Author: Thomas Gray
Title: ‘The Bard: A Pindaric Ode’
Collection: Odes by Mr Gray
I.1.“Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!Confusion on thy banners wait,Tho’ fann’d by Conquest’s crimson wingThey mock the air with idle state.Helm, nor hauberk’s twisted mail,Nor even thy virtues, tyrant, shall availTo save thy secret soul from nightly fears,From Cambria’s curse, from Cambria’s tears!”Such were the sounds, that o’er the crested prideOf the first Edward scatter’d wild dismay,As down the steep of Snowdon’s shaggy sideHe 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 browFrowns o’er old Conway’s foaming flood,Rob’d in the sable garb of woe,With haggard eyes the poet stood;(Loose his beard, and hoary hairStream’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;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 vainModred, whose magic songMade 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 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:—II.1.“‘Weave the warp, and weave the woof,The winding sheet of Edward’s race.Give ample room, and verge enoughThe characters of hell to trace.Mark the year, and mark the night,When Severn shall re-echo with affrightThe 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 hangsThe scourge 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, affordA 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 realmIn 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.II.3.“‘Fill high the sparkling bowl,The rich repast prepare;Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast.Close by the regal chairFell Thirst and Famine scowlA baleful smile upon their baffled guest.Heard ye the din of battle bray,Lance to lance, and horse to horse?Long years of havoc urge their destin’d courseAnd 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-goreWallows beneath the thorny shade.Now, brothers, bending o’er th’ accursed loomStamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.III.1.“‘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, oh stay! nor thus forlornLeave 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 heightDescending slow their glitt’ring 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!III.2.“Girt with many a baron boldSublime their starry fronts they rear;And gorgeous dames, and statesmen oldIn 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 strings 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-colour’d wings.III.3.“The verse adorn againFierce War, and faithful Love,And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.In buskin’d measures movePale 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?To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,And warms the nations with redoubled ray.Enough for me: with joy I seeThe different doom our Fates assign.Be thine Despair, and scept’red Care,To triumph, and to die, are mine.”He spoke, and headlong from the mountain’s heightDeep in the roaring tide he plung’d to endless night.