Her snowy brow through dark locks gleamed,
And long and shadowy lashes curled,
O'er eyes whose deep'ning radiance seemed
Caught from the light of another world;
And on her cheek there was a glow,
Like clouds that kiss the parting sun;
Death's crimson banner, spread to show
His mournful triumph was begun.
Has grief so dulled Prince Owain's ear,
Her melody he may not hear?
No kindly look, or word, or token,
His trance of wretchedness has broken,
Yet knows she, in that lonely spot,
Her presence felt, tho' greeted not;
Knows that no foot, save hers, unbidden;
Had dared to tread the living tomb,
No other hand had waked, unchidden,
The echoes of that sullen gloom;
And now her voice's gentle tone
Blends with the harp, in dirge-like moan:
"I mourn for Rhun; the spider's patient trail
Hangs fairy cordage round his useless mail;
The pennon, never seen to yield,
Bends in the light breeze, idly gay,
And rusted spear, and riven shield
Tell of a warrior past away.
"I mourn for Rhun; alas! the damp earth lies
Heavy and chill on those unconscious eyes;
Around those cold and powerless fingers,
The earthworm coils her slimy rings;
Above his grave the wild bird lingers,
And many a requiem o'er it sings.
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