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That hand was cold-a frozen thing—it dropp'd

from his like leadHe look'd up to the face above,--the face was of

the deadA plume waved o'er the noble brow—the brow was

fix'd and whiteHe met at last his father's eyes—but in them was no


Up from the ground he sprang and gazed—but who

could paint that gaze ? They hush'd their very hearts that saw its horror

and amazeThey might have chain'd him as before that 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 renownHe flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust

sat down.

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly

mournful brow, “ No more, there is no more,” he said, “ to lift the

sword for now

My 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 waved, my sire !

beside thee yetI would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free

soil had met Thou 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 seized

the monarch's rein, Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all the cour

tier-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 perjured 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 moun

tains on thy head !”

He loosed the steed,-his slack band 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

strainHis banner led the spears no more amidst the hills

of Spain.




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 diedYet, 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.

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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 lived beside the ruddy hearth alone ?

No! by our names and by our blood,
We leave it


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 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 breathOur 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.

* Eryri, the Welsh name for Snowdon. † Eneurin, a celebrated ancient British bard.

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