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 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-topt 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. 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.
'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
�� �
