Page:Welsh Melodies.pdf/27



hall of harps is lone to-night, And cold the chieftain's hearth: It hath no mead, it hath no light; No voice of melody, no sound of mirth.

The bow lies broken on the floor Whence the free step is gone; The pilgrim turns him from the door Where minstrel-blood hath stain'd the threshold stone.

"And I, too, go: my wound is deep,   My brethren long have died; Yet, 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!

"Think'st thou, because the song hath ceased,   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 wrongs, 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 woe—   The birthright of her breast; We 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 breath; Our voice in theirs through time shall swell— The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death.

He dies; but yet the mountains stand, Yet sweeps the torrent's tide; And this is yet Aneurin's2 land— Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride!