The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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II. |
III. |
IV. |
THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.
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V. |
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VII. |
The works of Mrs. Hemans | ||
THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.
“All is not lost—the unconquerable will
And courage never to submit or yield.”
Milton.
And courage never to submit or yield.”
Milton.
The 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.
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.
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!
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.
Beneath the setting sun,
He counts my country's noble slain—
Say to him—Saxon, think not all is won.
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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!
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?
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 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.
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 their's through time shall swell—
The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death.
Upon our children's breath.
Our voice in their's 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's land—
Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride!
Yet sweeps the torrent's tide;
And this is yet Aneurin's land—
Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride!
The works of Mrs. Hemans | ||