nd oppress'd."

The minstrel pauses in her strain,
To gaze on Owain's altered brow,
Where shame and sorrow, pride and pain,
Are striving for the mastery now.

Not long the pause, again she flings
Her fingers o'er the sounding strings;
Mournfully still, yet hurriedly,
Waking a bolder melody;
Her form assumes a loftier height,
Her dark eyes flash more wildly bright,
And the voice, that seem'd o'er the ear to float,
Now stirs the heart like a trumpet's note.

"Whence is the light on my spirit cast,
A glance of the future, a dream of the past?
There's a coming sound in the shelter'd glen,
Like the measur'd tread of warlike men,
And the mingled hum of a gathering crowd,
And the war-cry echoing far and loud.

"I hear their shields and corselets clashing,
I see the gleam of their blue spears flashing,
And the sun on plume-deck'd helmets glance,
And the banners that on the free wind dance,
And the steed of the chief in his gallant array
As he rushes to glory, away, away!"

"Sweep on, sweep on, in your crushing might,
Bear ye that banner o'er hill and height!
Sweep on, sweep on, in your 'whelming wrath,
The far-scented raven shall follow your path;
Let him track the step of the mountain ranger,
And his beak shall be red with the blood of the stranger.

"On, for the fortress, whose gloomy height
Looks down on the valley in scornful might,
Leave not one stone on another to tell
That the Saxon has dwelt where no more he shall dwell;
Let the green weed o'ershadow the desolate hearth
That has rung to the spoiler's exulting mirth.

"On! When the strife grows fierce and high,
Vengeance and Rhun be your battle-cry!
Star of the Cymry! can it be
They go to conquer and not with thee?
Thy blood is on the foeman's glaive,
My lost, my beautiful, my brave!"

The song has ceased, but ere its close,
The lustre from those eyes is gone,
The cheek has lost its crimson rose,
The voice has changed its thrilling tone,
Till the last notes in murmurs die,
Faint as the echo of a sigh.

The task is done, the spell is cast,
And, left in silent loneliness,
The o'erwrought spirit breaks at last,
Her hands her throbbing temples press,
And tears are gushing fast and bright,
Down those small palms and fingers slight.

Oh, human love! how beautiful thou art,
Shading the ruin, clinging round the tomb,
And ling'ring still, tho' all beside depart;
Can the cold sceptic, with his creed of gloom,
Deem that thy fina