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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,
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, 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.

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THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR. LENOX AND

TILDEN FOUNDATIONS

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 :
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail :
The famished eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries!
No more I weep. They do not sleep.

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.

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