The Epode Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more O Lyre divine, what daring Spirit Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear Sailing with supreme dominion Thro' the azure deep of air: Yet oft before his infant eyes would run 5 Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing The Antistrophe On a rock, whose haughty brow ΙΟ 15 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, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, I see them sit, they linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, 35 40 45 And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring, Shrieks of an agonising 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 Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. The Antistrophe "Mighty Victor, mighty Lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! Is the sable Warriour fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead. 55 60 65 Sisters, hence with spurs of speed: Each her thundering falchion wield; Each bestride her sable steed. Hurry, hurry to the field. WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) A SONG FROM SHAKESPEARE'S CYM BELYNE Sung by Guiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to be dead To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each op'ning sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear, No wither'd witch shall here be seen, When howling winds, and beating rain, 5 ΤΟ 15 60 By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung; The tender thought on thee shall dwell, Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed: Belov'd, till life could charm no more; And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead. 20 |