104 THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY. THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY. AT THE TIME OF THE SUPPOSED MASSACRE BY EDWARD I. THE Hall of Harps is lone this night, And I depart-my wound is deep, Bear it, where on his battle-plain, He counts my country's noble slain- Thou hast laid low the warrior's head, Think'st thou, because the song hath ceas'd, Think'st thou it woke to crown the feast, No! by our names and by our blood, Though hush'd awhile, that sounding flood We leave it, 'midst our country's wo, Eryri, the Welsh name for Snowdon. We leave it with our fame to dwell, Our voice in theirs through time shall swell- He dies-but yet the mountains stand, And this is yet Eneurin's land Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride. THE WRECK. ALL night the booming minute-gun Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep. Had veil'd her topsails to the sand, The queenly ship!-brave hearts had striven, And true ones died with her We saw her mighty cable riven, Like floating gossamer. We saw her proud flag struck that morn, Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn, And sadder things than these, We saw her treasures cast away- And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er, And gorgeous robes-but oh! that shore Had sadder things than these! Eneurin, a celebrated ancient British hard. 106 THE WRECK. We saw the strong man still and low, A crush'd reed thrown aside- And near him on the sea-weed lay- But well our gushing hearts might say, For her pale arms a babe had prest, Her very tresses had been flung To wrap the fair child's form, Where still their wet long streamers clung, And beautiful 'midst that wild scene, Deep in her bosom lay his head, Oh! human Love, whose yearning heart, Surely thou hast another lot, There is some home for thee, Where thou shalt rest, remembering not The moaning of the sea! A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND. -His very heart athirst To gaze at Nature in her green array, THE hollow dash of waves!-the ceaseless roar ! Cowper. There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home, Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry, Know ye my home, with the lulling sound With the streamy gold of the sun that shines And the fire-fly's glance through the darkening shades, The heavy-rolling surge, the rocking mast! 108 A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND. Oh! the glad sounds of the joyous earth! The notes of the singing cicala's mirth, The murmurs that live in the mountain-pines, The sighing of reeds as the day declines, The wings flitting home through the crimson glow That steeps the woods when the sun is low, The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill To the heart of the leaves when the winds are stillI hear them!-around me they rise, they swell, They claim back my spirit with Hope to dwell, They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time, And waken my youth in its hour of prime. The white foam dashes high-away, away, Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray! It is there!-down the mountains I see the sweep Of the chesnut forests, the rich and deep; With the burden and glory of flowers that they wear, And the light pouring through them in tender gleams, To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow, To the rocks that resound with the water's play-I hear the sweet laugh of my fount-give way! Give way!--the booming surge, the tempest's roar, The sea-bird's wail, shall vex my soul no more. |