Their orphans long the art may rue, THE DYING BARD. DINAS EMLINN, lament; for the moment is nigh, In spring and in autumn thy glories of shade, Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride, And oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters so fair, Then adieu, silver Teivi! I quit thy loved scene, And adieu, Dinas Emlinn! still green be thy shades, Unconquered thy warriors, and matchless thy maids! And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell, Farewell, my loved Harp! my last treasure, farewell! 49 THE MAID OF TORO. O, Low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, Sorely sighed to the breezes, and wept to the flood. All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle, With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail, Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dread rattle, And the chase's wild clamor came loading the gale. Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary; Slowly approaching, a warrior was seen; 66 O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying! O, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low! Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave Henry is lying; And fast through the woodland approaches the foe." Scarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow, And scarce could she hear them, benumbed with And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro, HELLVELLYN. I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied, On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountainheather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute fav'rite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start; How many long days and long weeks didst thou number Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, oh! was it meet, that, no requiem read o'er him, When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded, The tap'stry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall ; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb; When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam. THE END, |