Complete Works of Thomas Gray Read online

  And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

  II. — 1.

  “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

  The shrieks of death through 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 Heaven. What terrors round him wait!

  Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,

  And Sorrow’s faded form, and Solitude behind.

  II. — 2.

  “Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,

  Low on his funeral couch he lies!

  No pitying heart, no eye afford

  A tear to grace his obsequies!

  Is the sable warrior fled?

  Thy son is gone; he rests among the dead.

  The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born,

  Gone to salute the rising morn:

  Fair laughs the morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,

  While, proudly riding o’er the azure realm,

  In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes,

  Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm,

  Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway,

  That, hush’d in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

  II. — 3.

  “Fill high the sparkling bowl,

  The rich repast prepare;

  Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast.

  Close by the regal chair

  Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

  A baleful smile upon the baffled guest.

  Heard ye the din of battle bray,

  Lance to lance and horse to horse?

  Long years of havoc urge their destined course,

  And through the kindred squadrons mow their way;

  Ye Towers of Julius! London’s lasting shame,

  With many a foul and midnight murder fed,

  Revere his consort’s faith, his father’s fame,

  And spare the meek usurper’s holy head.

  Above, below, the Rose of snow,

  Twined with her blushing foe, we spread;

  The bristled Boar in infant gore

  Wallows beneath the thorny shade;

  Now, Brothers! bending o’er the accursed loom,

  Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

  III. — I.

  “Edward, lo! to sudden fate

  (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun:)

  Half of thy heart we consecrate;

  (The web is wove; the work is done.”)

  ‘Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

  Leave me unbless’d, unpitied, here to mourn,

  In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,

  They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

  But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon’s height,

  Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll!

  Visions of glory! spare my aching sight!

  Ye unborn ages crowd not on my soul!

  No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:

  All hail, ye genuine Kings! Britannia’s issue, hail!

  III. — 2.

  ‘Girt with many a baron bold,

  Sublime their starry fronts they rear;

  And gorgeous dames and statesmen old

  In bearded majesty appear;

  In the midst a form divine,

  Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line,

  Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,

  Attemper’d sweet to virgin-grace.

  What strings symphonious tremble in the air!

  What strains of vocal transport round her play!

  Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear!

  They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.

  Bright Rapture calls, and, soaring as she sings,

  Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour’d wings.

  III. — 3.

  ‘The verse adorn again,

  Fierce War and faithful Love,

  And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dress’d.

  In buskin’d measures move

  Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,

  With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

  A voice as of the cherub-choir

  Gales from blooming Eden bear,

  And distant warblings lessen on my ear,

  That lost in long futurity expire.

  Fond, impious man! think’st thou yon sanguine cloud,

  Raised by thy breath, has quench’d the orb of day?

  To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

  And warms the nations with redoubled ray.

  Enough for me: with joy I see

  The different doom our Fates assign;

  Be thine despair and sceptred care;

  To triumph and to die are mine.’

  He spoke, and headlong from the mountain’s height,

  Deep in the roaring tide, he plunged to endless night.

  THE FATAL SISTERS.

  AN ODE,

  (FROM THE NORSE TONGUE,)

  In the Orcades of Thormodus Torfseus; Hafniae, 1697, folio; and also in Bartholinus.

  Advertisement. — The Author once had thoughts (in concert with a Friend) of giving the History of English Poetry. In the Introduction to it he meant to have produced some specimens of the Style that reigned in ancient times among the neighbouring nations, or those who had subdued the greater part of this Island, and were our Progenitors; the following three Imitations made a part of them. He has long since dropped his design, especially after he heard, that it was already in the hands of a Person well qualified to do it justice, both by his taste, and his researches into antiquity. — Gray, 1768.

  Preface. — In the Eleventh Century, Sigurd, Earl of the Orkney-Islands, went with a fleet of ships and a considerable body of troops into Ireland, to the assistance of Sictryg with the silken beard, who was then making war on his father-in-law Brian, king of Dublin; the Earl and all his forces were cut to pieces, and Sictryg was in danger of a total defeat; but the enemy had a greater loss by the death of Brian their king, who fell in the action. On Christmas Day (the day of the battle), a Native of Caithness in Scotland saw at a distance a number of persons on horseback riding full speed towards a hill, and seeming to enter into it. Curiosity led him to follow them, till looking through an opening in the rocks, he saw twelve gigantic figures resembling women; they were all employed about a loom; and as they wove, they sung the following dreadful Song; which, when they had finished, they tore the web into twelve pieces, and (each taking her portion) galloped six to the North, and as many to the South. — Gray, 1768.

