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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
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
“ 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
THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.
AT THE TIME OF THE SUPPOSED MASSACRE BY
The Hall of Harps is lone this night,
And cold the chieftain's hearth;
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,
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?
No! by our names and by our blood,
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.