158* RULE BRITANNIA When Britain first at Heaven's command Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of her land, And guardian angels sung the strain: Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves. The nations not so blest as thee Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak. Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; And work their woe and thy renown. To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; The Muses, still with Freedom found, Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! James Thomson 159 THE BARD Pindaric Ode "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail He wound with toilsome march his long array:Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance. On a rock, whose haughty brow Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose, his beard and hoary hair Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air) "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. "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main; Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, On yonder cliffs, a griesly 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 room and verge 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 thro' Berkley's roof 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 scourage 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. 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 hush'd 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 havock urge their destined course, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: 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 unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height, Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail: All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail! "Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their starry fronts they rear; In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line, |