Na 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, "Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave, 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. 66 OLD is Cadwallo's tongue, That hushed the stormy main; Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : Mountains, ye mourn in vain. Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale : 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. |