65 Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 70 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; 75 Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 80 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: 85 For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 90 This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, 95 If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 100 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 105 "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 110 Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woful-wan; like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: "The next, with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne: 115 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 120 THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a 125 No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. THE BARD (From Odes, 1757) I. 1. "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. 5 Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail, Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail 10 To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride 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. 15 20 I. 2. On a rock, whose haughty brow With haggard eyes the Poet stood; 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! 25 O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser breathe; murmurs Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay." 30 35 40 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 Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head. The famish'd Eagle screams, and passes by. 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, 45 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, 50 The winding-sheet of Edward's race. Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, 55 The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing 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 60 The scourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait! 65 Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, II. 2. "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 Warriour fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead. The Swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born? 70 Gone to salute the rising Morn. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows, |