The Massacre of the Bards
By Mary Hannay Foott
The sunlight from the sky is swept,
But, over Snowdons summit kept,
One brand of cloud yet burns,
By ghostly hands far out of sight,
Held, glowing, in the even-light,
As Fate still keeps the weapon bright
That lingers and returns.
------
O day of slaughter! Day of woe!
But once, a thousand years ago,
Such day has Britain seen;
When blushed her hoary hills with shame
At Monas sacrifice of flame;
While shrieks from out the burning came
Across the strait between.
Death-helping day! That couldst not find
One weeping cloud to hide behind!
Cursed day whose light was given
For search-mate to the Saxon sword
Through coverts that our rocks afford,
While Edwards godless minions poured
The blood of the unshriven!
------
Ill fare we when the trees are rent,
Whose friendly shelter erst was lent
In sun, and wind, and rain.
Ill fare we when the thunder-shocks
Let loose the torrents from their rocks,
To sweep away the mountain-flocks,
And flood the standing grain.
But where the forest-giants groan,
By winds that waste the woods oerthrown,
New saplings blithely spring!
Sank herd and harvest neath the tide?
Theres bleating on the mountain-side;
Oer cornfields, ere the dew has dried
To-morrows lark shall sing!
Sore sighs the land when she has need
The dragon-jaws of war to feed
With those who love her best;
And long shall Cambrias tears be shed
For him who late her armies led,
Llewellyn, whose dissevered head
The Saxon crowned in jest!
Yet, in their stead whose blood is spilt,
Newcomers seize the swords warm hilt,
Or oer it reach the ground!
Llewellyn! every night-watch drear
With grief for thee, brings morning near;
That morn when Arthur shall appear,
Once more our leader crowned!
But when the blood of bards is poured,
Who gathers their forgotten hoard
From memories sealed by fate?
What daring songster eer shall soar
For us to Heavens death-guarded door,
And tell thereafter of the store
That glimmers through the grate?
When Famines empty hand is filled,
When years the shattered oaks rebuild,
Shall heroes spring again,
Brave spirits of the past to greet
Who rise at minstrel-summons sweet,
When bards the olden tales repeat
Of Britains mighty slain?
Nay, by the harps our fathers heard
No more shall Britains heart be stirred,
Lost is the ancient lore!
Spent is the breath of song, that fanned
Freedoms low fires! The bards light hand,
Whose beckoning brought the martial band,
Shall seek the strings no more!