 | The poems (1969) |  |
183
I.
1
‘Ruin seize thee, ruthless king!‘Confusion on thy banners wait,
‘Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing
‘They mock the air with idle state.
‘Helm nor hauberk's twisted mail,
‘Nor even thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail
‘To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
184
Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Gloucester stood aghast in speechless trance:
‘To arms!’, cried Mortimer and couched his quivering lance.
185
2
On a rock, whose haughty browFrowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the poet stood;
(Loose his beard and hoary hair
186
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, oh 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.
3
‘Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,‘That hushed the stormy main:
187
‘Mountains, ye mourn in vain
‘Modred, whose magic song
‘Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head.
‘On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
‘Smeared with gore and ghastly pale:
‘Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;
‘The famished eagle screams and passes by.
188
‘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;
189
‘And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.’
| The poems (1969) | |