The sunlight from the sky is swept,
But, over Snowdon’s summit kept,
One brand of cloud yet burns,-
By ghostly hands far out of sight,
Held, glowing, in the even-light,-
As Fate still keeps the weapon bright
That lingers and returns.
. . . . .
O day of slaughter! Day of woe!-
But once,-a thousand years ago,-
Such day has Britain seen;
When blushed her hoary hills with shame
At Mona’s sacrifice of flame;
While shrieks from out the burning came
Across the strait between.
Death-helping day!-That couldst not find
One weeping cloud to hide behind!-
Cursed day whose light was given
For search-mate to the Saxon sword
Through coverts that our rocks afford,-
While Edward’s godless minions poured
The blood of the unshriven!
. . . . .
Ill fare we when the trees are rent,
Whose friendly shelter erst was lent
In sun, and wind, and rain.
Ill fare we when the thunder-shocks
Let loose the torrents from their rocks,
To sweep away the mountain-flocks,
And flood the standing grain.
But where the forest-giants groan,-
By winds that waste the woods o’erthrown,-
New saplings blithely spring!-
Sank herd and harvest ‘neath the tide?-
There’s bleating on the mountain-side;
O’er cornfields, ere the dew has dried
To-morrow’s lark shall sing!
Sore sighs the land when she has need
The dragon-jaws of war to feed
With those who love her best;
And long shall Cambria’s tears be shed
For him who late her armies led,-
Llewellyn,-whose dissevered head
The Saxon crowned in jest!
Yet, in their stead whose blood is spilt,
Newcomers seize the sword’s warm hilt,-
Or o’er it reach the ground!-
Llewellyn!-every night-watch drear
With grief for thee,-brings morning near;
That morn when Arthur shall appear,-
Once more our leader crowned!
But when the blood of bards is poured,
Who gathers their forgotten hoard
From memories sealed by fate?-
What daring songster e’er shall soar
For us to Heaven’s death-guarded door,-
And tell thereafter of the store
That glimmers through the grate?
When Famine’s empty hand is filled,-
When years the shattered oaks rebuild,-
Shall heroes spring again,
Brave spirits of the past to greet
Who rise at minstrel-summons sweet,-
When bards the olden tales repeat
Of Britain’s mighty slain?-
Nay,-by the harps our fathers heard
No more shall Britain’s heart be stirred,-
Lost is the ancient lore!-
Spent is the breath of song, that fanned
Freedom’s low fires!-The bard’s light hand,-
Whose beckoning brought the martial band,-
Shall seek the strings no more!
(Mary Hannay Foott)
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Based on Topics: Light Poems, Nature Poems, War & Peace Poems, Sense & Perception Poems, Fate & Destiny Poems, Past Poems, Spring Poems, Courage PoemsBased on Keywords: cambria, night-watch, unshriven, dissevered, snowdon, newcomers, llewellyn, once-a, thunder-shocks