The weary to repose!
Haste! on each mountain’s darkening crest
The glow hath died, the shadows rest,
The twilight star on Deva’s breast
Gleams tremulously bright;
Speed for Myfanwy’s bower on high!
Though scorn may wound me from her eye,
Oh! better by the sun to die,
Than live in rayless night!
[182] “I have rode hard, mounted on a fine high-bred steed, upon thy account, O thou with the countenance of cherry-flower bloom. The speed was with eagerness, and the strong long-hamm’d steed of Alban reached the summit of the high land of Brân.”