Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To him the mighty Mother did unveil Her awful face; the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year; Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy, Of Horror that, and thrilling Pears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears. III.--2. Nor second He that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy; The secrets of the abyss to spy, He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers[1] of ethereal race, With necks in thunder clothed and long-resounding pace. III.--3. Hark! his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn; But ah! 'tis heard no more. O lyre divine! what dying spirit[2] Wakes thee now? though he inherit Nor the pride nor ample pinion That the Theban eagle[3] bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Through the azure deep of air, Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun; Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far--but far above the great. [Footnote 1: 'Coursers:' the heroic rhymes.] [Footnote 2: 'Dying spirit:' Cowley.] [Footnote 3: 'Theban eagle:' Pindar.] * * * * * VI--THE BARD. PINDARIC. ADVERTISEMENT.--The following ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward I., when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the bards that fell into his hands to be put to death. I.--1. 'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait; Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Helm nor hauberk's[1] twisted mail, Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant! shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears; From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!' Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array: Stout Glo'ster[2] stood aghast in speechless trance: To arms! cried Mortimer,[3] and couch'd his quivering lance. I.--2.