THE moon in silent brightness
Rides o'er the mountain brow,
The mist in fleecy whiteness
Has clad the vale below;
Above the woodbine bow'r
Dark waves our trysting-tree;
It is, it is the hour,
Oh come, my love, to me!
The dews of night have wet me,
While wand'ring lonelily;
Thy father's bands beset me--
I only fear'd for thee.
I crept beneath thy tower,
I climb'd the ivy tree;
And blessed be the hour
That brings my love to me.
I left my chosen numbers
In yonder copse below;
Each warrior lightly slumbers,
His hand upon his bow:
From forth a tyrant's power
They wait to set thee free;
It is, it is the hour,-
Oh come, my love, to me!
PROPOSED FOR THE VASE PRESENTED TO SIR WATKIN WILLIAMS WYNN, BY THE NOBILITY AND GENTRY OF DENBIGHSHIRE, AT THE
CONCLUSION OF THE WAR IN 1815.
"Ask ye why around me twine
Tendrils of the Gascon vine?
Ask ye why, in martial pride,
Sculptured laurels deck my side,
Blended with that noble tree,
Badge of Albion's liberty?
Cambria me, for glory won
By the waves of broad Garonne,
Sends to greet her bravest son;
Prov'd beyond the western deep,
By rebel clans on Ulster's steep;
Prov'd, where first on Gallia's plain,
The banish'd lily bloom'd again;
And prov'd where ancient bounty calls
The traveller to his father's halls!
Nor marvel, then, that round me twine
The oak, the laurel, and the vine ;
For thus was Cambria wont to see
Her Hirlas-horn of victory :
Nor Cambria e'er, in days of yore,
To worthier chief the Hirlas bore!"
EMIRS and Khâns in long array,
To Timour's council bent their way;
The lordly Tartar, vaunting high,
The Persian with dejected eye,
The vassal Russ, and, lured from far,
Circassia's mercenary war.
But one there came, uncall'd and last,
The spirit of the wintry blast!
He mark'd, while wrapt in mist he stood,
The purpos'd track of spoil and blood;
He marked, unmov'd by mortal woe,
That old man's eye of swarthy glow;
That restless soul, whose single pride
Was cause enough that millions died;
He, heard, he saw, till envy woke,
And thus the voice of thunder spoke :-
"And hop'st thou thus, in pride unfurl'd,
To bear those banners through the world?
Can time nor space thy toils defy ?
Oh king, thy fellow-demon I!
Servants of Death, alike we sweep
The wasted earth, or shrinking deep.
And on the land, and o'er the wave,
We the harvest of the grave.
But thickest then that harvest lies,
And wildest sorrows rend the skies,
In darker cloud the vultures sail,
And richer carnage taints the gale,
And few the mourners that remain,
When winter leagues with Tamerlane !
But on, to work our lord's decree ;
Then, tyrant, turn, and cope with me!
And learn, though far thy trophies shine,
How deadlier are my blasts than thine!
Nor cities burnt, nor blood of men,
Nor thine own pride shall warm thee then!
Forth to thy task! We meet again
On wild Chabanga's frozen plain !"
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