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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

down.

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

earih.

“I thought to stand where banners wav'd, my sire ! beside

thee yet

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

no son!”

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

train ;

And with a fierce o’ermastering grasp the rearing war

horse led, And sternly set them face to face-the king before the

dead

“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

is this?

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

thy head!”

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

Spain.

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;
It hath no mead, it hath no light,
No voice of melody, no sound of mirth.

And I depart—my wound is deep,

My brethren long have died
Yet, ere my soul grow dark with sleep,
Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride.

Bear it, where on his battle-plain,

Beneath the setting sun,
He counts my country's noble slain-
Say to him-Saxon ! think not all is won.

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?
Think'st thou it woke to crown the feast,
It liv'd beside the ruddy hearth alone ?

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.

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