A PINDARIC ODE.

* Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert-cave,

* Sigh to the torrent's awful voice beneath!

* O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms

* they wave,

* Revenge on thee in hoarfer murmurs breathe;

* Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

* To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewel-

* lyn'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 fong

* Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd

* head.

G 4

* On

98

THE BARD.

' On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
' Smear'd with gore, and ghaftly pale:
' Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens fail;
' The famith'd eagle fcreams, and paffes by.
' Dear loft companions of my tuneful art,
' Dear, as the light that vifits thefe fad eyes,
' Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
' Ye died amidft your dying country's cries—
' No more I weep. They do not fleep.
' On yonder cliffs, a grieffy band,
' I fee 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-sheet of Edward's race.

“ Give