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Helm nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant ! shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears !
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 Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance :
“ To arms !” cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering

On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns 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
Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air,)
And with a master's hand and poet'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, O king, their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmers breathe ;
Vocal no more since Cambria's fatal day
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
Cold is Cadwollo's tongue,
That hushed the stormy main,
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed,
Mountains ! ye mourn in vain.

Modred, whose magic song
Made hugh 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.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
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 ;
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
Weave the warp and weave the woof,
The winding sheet of Edward's race;
Give ample scope and virge enough

The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year and mark the night
When Severn shall re-echo with affright
The shrieks of death through 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
The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him wait!
Amazement in his van, with flight combined,
And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.



Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Of me you shall not win renown; You thought to break a country heart

For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled

I saw the snare, and I retired : The daughter of a hundred Earls,

You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine,

Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break, for your sweet sake,

A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is,

I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love,

And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates

Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies ;

A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat

Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind,

She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door:

You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse,

To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare,

And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gard'ner and his wife

Smile at the claims of long descent.

Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

"Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets,

And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere:

You pine among your halls and towers:
The languid light of your proud eyes

Is wearied of the rolling hours.
In glowing health, with boundless wealth,

But sickening of a vague disease,
You know so ill to deal with time,

You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,

If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate,

Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read,

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew; Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go.


LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN—to the Highlands bound,

Cries, “ Boatman do not tarry ! And I'll give thee a silver pound,

To row us o'er the ferry."

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