Nay, the truth shall be told–since you flout me, restore
The tall scarlet woodbine you took from my door!
Since my baldness is mocked, and I’m forced to explain,
Pray give me my large laurustinus again.
(With a tone of prophetic solemnity.)
Your pride and your poplars alike must come down!
I look through the future (and far I can see,
As St Asaph and Denbigh will answer for me,)
And in spite of thy scorn, and of all thou hast done,
From my kind heart’s brick bottom, I pity thee, Bron!
The end of thy toiling and planting will be,
That thou wilt want sunshine, and ask it of me.
Thou wilt say, when thou wakest, looking out for the light,
“I suppose it is morning, for Rhyllon looks bright;”
While I–my green eyes with their tears overflow.
(Tenderly.)
