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O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned !
The thoughts that burned and glowed within.
The War-Song of Dinas Vawr
THE mountain sheep are sweeter,
But the valley sheep are fatter;
We met an host and quelled it!
On Dyfed's richest valley,
Where herds of kine were browsing,
To furnish our carousing.
Fierce warriors rushed to meet us;
As we drove our prize at leisure,
We there, in strife bewildering,
We brought away from battle,
And the head of him who owned them :
His head was borne before us;
His wine and beasts supplied our feasts,
And his overthrow, our chorus.
From her couch of snows
In the Acroceraunian mountains,—
Shepherding her bright fountains.
Which slopes to the western gleams :
In murmurs as soft as sleep.
The Earth seemed to love her
As she lingered towards the deep.
Then Alpheus bold,
On his glacier cold,
With his trident the mountains strook,
And opened a chasm
In the rocks :—with the spasm
All Erymanthus shook.
And the black south wind
It concealed behind
The urns of the silent snow,
And earthquake and thunder
The bars of the springs below.
The beard and the hair
Of the fleet Nymph's flight
'Oh, save me! Oh, guide me!
To its blue depth stirred, And divided at her prayer; And under the water.
The Earth's white daughter Fled like a sunny beam; Behind her descended,
Her billows, unblended
With the brackish Dorian stream.
Down the streams of the cloudy wind.
Under the bowers
Where the Ocean Powers
Weave a network of coloured light ;
And under the caves,
Where the shadowy waves
And the swordfish dark,-
And up through the rifts
Of the mountain clifts,
They passed to their Dorian home.
And now from their fountains
Down one vale where the morning basks,
They ply their watery tasks.
From their cradles steep
In the cave of the shelving hill ;
Like spirits that lie
In the azure sky
When they love but live no more.
The Day is Done
THE day is done, and the darkness
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
A feeling of sadness and longing,
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Not from the grand old masters,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
Who, through long days of labour,
Such songs have power to quiet
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music
'A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A doublet of the Lincoln green,—
No more of me you knew.