther fed,! "Revere his Confort's faith, his Father's fame, "And fpare the meek Ufurper's holy head. "Above, below, the rofé of fnow, get "Twined with her blufhing foe, we spread: "The briftled Boar in infant-gorer dry sit V "Wallows beneath the thorny fhade.

Now Brothers, bending o'er th' accurfed loom," Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

"Edward, lo! to fudden fate

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun)