The Massacre of the Bards

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!