Three ravens gave the note of death,
As through mid air they winged their way;
Then o’er his head, in rapid flight,
They croak,—they scent their destined prey.
Ill omened bird! as legends say,
Who hast the wonderous power to know,
While health fills high the throbbing veins,
The fated hour when blood must flow.
Blinded by rage alone he passed,
Nor sought his ready vassals’ aid:
But what his fate lay long unknown,
For many an anxious year delayed.
A peasant marked his angry eye,
He saw him reach the lake’s dark bourne,
He saw him near a blasted oak,
But never from that hour return.
Three days passed o’er, no tidings came;—
Where should the chief his steps delay?
With wild alarm the servants ran,
Yet knew not where to point their way.
His vassals ranged the mountain’s height,
The covert close, and wide-spread plain;
But all in vain their eager search,
They ne’er must see their lord again.
Yet fancy, in a thousand shapes,
Bore to his home the chief once more
Some saw him on high Moel’s top,
Some saw him on the winding shore.
With wonder fraught the tale went round,
Amazement chained the hearer’s tongue;
Each peasant felt his own sad loss,
Yet fondly o’er the story hung.
Oft by the moon’s pale shadowy light,
His aged nurse, and steward grey,
Would lean to catch the stoned sounds,
Or mark the flittering spirit stray.
Pale lights on Cader’s rocks were seen,
And midnight voices heard to moan;
’Twas even said the blasted oak,
Convulsive, heaved a hollow groan: