“How could I then his mandate bear
Or how his last behest obey?
A rebel deemed, with him I fled;
With him I shunned the light of day.
“Proscribed by Henry’s hostile rage,
My country lost, despoiled my land,
Desperate, I fled my native soil,
And fought on Syria’s distant strand.
“O, had thy long lamented lord
The holy cross and banner viewed,
Died in the sacred cause! who fell
Sad victim of a private feud!
“Led, by the ardour of the chace,
Far distant from his own domain;
From where Garthmaelan spreads her shades,
The Glyndwr sought the opening plain.
“With head aloft, and antlers wide,
A red buck roused, then crossed in view,
Stung with the sight, and wild with rage,
Swift from the wood fierce Howel flew.
“With bitter taunt, and keen reproach,
He, all impetuous, poured his rage,
Reviled the chief as weak in arms,
And bade him loud the battle wage.
“Glyndwr for once restrained his sword,
And, still averse, the fight delays;
But softened words, like oil to fire,
Made anger more intensely blaze.
“They fought; and doubtful long the fray!
The Glyndwr gave the fatal wound!
Still mournful must my tale proceed,
And its last act all dreadful sound.
“How could we hope for wished retreat
His eager vassals ranging wide?
His bloodhounds’ keen sagacious scent,
O’er many a trackless mountain tried?
“I marked a broad and blasted oak,
Scorched by the lightning’s livid glare;
Hollow its stem from branch to root,
And all its shrivelled arms were bare.