, kind,
I strive in vain to hear;
'Tis but the moaning of the wind
That cheats thy anxious ear."

The second lady rous'd her page,
From the peaceful sleep of his careless age;
"Awake, fair child, from thy happy dreams,
Look out o'er the turret's height,
Is it a lance that yonder gleams
In the moonbeams blue and bright?"

"No, lady mine; not on a lance
Does that fair radiance quiver;
I only see its lustre dance
On the blue and trembling river."

The youngest and fairest maiden sits
On the turret's highest stone,
Like the gentle flower that flings its sweets
O'er the ruin drear and lone:

At her feet the hound is crouching still;
And they look so calm and fair,
You might almost deem, by a sculptor's skill,
They were carved in the grey stone there.

A distant sound the spell hath broken,
The lady and her hound
Together caught the joyful token,
And down the stair they bound.

"'Tis Trwst Llywelyn! dear sisters speed,
Our own Llywelyn's near;
I know the tramp of his gallant steed,
'Tis music to mine ear!"

* * * * *

Yes, 'twas his lance gleamed blue and bright,
His horn made the echoes ring;
He is safe from a glorious field of fight,
And his sisters round him cling:

And Gelert lies at his master's feet,
The page returns to his slumbers sweet,
The minstrel quaffs his mead,
And sings Llywelyn's fame and power,
And, Trwst Llywelyn, names the tower,
Where they heard his coming steed.

* * * * *

That tower, no more, o'erlooks the vale,
But its name is unforgot,
And the peasant tells the simple tale,
And points to the well-known spot.

Oh, lady moon! thy radiance fills
An altered scene, to-night,
All here is chang'd save the changeless hills,
And the Severn, rippling bright.

We dwell in peace, beneath the yoke
That roused our father's spears,
The very tongue our fathers spoke,
Sounds strangely in our ears. {61}

But the human heart knows little change:
'Tis woman's to watch, 'tis man's to range
For pleasure, wealth, or fame;
And thou may'st look, from thy realms above,
On many a sister's yearning love,
The same--still, still the same.

Ye students grave, of ancient lore,
Grudge not my skilless rhyme,
One tale (from tradition's ample store)
Of Cambria's olden time;
Seek, 'mid the hills and glens around,
For names and deeds of war;
And leave this little spot of ground,
A record holier far.