80 GRAY
XXXIII
THE BARD
'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 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 quiver- ing lance.
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 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, O King! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
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