And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die : No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall rave, And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing wave. In spring and in autumn thy glories of shade Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd shall fade; For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue, That view'd them with rapture, with rapture that sung. Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride, And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's side; But where is the harp shall give life to their name? And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame? But meeter for thee, gentle lover of And oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. so fair, Who heave the white bosom, and wave the dark hair; What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their eye, When half of their charms with Cadwallon shall die? And sooth they swore: the sun arose, And Rymny's wave with crimson glows; For Clare's red banner, floating wide, Roll'd down the stream to Severn's tide! And sooth they vow'd: the trampled green Show'd where hot Neville's charge had been: In every sable hoof-tramp stood Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil; Their orphans long the art may rue, For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe. No more the stamp of armed steed Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead; Nor trace be there, in early spring, Save of the Fairies' emerald ring. THE MAID OF TORO. (An earlier version, of date 1800, appears in 'The House of Aspen.') O, LOW shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, And weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood, Ail as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow, Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to the flood. O saints! from the mansions of bliss lowly bending; Sweet Virgin! who hearest the suppliant's cry, Now grant my petition, in anguish ascending, My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die!' A a 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 clamour, came loading the gale. Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary; Slowly approaching a warrior was seen; Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so weary, Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his mien. O save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying! 'A weary Palmer, worn and weak, 'I'll give you pardons from the Pope, Yet open for charity. 'The hare is crouching in her form, 'You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar, save thee, fair maid, for thy│The iron gate is bolted hard, guardian is low! Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave At which I knock in vain ; The owner's heart is closer barr'd, Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant, The Ranger on his couch lay warm, For lo, when through the vapours dank THE MAID OF NEIDPATH. O LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see, Can lend an hour of cheering. How often the kindest and warmest prove rovers, And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea. What were the Whigs doing, when boldly pursuing, Pitt banish'd Rebellion, gave Till, at times-could I help it? I pined Why, they swore on their honour, .and I ponder'd, If love could change notes like the bird on the tree; Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wander'd, Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me. Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through channel, Hardships and danger despising for fame, for Arthur O'Connor, And fought hard for Despard against country and king. Well, then, we knew boys, Pitt and Melville were true boys, And the tempest was raised by the friends of Reform. Ah, woe! Weep to his memory; Low lies the pilot that weather'd the storm! Furnishing story for glory's bright And pray, don't you mind when the example to give. Come, boys, never fear, Drink the Blue grenadierHere's to old Harry, and long may he live! They would turn us adrift; though rely, sir, upon it Our own faithful chronicles warrant us that The free mountaineer and his bonny blue bonnet Have oft gone as far as the regular's hat. We laugh at their taunting, For all we are wanting Is licence our life for our country to give. Off with it merrily, Horse, foot, and artillery, Melville for ever, and long may he live! Each loyal Volunteer, long may he live! |