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When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbows drew,
And on the French they flew,

Not one was tardy:
Arms were from shoulders sent;
Scalps to the teeth were rent;
Down the French peasants went;

Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,

As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.

“Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!

Confusion on thy banners wait;
Tho' 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.

Glo'ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,

With his brave brotherClarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another,

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)
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, O King! their hundred arms they wave,

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;

Warwick in blood did wade;
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up.

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II. 3.

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Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

Is the sable warrior fled
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.

The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were 1. 3.

born, “ Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

Gone to salute the rising morn. That hush'd the stormy main :

Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr

blows, Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed :

While proudly riding o'er the azure realm Mountains, ye mourn in vain

In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; Modred, whose magic song

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.

Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale;

That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail ;

prey. The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,

Fill high the sparkling bowl, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, The rich repast prepare, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast;

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — Close by the regal chair No more I weep. They do not sleep.

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. I see them sit, they linger yet,

Heard ye the din of battle bray, Avengers of their native land:

Lance to lance, and horse to horse With me in dreadful harmony they join,

Long years of havoc urge their destined And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their

way. “Weave the warp, and weave the woof,

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, The winding-sheet of Edward's race.

With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Give ample room, and verge enough

Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, The characters of hell to trace.

And spare the meek usurper's holy head. Mark the year, and mark the night,

Above, below, the rose of snow, When Severn shall re-echo with affright

Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread: The shrieks of death, thro' Berkeley's roof that The bristled Boar in infant-gore ring,

Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Shrieks of an agonizing king !

Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,

Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,

doom. From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs

III. 1. The scourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him

· Edward, lo! to sudden fate wait!

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd,

Half of thy heart we consecrate. And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

(The web is wove. The work is done.)

Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
II. 2.

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: “Mighty victor, mighty lord !

In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, Low on his funeral couch he lies !

They melt, they vanish from my eyes. No pitying heart, no eye, afford

But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height A tear to grace his obsequies.

Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll i

II. 1.

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!

III. 2.
* Girt with many a baron bold
Sublime their starry fronts they rear;
And

gorgeous dames, and statesınen old
In bearded majesty, appear.
In the midst a form divine !
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line:
Her lion-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 heaven her many-colored

wings.

The Capalier's Song.
A STEED! a steed of matchlesse speed,

A sword of metal keene !
All else to noble heartes is drosse,

All else on earth is meane.
The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde,

The rowlinge of the drum,
The clangor of the trumpet lowde,

Be soundes from heaven that come;
And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,

Whenas their war-cryes swell,
May tole from heaven an angel bright,

And rouse a fiend from hell.

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,

And don your helmes amaine;
Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, call

Us to the field againe.
No shrewish feares shall fill our eye

When the sword-hilt's in our hand-
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe

For the fayrest of the land;
Let piping swaine, and craven wight,

Thus weepe and puling crye;
Our business is like men to fight,
And hero-like to die!

WILLIAX MOTHERWELL.

III. 3.

Prince Eugene.

“ The verse adorn again

Fierce War, and faithful Love,
And Truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

In buskind measures move
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,
With Horror, 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, Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of

day 1 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.

Thomas GRAY.

PRINCE EUGENE, our noble leader,
Made a vow in death to bleed, or

Win the emperor back Belgrade : “ Launch pontoons, let all be ready To bear our ordnance safe and steady

Over the Danube" — thus he said.

There was mustering on the border
When our bridge in marching order

Breasted first the roaring stream; Then at Semlin, vengeance breathing, We encamped to scourge the heathen

Back to Mahound, and fame redeem.

'Twas on August one-and-twenty, Scouts and glorious tidings plenty

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