the murmurs spread
Round Owain's stately walls,
While he, a mourner o'er the dead,
Sate lonely in his halls;
And not the hardiest warrior there,
Unpitying, might blame
The reckless frenzy of despair
Which shook that iron frame;
Eyes that had coldly gazed on woman's grief,
Wept o'er the anguish of their stern old chief.

Not all unheard those murmurs past,
They reached a lady's bower,
Where meekly drooped beneath the blast
Proud Gwynedd's peerless flower;
And she, the hero's widow'd bride,
Has roused her from her sorrow's spell,
And vowed one effort should be tried
For that fair land he loved so well.

There came a footstep, light and lone,
To break the Chieftain's solitude,
And, bending o'er a harp's low tone,
A form of fragile beauty stood;
More like the maid, in fairy lay, {97}
Whose very being was of flowers,
Than creature, moulded from the clay,
To dwell in this cold sphere of ours.

Her snowy brow through dark locks gleamed,
And long and shadowy lashes curled,
O'er eyes whose deep'ning radiance seemed
Caught from the light of another world;
And on her cheek there was a glow,
Like clouds that kiss the parting sun;
Death's crimson banner, spread to show
His mournful triumph was begun.

Has grief so dulled Prince Owain's ear,
Her melody he may not hear?
No kindly look, or word, or token,
His trance of wretchedness has broken,
Yet knows she, in that lonely spot,
Her presence felt, tho' greeted not;
Knows that no foot, save hers, unbidden;
Had dared to tread the living tomb,
No other hand had waked, unchidden,
The echoes of that sullen gloom;
And now her voice's gentle tone
Blends with the harp, in dirge-like moan:

"I mourn for Rhun; the spider's patient trail
Hangs fairy cordage round his useless mail;
The pennon, never seen to yield,
Bends in the light breeze, idly gay,
And rusted spear, and riven shield
Tell of a warrior past away.

"I mourn for Rhun; alas! the damp earth lies
Heavy and chill on those unconscious eyes;
Around those cold and powerless fingers,
The earthworm coils her slimy rings;
Above his grave the wild bird lingers,
And many a requiem o'er it sings.

"I mourn for Rhun; doth not the stranger tread,
With spurning foot, upon his lowly bed?
Doth not his spirit wailing roam,
The land his dying wishes bless'd?
And finds, within the Cymry's home,
But the oppressor a