"I mourn for Rhun; doth not the stranger tread,
With spurning foot, upon his lowly bed?
Doth not his spirit wailing roam,
The land his dying wishes bless'd?
And finds, within the Cymry's home,
But the oppressor and oppress'd."
The minstrel pauses in her strain,
To gaze on Owain's altered brow,
Where shame and sorrow, pride and pain,
Are striving for the mastery now.
Not long the pause, again she flings
Her fingers o'er the sounding strings;
Mournfully still, yet hurriedly,
Waking a bolder melody;
Her form assumes a loftier height,
Her dark eyes flash more wildly bright,
And the voice, that seem'd o'er the ear to float,
Now stirs the heart like a trumpet's note.
"Whence is the light on my spirit cast,
A glance of the future, a dream of the past?
There's a coming sound in the shelter'd glen,
Like the measur'd tread of warlike men,
And the mingled hum of a gathering crowd,
And the war-cry echoing far and loud.
"I hear their shields and corselets clashing,
I see the gleam of their blue spears flashing,
And the sun on plume-deck'd helmets glance,
And the banners that on the free wind dance,
And the steed of the chief in his gallant array
As he rushes to glory, away, away!"
"Sweep on, sweep on, in your crushing might,
Bear ye that banner o'er hill and height!
Sweep on, sweep on, in your 'whelming wrath,
The far-scented raven shall follow your path;
Let him track the step of the mountain ranger,
And his beak shall be red with the blood of the stranger.
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