  Now the storm begins to lower

  (Haste, the loom of Hell prepare,)

  Iron-sleet of arrowy shower

  Hurtles in the darkened air.

  Glitt’ring lances are the loom,

  Where the dusky warp we strain,

  Weaving many a soldier’s doom,

  Orkney’s woe, and Randver’s bane.

  See the grisly texture grow,

  (’Tis of human entrails made)

  And the weights, that play below,

  Each a gasping warrior’s head.

  Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore,

  Shoot the trembling cords along.

  Sword, that once a monarch bore,

  Keep the tissue close and strong.

  Mista black, terrific maid,

  Sangrida, and Hilda, see,

  Join the wayward work to aid;

  ’Tis the woof of victory.

  Ere the ruddy sun be set,

  Pikes must shiver, javelins sing,

  Blade with clattering buckler meet,

/>   Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.

  (Weave the crimson web of war)

  Let us go, and let us fly,

  Where our friends the conflict share,

  Where they triumph, where they die.

  As the paths of fate we tread,

  Wading through th’ ensanguined field;

  Gondula, and Geira, spread

  O’er the youthful King your shield.

  We the reins to slaughter give,

  Ours to kill, and ours to spare;

  Spite of danger he shall live.

  (Weave the crimson web of war.)

  They, whom once the desert beach

  Pent within its bleak domain,

  Soon their ample sway shall stretch

  O’er the plenty of the plain.

  Low the dauntless Earl is laid,

  Gored with many a gaping wound;

  Fate demands a nobler head;

  Soon a King shall bite the ground.

  Long his loss shall Eirin weep,

  Ne’er again his likeness see;

  Long her strains in sorrow steep,

  Strains of immortality!

  Horror covers all the heath,

  Clouds of carnage blot the sun.

  Sisters, weave the web of death;

  Sisters, cease, the work is done.

  Hail the task, and hail the hands!

  Songs of joy and triumph sing

  Joy to the victorious bands;

  Triumph to the younger King.

  Mortal, thou that hear’st the tale,

  Learn the tenor of our song.

  Scotland, thro’ each winding vale

  Far and wide the notes prolong.

  Sisters, hence with spurs of speed;

  Each her thundering faulchion wield;

  Each bestride her sable steed.

  Hurry, hurry to the field.

  THE DESCENT OF ODIN.

  AN ODE FROM THE NORSE TONGUE

  Uprose the King of Men with speed,

  And saddled straight his coal-black steed;

  Down the yawning steep he rode

  That leads to Hela’s drear abode.

  Him the Dog of Darkness spied;

  His shaggy throat he open’d wide,

  While from his jaws, with carnage fill’d,

  Foam and human gore distill’d:

  Hoarse he bays with hideous din,

  Eyes that glow and fangs that grin, 10

  And long pursues with fruitless yell

  The Father of the powerful spell.

  Onward still his way he takes,

  — The groaning earth beneath him shakes, —

  Till full before his fearless eyes

  The portals nine of Hell arise.

  Right against the eastern gate,

  By the moss-grown pile he sate,

  Where long of yore to sleep was laid

  The dust of the prophetic maid. 20

  Facing to the northern clime,

  Thrice he traced the Runic rhyme,

  Thrice pronounced, in accents dread,

  The thrilling verse that wakes the dead,

  Till from out the hollow ground

  Slowly breathed a sullen sound.

  Proph. What call unknown, what charms presume

  To break the quiet of the tomb?

  Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite,

  And drags me from the realms of Night? 30

  Long on these mouldering bones have beat

  The winter’s snow, the summer’s heat,

  The drenching dews and driving rain!

  Let me, let me sleep again.

  Who is he, with voice unblest,

  That calls me from the bed of rest?

  Odin. A traveller, to thee unknown,

  Is he that calls, a warrior’s son.

