Lo! the youth, in mind a man,
Daring in the battle’s van;
See the splendid warrior’s speed
On his fleet and thick-maned steed,
As his buckler, beaming wide,
Decks the courser’s slender side,
With his steel of spotless mould,
Ermined vest and spurs of gold!
Think not, youth, that e’er from me
Hate or spleen shall flow to thee;
Nobler deeds thy virtues claim,
Eulogy and tuneful fame.
Ah! much sooner comes thy bier
Than thy nuptial feast, I fear;
Ere thou mak’st the foe to bleed,
Ravens on thy corse shall feed.
Owain, lov’d companion, friend,
To birds a prey—is this thy end!
Tell me, steed, on what sad plain
Thy ill-fated lord was slain.
RODERIC’S LAMENT.
Farewell every mountain
To memory dear,
Each streamlet and fountain
Pelucid and clear;
Glad halls of my father,
From banquets ne’er freed,
Where chieftains would gather
To quaff the bright mead,
Each valley and woodland
Whose coverts I knew,
Lov’d haunts of my childhood
For ever, adieu!
The mountains are blasted
And burnt the green wood,
The fountain untasted
Flows crimsoned with blood,
The halls are deserted,
Their glory appear
Like dreams of departed
And desolate years,
The wild wood and valley,
The covert, the glade,
Bereft of their beauty,
Invaded! betrayed!
Farewell hoary minstrel,
Gay infancy’s friend,
What roof will protect thee?
What chieftain defend?
Alas for the number,
And sweets of their song,
Soon, soon they must slumber,
The mountains among;
The breathing of pleasure
No more will aspire,
For changed is the measure,
Of liberty’s lyre!
Adieu to the greeting
Of damsel and dame,
When home from the beating
Of foemen we came,
If Edward the daughters
Of Walia would spare,
He dooms them the fetters
Of vassals to wear;
To hear the war rattle,
To see the land burn,
While foes from the battle
In triumph return.
Farewell, and for ever,
Dear land of my birth,
Again we shall never
Know revels or mirth,
The cloud mantled castle,
My ancestors’ pride,
The pleasure and wassail
In rapture allied;
The preludes of danger
Approach thee from far,
The spears of strangers,
The beacons of war.
Farewell to the glory
I dreamed of in vain;
Behold on the story
A blood tinctured stain!
Nor this the sole token
The records can blast,
Our lances are broken,
Our trophies are lost;
The children of freedom,
The princely, the brave,
Have none to succeed them
Their country to save.