Helm nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant! shall avail 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,) Hark how each giant oak and desert cave To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. Cold is Cadwollo's tongue, That hushed the stormy main, Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed, Mountains! ye mourn in vain. Modred, whose magic song Made hugh Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale; Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail, The famished eagle screams and passes by. 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 shrieks of death through Berkley's roofs 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 scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. GRAY. LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. LADY Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown; Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break, for your sweet sake, A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, I could not stoop to such a mind. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown. Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies ; A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door: You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gard'ner and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, Kind hearts are more than coronets, I know you, Clara Vere de Vere: You pine among your halls and towers: You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew; Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go. TENNYSON. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound, And I'll give thee a silver pound, |