  Thou the deeds of light shalt know;

  Tell me what is done below, 40

  For whom yon glittering board is spread;

  Dress’d for whom yon golden bed?

  Proph. Mantling in the goblet see

  The pure beverage of the bee,

  O’er it hangs the shield of gold;

  ’Tis the drink of Balder bold:

  Balder’s head to death is given;

  Pain can reach the sons of Heaven!

  Unwilling I my lips unclose;

  Leave me, leave me to repose. 50

  Odin. Once again my call obey:

  Prophetess! arise, and say,

  What dangers Odin’s child await,

  Who the author of his fate?

  Proph. In Hoder’s hand the hero’s doom;

  His brother sends him to the tomb.

  Now my weary lips I close;

  Leave me, leave me to repose.

  Odin. Prophetess! my spell obey;

  Once again arise, and say, 60

  Who the avenger of his guilt,

  By whom shall Hoder’s blood be spilt?

  Proph. In the caverns of the west,

  By Odin’s fierce embrace compress’d,

  A wondrous boy shall Rinda bear,

  Who ne’er shall comb his raven hair,

  Nor wash his visage in the stream,

  Nor see the sun’s departing beam,

  Till he on Hoder’s corse shall smile,

  Flaming on the funeral pile. 70

  Now my weary lips I close;

  Leave me, leave me to repose.

  Odin. Yet a while my call obey:

  Prophetess! awake, and say,

  What virgins these, in speechless woe,

  That bend to earth their solemn brow,

  That their flaxen tresses tear,

  And snowy veils that float in air?

  Tell we whence their sorrows rose,

  Then I leave thee to repose. 80

  Proph. Ha! no traveller art thou;

  King of Men, I know thee now;

  Mightiest of a mighty line —

  Odin. No boding maid of skill divine

  Art thou, no prophetess of good,

  But mother of the giant-brood!

  Proph. Hie thee hence, and boast at home,

  That never shall inquirer come

  To break my iron-sleep again,

  Till Lok has burst his tenfold chain; 90

  Never till substantial Night

  Has re-assumed her ancient right;

  Till, wrapp’d in flames, in ruin hurl’d,

  Sinks the fabric of the world.

  THE TRIUMPHS OF OWEN.

  A FRAGMENT.

  From Mr. Evans’ Specimens of the Welsh Poetry; London 1764.

  Advertisement. — Owen succeeded his Father Griffin in the Principality of North-Wales, A.D. 1120. This battle was fought near forty years afterwards.

  Owen’s praise demands my song,

  Owen swift, and Owen strong;

  Fairest flower of Roderic’s stem,

  Gwyneth’s shield, and Britain’s gem.

  He nor heaps his brooded stores,

  Nor on all profusely pours;

  Lord of every regal art,

  Liberal hand, and open heart.

  Big with hosts of mighty name,

  Squadrons three against him came;

  This the force of Eirin hiding,

  Side by side as proudly riding,

  On her shadow long and gay

  Lochlin ploughs the watery way;

  There the Norman sails afar

  Catch the winds, and join the war;

  Black and huge along they sweep,

  Burthens of the angry deep.

  Dauntless on his native sands

  The Dragon-son of Mona stands;

  In glitt’ring arms and glory drest,

  High he rears his ruby crest.

  There the thund’ring strokes begin,

  There the press, and there the din;

  Talymalfra’s rocky shore

  Echoing to the battle’s roar.

  Where his glowing eye-balls turn,

  Thousand banners round him burn.

&nbs
p; Where he points his purple spear,

  Hasty, hasty Rout is there,

  Marking with indignant eye

  Fear to stop, and shame to fly.

  There Confusion, Terror’s child,

  Conflict fierce, and Ruin wild,

  Agony, that pants for breath,

  Despair and honourable Death.

  * * * * *

  ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

  1 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

  The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,

  The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

  And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

  2 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

  And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

  Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

  And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

  3 Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

  The moping owl does to the moon complain

  Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,

  Molest her ancient solitary reign.

  4 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,

  Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

  Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

  The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

  5 The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

  The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,

  The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

  No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

  6 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

  Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

  No children run to lisp their sire’s return,

  Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share.

  7 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

  Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

  How jocund did they drive their team afield!

  How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!