 | Poems by William Stanley Roscoe |  |
90
THE BARD'S LAMENT FOR LLYWELYN.
O mourn, my harp, along the vale,
Where great Llywelyn fought and bled,
And sigh upon the wandering gale
That soothes his gory bed;
In chains of death with swordless hands
His fallen heroes round him sleep;
Weep Britain o'er the dragon bands,
Despairing Britain, weep!
Where great Llywelyn fought and bled,
And sigh upon the wandering gale
That soothes his gory bed;
In chains of death with swordless hands
His fallen heroes round him sleep;
Weep Britain o'er the dragon bands,
Despairing Britain, weep!
91
The ruby banners bathed in blood,
The raging of the battle tell,
How dark, how deep the crimson flood,
Where all thy warriors fell;
Their valiant hands, their burning hearts
Are mouldering in the silent clay,
Thy freedom falls, thy fame departs,
Thy glory fades away.
The raging of the battle tell,
How dark, how deep the crimson flood,
Where all thy warriors fell;
Their valiant hands, their burning hearts
Are mouldering in the silent clay,
Thy freedom falls, thy fame departs,
Thy glory fades away.
False Edward's vengeance gluts the plain,
His voice is death, his words are fire,
Lo! Britain's thousand bards are slain,
The souls of song expire;
Yet, Tyrant, shalt thou ne'er destroy
The spirit of their moving strings,
Their magic notes for e'er shall fly
On Time's remotest wings.
His voice is death, his words are fire,
Lo! Britain's thousand bards are slain,
The souls of song expire;
Yet, Tyrant, shalt thou ne'er destroy
The spirit of their moving strings,
Their magic notes for e'er shall fly
On Time's remotest wings.
92
Lords of the lyre, they fall, they bleed,
But hark, the hills with music swell,
The dark woods shout to glory's meed,
And echo wakes her shell;
The winds that sweep the mountains round,
Catch the soft numbers ere they die,
The green vales drink the passing sound
In sorrowing ecstasy;
But hark, the hills with music swell,
The dark woods shout to glory's meed,
And echo wakes her shell;
The winds that sweep the mountains round,
Catch the soft numbers ere they die,
The green vales drink the passing sound
In sorrowing ecstasy;
The forests wave in vocal pride,
Responsive to the ocean's roar;
The rivers murmur in their tide,
And sigh on every shore:
And future ages, as along
The destin'd stream of life they roll,
Shall hear the faint surviving song
Of melancholy soul.
Responsive to the ocean's roar;
The rivers murmur in their tide,
And sigh on every shore:
And future ages, as along
The destin'd stream of life they roll,
Shall hear the faint surviving song
Of melancholy soul.
93
But hush, my harp, thy plaintive sound,
Thy aged master yields his breath,
And silence soon shall reign around
This dreary vale of death;
Farewell, my harp of bounding wire,
My joy, my sorrow, and my pride,
Pour thy soft notes as I expire,
And slumber at my side.
Thy aged master yields his breath,
And silence soon shall reign around
This dreary vale of death;
Farewell, my harp of bounding wire,
My joy, my sorrow, and my pride,
Pour thy soft notes as I expire,
And slumber at my side.
But if the Saxon's blood-stain'd hand
Shall violate thy golden string,
Indignant burst his stern command,
And themes of glory sing;
Blanch his fierce cheek with freedom's song,
Thy country's first and latest trust,
And Britain's wildest strain prolong,
Tho' sighing in the dust.
Shall violate thy golden string,
Indignant burst his stern command,
And themes of glory sing;
Blanch his fierce cheek with freedom's song,
Thy country's first and latest trust,
And Britain's wildest strain prolong,
Tho' sighing in the dust.
| Poems by William Stanley Roscoe | |