Lyra Heroica Part 12

'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue That hushed 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-topt head.

On dreary Arvon's sh.o.r.e they lie Smeared with gore and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; The famished eagle screams, and pa.s.ses 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 grisly band, I see them sit; they linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with b.l.o.o.d.y hands the tissue of thy line.

'Weave the warp and weave the woof The winding-sheet of Edward's race: Give ample room and verge enough The characters of h.e.l.l to trace.

Mark the year and mark the night When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death through Berkeley's roof 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 hangs The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait!

Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

'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 noontide 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 hushed 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?

Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through 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, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the th.o.r.n.y shade.

Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, 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 unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track that fires the western skies They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 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!

'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: Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face Attempered 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-coloured wings.

'The verse adorn again Fierce War and faithful Love And Truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

In buskined 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, Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day?

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 a.s.sign: 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.

_Gray._

x.x.xIV

THE ROYAL GEORGE

Toll for the Brave!

The brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave Fast by their native sh.o.r.e!

Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds And she was overset; Down went the Royal George With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak, She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main:

But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.

_Cowper._

x.x.xV

BOADICEA

When the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought with an indignant mien Counsel of her country's G.o.ds,

Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, h.o.a.ry chief, Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief:

'Princess! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish,--write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish hopeless and abhorred, Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renowned, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground, Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!