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And the swist charger sweep,

In full career, Trampling thy place of sleep

Why cam'st ibou here?
Why ?-Ask the true heart wiy

Woman hath been
Ever, where brave men die,

Unshrinking seen ?
Unto this harvest ground

Proud reapers came, Some for that stirring sound,

A warrior's name:
Some for the stormy play,

And joy of strife,
And some to fling away

A weary life.
But thou, pale sleeper, thou,

With the slight frame,
And the rich locks, whose glow

Death cannot tame;
Only one thought, one powel',

Thee could have led,
So through the tempest's look

To list thy head!
Only the true, the strong,

The love, whose trust
Woman's deep soul too long

Pours on the dust.


-Women act their parts
When they do make their ordered houses know them.
Men must be busy out of doors, must stir
The city; yea, make the great world aware
That they are in it; for the mastery
of which they race and wrestle.

WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb,

With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom

By the stain'd window shed;
The records of thy name and race

Нат faded from the stone,
Yet through a cloud of years I trace

What thou hast been and done.
A banner from its flashing spear

Flang out o'er many a fight;
A war-cry ringing far and clear,

And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance

On for the holy shrine,
A haughty heart and kingly glance-

Chief! were not these things thine ?
A lofty place where leaders sate

Around the council board;
In festive halls a chair of state,

When the blood-red wine was pour'd;
A name that drew a prouder 1pne

From herald, harp, and bard;
--Surely these things were all thine own;

So hadst thou thy reward!

Woman! whose sculptur'd form at rest

By the armed kvight is laid,
With meek hands folded o'er ihy breast

In matron robes array'd ;
What was thy tale?-Oh, gentle mate

of him the bold and free, Bound unto his victorious sate,

What hard hath suvg of thee?
He woo'd a bright and burning star;

Thine was the void, the gloom,
The straining eye that followed fár

His oft receding pluine ; The heart sick listening while his steed

Sent echoes on the breeze ; The pang—but when did Fame take heed

Of griefs obscure as these? Thy silent and secluded hours,

Through many a lone day,
While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers,

With spirit far away ;
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him

Who fought on Syrian plains;
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim,

These fill no minstrel-strains.
A still sad life was thine !-long years,

With tasks unguerdon'd fraught,
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,

Vigils of anxious thought;
Prayers at the cross in fervor pour'd,

Alms to the pilgrims given;
O happy, happier than thy lord

In that lone path to heaven!


Saw ye the blazing star ?
The heavens look down on Freedom's war,

And light her torch on high :
Bright on the dragon-crest
It tells that glory's wing shall rest,

When warriors meet to die !
Let earth’s pale tyrants read despair

And vengeance in its flame,
Hail ye, my bards! the omen lair

or conquest and of fame,
And swell the rushing mountain air,

With songs to Glyndwr's panie.
At the dead hour of night,
Mark'd ye how each majestic height

Burn'd in its awful beams!
Red sbone th' eternal snows,
And all the land, as bright it rose,

Was full of glorious dreams.
Oh! eagles of the battles, rise!

The hope of Gwynedd wakesIt is your banner in the skies,

Thro' each dark cloud that breaks,
And mantles with triumphal dyes,

Your thousand hills and lakes!
A sound is on the breeze,
A murmur, as of swelling seas!

The Saxon's on his way!
Lo! spear, and shield, and lance,
From Deva's waves, with lightning glance,

Reflected to the day.
But who the torrent-wave compels

A conqueror's chains to bear ?
Let those who wake the soul that dwells

On our free winds, beware!
The greenest and the loveliest dells
May be the lion's lair!

or us they told the seers
And monarch-bards of elder years,

Who walk'd on earth as powers ;
And in their burning strains,
A spell of might and mystery reigns,

To guard our mountain towers.
-In Snowdon's caves a prophet lay,

Before his gifted sight
The march ages pass'd away,

With hero-footsteps bright,
But proudest, in that long array

Was Glyndwr's path of light!


“ To a mysteriously consorted pair,
This place is consecrate; to death and life,
And to the best affections that proceed
From this conjunction."

How many hopes were borne upon thy bier,
O bride of stricken love! in anguish hither!
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year,
Pluck'd on the hosom of the dead to wither;
Hopes, from their source all holy, though of earth,
All brightly gathering round affection's hearth.
Or mingled prayer they told ; of sabbath hours ;
Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed meeting;
Of childhood's voice, amidst the

household bowers,
And bounding step, and smile of joyous.greeting,
But thou, young mother! to thy gentle beart,
Didst take thy babe, and meekly' so depart.

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