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II. 2. “Mighty victor, mighty lord ! Low on bis funeral couch he lies!

No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the sable warrior fed ? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,

While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 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 ev'ning prey.

II. 3. “Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare,

Ver. 64. Low on his funeral couch he lies] Death of that king, abandoned by his children, and even robbed in his last moments by his courtiers and his mistress.

Ver. 67. Is the sable warrior fled] Edward the Black Prince, dead some time before his father.

Ver. 71. Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows] Magnificence of Richard the Second's reign. See Froissart, and other contemporary writers.

Ver. 77. Fill high the sparkling bowl] Richard the Second, as we are told by Archbishop Scroop and the confederate Lords in their manifesto, by Thomas of Walsingham, and all the older writers, was starved to death. The story of his assassination, by Sir Piers of Exon, is of much later date.

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 destin'd 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. Abore, below, the rose of snow,

Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread :

Ver. 83. Heard ye the din of battle bray] Ruinous wars of York and Lancaster. Ver. 87. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,

With many a foul and midnight murder fed] Henry the Sixth, George Duke of Clarence, Edward the Fifth, Richard Duke of York, &c. believed to be murdered secretly in the Tower of London. The oldest part of that structure is valgarly attributed to Julius Cæsar.

Ver. 89. Revere his consort's faith] Margaret of Anjou, a woman of heroic spirit, who struggled hard to save her husband and her crown.

Ibid. his father's fame] Henry the Fifth.

Ver. 90. And spare the meek usurper's holy head] Henry the Sixth, very near being canonized. The line of Lancaster had no right of inheritance to the crown.

Ver. 91. Above, below, the rose of snow] The white and red roses, devices of York and Lancaster.

The bristled boar in infapt-gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom,
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

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III. 1.
" 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:
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height

Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!

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!

Ver. 93. The bristled boar in infant-gore] The silver boar was the badge of Richard the Third; whence he was usually known in his own time by the name of the Boar.

Ver. 99. Half of thy heart we consecrate] Eleanor of Castile died a few years after the conquest of Wales. The heroic proof she gave of her affection for her lord is well-known. The monuments of his regret and sorrow for the loss of her, are still to be seen at Northampton, Gaddington, Waltham, and other places.

Ver. 109. No more our long-lost Arthur we hewail] It was the common belief of the Welsh nation, that King Arthur was

III. 2.

“ Girt with many a baron bold Subļime their starry fronts thy rear ;

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old
In bearded majesty, appear.
In the midst a form divine!
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line;
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.
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 eye of heav'n her many-colour'd wings.


still alive in Fairyland, and would return again to reign over Britain.

Ver. 110. All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail] Both Merlin and Taliessin bad prophesied, that the Welsh should regain their sovereignty over this island; which seemed to be accomplished in the house of Tudor.

Ver. 117. Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face] Speed, relating an audience given by Queen Elizabeth to Paul Dzialioski, ambassador of Poland, says, And thus she, lion-like rising, daunted the malapert orator no less with her stately port and majestical deporture, than with the tartnesse of her princelie checkes.”

Ver. 121. Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear] Taliessin, chief of the bards, flourished in the sixth century. His works are still preserved, and his memory held in high veneration among his countrymen.


III. 3. “ The verse adorn again

“Fierce war, and faithful love,
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

In buskin'd measures move
Pale grief, and pleasing pain,
With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

A voice, as of the cherub-choir,
Gales from blooming Eden bear;
And distànt warblings lessen on my ear,

That lost in long futurity expire.
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,

Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: with joy I see

The diff'rent 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 Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.

Ver. 128. In buskin'd measures move.

se.] SAAKSPEARE. Ver. 131. A voice, as of the cherub-choir.) Milton.

Ver. 133. And distant warblings lessen on my ear] The subcession of poets after Milton's time.

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