"On, for the fortress, whose gloomy height
Looks down on the valley in scornful might,
Leave not one stone on another to tell
That the Saxon has dwelt where no more he shall dwell;
Let the green weed o'ershadow the desolate hearth
That has rung to the spoiler's exulting mirth.
"On! When the strife grows fierce and high,
Vengeance and Rhun be your battle-cry!
Star of the Cymry! can it be
They go to conquer and not with thee?
Thy blood is on the foeman's glaive,
My lost, my beautiful, my brave!"
The song has ceased, but ere its close,
The lustre from those eyes is gone,
The cheek has lost its crimson rose,
The voice has changed its thrilling tone,
Till the last notes in murmurs die,
Faint as the echo of a sigh.
The task is done, the spell is cast,
And, left in silent loneliness,
The o'erwrought spirit breaks at last,
Her hands her throbbing temples press,
And tears are gushing fast and bright,
Down those small palms and fingers slight.
Oh, human love! how beautiful thou art,
Shading the ruin, clinging round the tomb,
And ling'ring still, tho' all beside depart;
Can the cold sceptic, with his creed of gloom,
Deem that thy final dwelling is the dust,
Thy faith but folly, nothingness thy trust?
The Saxon feasted high that night,
In Wyddgrug's fortress proud,
Where countless torches lent their light,
And the song of mirth was loud;
And ruby juice of Southern vine
Sparkled in cups of golden shine.
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