11
The stirring memory of a thousand years;
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving—if aught inanimate e'er grieves—
Over the unreturning brave,—alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure; when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife;
The morn the marshalling in arms; the day
Battle's magnificiently-stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'cr it, which when rent,
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover,—heaped and pent,
Rider and horse,—friend, foe,— in one red burial blent!
A BETH GELERT
The spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn,
And many a brach, and many a hound,
attend Llewellyn's horn;
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer;
'Come, Gelert! why art thou the last
Llewellyn's horn to hear!
