Malvern Hills :: :: University of Virginia Library

“VENTUROUS Saxon! Tell me where
Edward, his proud falchion rears!
I have a song for him alone,
Which shall shake his reins on his iron throne.
Point thou the road
To thy King's abode,
Or I will call, with winged fears,
A thousand lightning-barbed spears,
One flash of which might, through the air,
Thy soul to the realms of Tophet bear.

II

Ah! 'tis Edward! Thou shalt know
Ere long the weight of Cambria's ire;

188

And, in thy last and great o'erthrow,
Whilst gallant men inflict the blow,
Crown'd with faded wreaths, expire.
Whilst mad furies dance,
No longer advance,
To the bleak hills, where Freedom sits laughing at Care,
Haste! Haste! Or, too late,
Thou shalt grapple with fate,
And leave to thy country disgrace and despair!

III

Edward! Edward! Back return,
Swifter than the passing ray;
A flaming cauldron now doth burn!
And my eyes devour the funeral urn,
Preparing for thy dying day!
Soon Arthur shall haste,
And, his country (laid waste)

189

Redeem from the Saxons, who vanquish'd retire;
Thou, Edward! shalt fly
At the glance of his eye,
And his sword, beaming vengeance, consume thee like fire.

IV

Arthur still doth being share,
Though none his warrior form may see;
Oft mid moonlight evening fair,
When the leaf hangs listless in the air,
He whispers solemn truths to me.
The moment hastes on;
The sun-beam hath shone
Of the morning, which lights him to glory anew;
The noon is at hand,
When from Cambria's land,
To destruction, his sword shall proud Edward pursue.

V

Other words, O Prince, attend!
Truths unwelcome thou must hear,
Before thy mortal course shall end,
And earth-worms hail their royal friend,
Crown'd, mid London, shall appear,

190

Like a ghost from his grave,
Llewellyn the brave,
Whilst crowds, thronging round, shall exult at the sight.
Fly! Fly! Or, too late,
Thou shalt grapple with fate,
And thy name, and thy glory, expire in night.