THE BARD.

' To fave thy secret foul from nightly fears,
' From Cambria's curfe, from Cambria's tears!
Such were the founds that o'er the crefted pride
Of the firft Edward fatter'd wild difmay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's flaggy fide
He wound with toilfome march his long array.
Stout Glo'fter flood aghaft in fpeechleſs 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 fable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the Poet flood;
(Loofe 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 forrows of his lyre:

' Hark,