Cynddylan’s shield, Cynddylan’s pride,
The wandering snows are shading,
One palace pillar stands to guide
The woodbine’s verdant braiding;
And I am left, from all apart,
The minstrel of the broken heart!
THE LAMENT OP LLYWARCH HEN.
By Mrs. Hemans.
The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing
With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom;
But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing,
The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb!
Oh! why should I live to hear music resounding,
Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave?
Why smile the waste flow’rs, my sad footsteps surrounding?
My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave!
Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing,
As on to the fields of your glory you trod!
Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing,
Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod!
I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding,
Which rouses ye not, oh, my lovely, my brave!
When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding,
I turn from heav’n’s light, for it smiles on your grave!
THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN.
By Mrs. Hemans.
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night,
I weep, for the grave has extinguished its light;
The beam of its lamp from the summit is o’er,
The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more!