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O, your sweet eyes, your low replies!
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 Verc 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 fixed a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth.
Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,
From yon blue heavens above us bent,
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
you, Clara Vere de Vere,
You pine among your halls and towers;
TRIAL BEFORE REWARD.
In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
You needs must play such pranks as these.
Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,
If time be heavy on your hands,
And let the foolish yeoman go.
TRIAL BEFORE REWARD. - Francis Quarles.
WHAT joyful harvester did e'er obtain
Above, or here below: and few men do
And, like hard masters, give more hard directions,
Wisdom, the antidote of sad despair,
Makes sharp afflictions seem not as they are,
Through patient sufferance; and doth apprehend,
Or stubborn heart, is but to disallow
The speedy means to health; salve heals no sore,
Best knows what's best for him, what 's best for me:
Howe'er, let me not boast, nor yet repine;
THE BARD.— Gray.
The following ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward the First, when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the bards that fell into his hands to be put to death.
"RUIN seize thee, ruthless king!
Confusion on thy banners wait!
Though fanned by conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
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
Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air),
"Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave,
To highborn Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
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-topped head! On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail ;
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
I see them sit! they linger yet,
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy lie!
"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Edward's race;
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall reëcho with affright
The shrieks of death through Berkeley's roofs that
Shrieks of an agonizing king!!
She-wolf of France,2 with unrelenting fangs,
Amazement in his van, with flight combined;
"Mighty victor, mighty lord,
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
Edward the Second, cruelly butchered in Berkeley castle. 2 Isabel of France, queen of Edward the Second.
3 Triumphs of Edward the Third in France.
Death of that king, abandoned by his children, and even
robbed in his last moments by his courtiers.