I.

“Ruin seize thee, ruthless King Confusion on thy banners wait; Tho’ fann’d by Conquest’s crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor Hauberk’s twisted mail[35] Nor e’en 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[36] He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glos’ter stood aghast[37] in speechless trance To arms! cried Mortimer[38] and couch’d his quiv’ring lance.