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 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 iny 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 bath ceas'd,
The soul of song is flown?
Think'st thou it woke to crown the feast,
It lived beside the ruddy hearth alone?
No! by our names and by our blood,
We leave it pure and free-
Though hush'd awhile, that sounding flood
Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be.
We leave it, 'midst our country's wo,
The birthright of her breast-
We leave it, as we leave the snow,
Bright and eternal, on Eryri's* crest.
* Eryri, the Welsh name for Snowdon:
We leave it with our fame to dwell,
Upon our children's breath-
Our voice in theirs through time shall swellThe bard hath gifts of prophecy from death.
He dies-but yet the mountains stand, Yet sweeps the torrent's tide, And this is yet Eneurin's * landWinds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride.
ALL night the booming minute-gun
Had peal'd along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun
Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep.
A bark from India's coral strand,
Before the raging blast,
Had veil'd her topsails to the sand,
And bow'd her noble mast.
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,
A star once o'er the seas
Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn,
And sadder things than these,
We saw her treasures cast away-
The rocks with pearls were sown,
And strangely sad, the ruby's ray
Flash'd out o'er fretted stone.
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er,
Like ashes by a breeze-
And gorgeous robes--but oh! that shore
Had sadder things than these!
*Eneurin, a celebrated ancient British bard.
We saw the strong man still and low,
A crush'd reed thrown aside-
Yet by that rigid lip and brow,
Not without strife he died.
And near him on the sea-weed lay-
Till then we had not wept,
But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a mother slept!
For her pale arms a babe had prest,
With such a wreathing grasp,
Billows had dash'd o'er that fond breast,
Yet not undone the clasp.
Her very tresses had been flung
To wrap the fair child's form,
Where still their wet long streamers clung,
All tangled by the storm.
And beautiful 'midst that wild scene,
Gleam'd up the boy's dead face,
Like Slumber's trustingly serene,
In melancholy grace.
Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet eye-
He had known little of her dread,
Naught of her agony !
Oh! human Love, whose yearning heart,
Through all things vainly true,
So stamps upon thy mortal part
Its passionate adieu-
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,
Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd
With visions prompted by intense desire;
Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Far distant, such as he would die to find-
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.
THE hollow dash of waves !-the ceaseless roar !
Silence, ye billows-vex my soul no more!
There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home, • Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam;
Oh! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear,
As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear.
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws,
Through the feathery fern, and the olive boughs,
And the gleam on its path as it steals away
Into deeper shades from the sultry day,
And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread,
They haunt me!-I dream of that bright spring's flow,
I thirst for its rills, like a wounded roe.
Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry,
My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by!
Know ye my home, with the lulling sound
Of leaves from the lime and the chesnut round?
Know ye it, brethren, where bower'd it lies,
Under the purple of southern skies?
With the streamy gold of the sun that shines
In through the cloud of its clustering vines,
And the breath of the fainting myrtle-flowers,
Borne from the mountains in dewy hours,
And the fire-fly's glance through the darkening shades,
Like shooting stars in the forest-glades,
And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall-
Speak!have ye known, have ye felt them all?
The heavy-rolling surge, the rocking mast!
Hush give my dream's deep music way, thou blast!
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 still-
I 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,
Floating upborne on the blue summer-air,
And the light pouring through them in tender gleams,
And the flashing forth of a thousand streams.
-Hold me not, brethren, Igo, I go,
To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow,
To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest,
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast,
To the rocks that resound with the water's playI 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.
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