Classic Poem

I' R C YMRY AR W ASGAR .

The old Land of our Fathers, where they sleep
Their waiting sleep of earth in perfect peace,—
The Land of our Last Prince and strong Glyndwr,
Of Davyth, Ceiriog, Kyffin, Salesbury,—
Bequeathed these tales, which here in other rhyme
Are winged afresh, that far o'er foreign fields
Their names and fames may fly!

Come, carry them,
Kind fellow-countrymen, where'er you roam—
In the red Orient, far from your green hills,
Or in the motley streets below St. Paul's,—
That dreams of falling waters and the grass
Which grows along the meadows of the Dee,
Of serpent Towy, Teivy, Usk, or Wye,—
That yet some echo of old tender tunes,
Old sorrowing hymns, in the sweet mother tongue,
Some sound of footsteps in the village street,
Or western wind, such as in London once
Made Owain Myvyr weep, may reach your hearts,
As rhyme on rhyme goes by?

If you but find
Some lingering cadence of Llewelyn's Land,
Or hosted music of her mountain spears,
Or pastoral echo of her mountain folds,
Or lurking fragrance of her mountain rose,
Or stern reminder of the buried sword
In Glyndwr's grave,—then is the lyric dream
Not given to them in vain! Old death-wounds still
Set free the spirit for eternal life;
In every dirge there sleeps a battle-march;
And those slain heroes of the past may tell
How they attained, who only seemed to fail;
And they that fell of old, on those grey fields,
By their red Death, enable us to live!