The voice, the glance, the heart I sought-give answer,

where are they? -If thou wouldst clear thy perjur’d soul, send life through

this cold clay.

“Into these glassy eyes put light—be still ! keep down thine

ire Bid these white lips a blessing speak—this earth is not my

sireGive me back him for whom I strove, for whom

my

blood was shedThou canst not ?--and a king !-his dust be mountains on

thy head!”

He loos'd the steed,—his slack hand fell—upon the silent

face He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turn'd from

that sad place His hope was crush’d, his after-fate untold in martial

strainHis banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of

Spain.

THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.

AT THE TIME OF THE SUPPOSED MASSACRE BY EDWARD I.

The Hall of Harps is lone this night,

And cold the chieftain's hearth ;
It hath no mead, it hath no light,
No voice of melody, no sound of mirth.

And I depart-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 ceas'd,

The soul of song is flown?
Think'st thou it woke to crown the feast,
It liv'd beside the ruddy hearth alone ?

No! by our names and by our blood,

We leave it pure and freeThough hush'd awhile, that sounding food Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be.

We leave it, 'midst our country's woe,

The birthright of her breastWe 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

&

Eryri, the Welsh name for Snowdon.

64

THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.

Our voice in theirs through time shall swellThe 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.

Aneurin, a celebrated ancient British bard.

THE WRECK.

All night the booming minute-gun

Had peal'd along the deep, And mournfully the rising sun

Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep.
A bark from India's coral strand,

Before the raging blast,
Had vaild her topsails to the sand,

And bow'd her noble mast.

The queenly ship !-brave hearts had striven,

And true ones died with her-
We saw her mighty cable riven,

Like floating gossamer.
We saw her proud flag struck that morn,

A star once o'er the seas-
Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn,

And sadder things than these.