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They might have chain'd him as before thaí stony form
he stood, For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his
lip the blood.
“Father!” at length he murmur'd low—and wept like
childhood thenTalk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike
men !He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young
renown He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat
Then covering with his steel-glov'd hands his darkly
mournful brow, “No more, there is no more,” he said, “to lift the sword
for nowMy king is false, my hope betray'd, my father-oh! the
worth, The glory, and the loveliness are pass'd away from
“I thought to stand where banners wav'd, my sire ! beside
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil
had metThou wouldst have known my spirit then-for thee my
fields were won, And thou hast perish'd in thy chains, as though thou hadst
Then starting from the ground once more, he seiz'd the
monarch's rein, Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all the courtier
And with a fierce o’ermastering grasp the rearing war
horse led, And sternly set them face to face-the king before the
“Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to
kiss? -Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought-give answer,
where are they? -If thou wouldst clear thy perjur'd soul, send life through
this cold clay.
“Into these glassy eyes put light-be still ! keep down thine
ireBid these white lips a blessing speak—this earth is not my
sireGive me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood
was shedThou canst not ?-and a king !-his dust be mountains on
He loos'd the steed,-his slack hand fell—upon the silent
face He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turn'd from
that sad placeHis hope was crush’d, his after-fate untold in martial
strain— His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of
THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.
AT THE TIME OF THE SUPPOSED MASSACRE BY EDWARD I.
The Hall of Harps is lone this night,
And cold the chieftain's hearth;
And I depart—my wound is deep,
My brethren long have died
Bear it, where on his battle-plain,
Beneath the setting sun,
Thou hast laid low the warrior's head,
The minstrel's chainless hand; Dreamer! that numberest with the dead The burning spirit of the mountain-land.
Think'st thou, because the song hath ceas'd,
The soul of song is flown?
No! by our names and by our blood,
We leave it pure and freeThough hush'd awhile, thai sounding flood Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be.
We leave it, 'midst our country's woe,
The birthright of her breastWe leave it, as we leave the snow, Bright and eternal, on Eryri's * crest.
We leave it, with our fame to dwell,
Upon our children's breath
Eryri, the Welsh name for Snowdon.