Ev'ry shade and hallow'd fountain

Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,

Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,

And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.

When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,

They sought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

III. I.

Far from the sun and summer-gale,

In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,

To him the mighty Mother did unveil

Her awful face: The dauntless Child

Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.

"This pencil take," she said, "whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year:

Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy!
This can unlock the gates of Joy;

Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears."

III. 2.

Nor second he, that rode sublime
Upon the seraph wings of Ecstacy,
The secrets of the abyss to spy.

He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time:
The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze,

Where angels tremble, while they gaze,

He saw; but blasted with excess of light,

Closed his eyes in endless night.

Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car,

Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear

Two coursers of ethereal race,

With necks in thunder clothed, and long resounding

pace.

III. 3.

Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er

Scatters from her pictured urn

Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

But ah! 'tis heard no more

Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit

Wakes thee now? though he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban eagle bear,
Sailing with supreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air:
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run

Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun :

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate;

Beneath the good how far-but far above the great!

ODE VI.

THE BARD.

PINDARIC.

I. I.

"RUIN seize thee, ruthless King!

Confusion on thy banners wait!
Though, fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.

Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,

Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail

To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears !"
Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
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 quiv'ring
lance.

I. 2.

On a rock, whose haughty brow

Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,

Robed in the sabled 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 awful 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 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:

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,

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 cliff, 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, through 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.

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.

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.