insubordination has prevailed, as, perhaps, to afford in themselves the best commentary on the conduct of our countrymen on this trying occasion. On the fearful fate which would have awaited them had disorder and anarchy prevailed, and had the rein of discipline been loosened, it is unnecessary to dwell. There can be little doubt, however, that the presence of mind, calm decision, and judicious exertions of the gallant and energetic officer who commanded, contributed in an eminent degree to the accomplishment of a result so gratifying, in a national point of view, to all. THE BARD. GRAY. "Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail He wound with toilsome march his long array. "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couched his quiv'ring lance. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foamy 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 prophet's fire, "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 murmurs breathe ; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewellyn's lay. "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hushed the stormy main : Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head. Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, I see them sit; they linger yet, 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 shrieks of death through Berkeley's roof that ring— Shrieks of an agonising 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. "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 warrior fled ?— Thy son is gone: he rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born, Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes— Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey. "Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare! Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : Close by the regal chair, Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head! Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread : The bristled boar, in infant gore, Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom! "Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof!—The thread is spun !) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove!-The work is done!) Stay, oh, stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblest, unpitied, here to mourn !— But, oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height, Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! Sublime their starry fronts they rear; In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line! What strings symphonious tremble in the air! What strains of vocal transport round her play! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear! They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and, soaring as she sings, Waves in the eyes of Heaven her many-coloured wings. "The verse adorn again Fierce War and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dressed: Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire. Fond, impious man! think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me, with joy I see The different doom our fates assign : Be thine despair and sceptred care; To triumph and to die are mine!" He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height, |