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LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE.
O, 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,
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,
blue heavens above us bent, The gardener Adam and his wife
Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
'T is only noble to be good ; Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.
I know you, Clara Vere de Vere,
You pine among your halls and towers ; The languid light of your proud eyes
Is wearied of the rolling hours.
In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease,
You needs must play such pranks as these.
Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,
If time be heavy on your hands,
Nor any poor about your lands ?
Or teach the orphan-girl to sew,
And let the foolish yeoman go.
TRIAL BEFORE REWARD. — Francis Quarles.
What joyful harvester did e'er obtain
Through patient sufferance; and doth apprehend,
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 !
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 (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, O king, their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To highborn 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-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. 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,
“ 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 reëcho with affright The shrieks of death through Berkeley'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 ! 3
Mighty victor, mighty lord,
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.
4 Death of that king, abandoned by his children, and even robbed in his last moments by his courtiers.