Though the Muse inspire thy breast;
On thy face though wonder rest,
Wildly gazing; and thy frame
Rival Græcia's proudest fame ;-
Sigh unheard, unpitied pine,
If nor rank nor wealth be thine :
Rich and high-born dotards tear,
From thine arms the venal fair.
OWEN'S GRAVE.
Margaret lamenting over her Father's Grave.
Ah low beneath this flowery coverture
Thy relics, Owen! lie. Thrice hath the Moon
Her crescent fill'd, since first
poor Margaret, Thy soul's belov'd, to this thy mortal shrine
Spring's balmy incense brought, thy honor'd name
So to recall to mind, so pay the debt
Of filial gratitude. Lo! now I plant
Shrubs ever verdant, pansies, creeping thyme,
And rosemary, that in our garden once
So sweetly flourish'd. 'Twas a pleasant spot,
A little Eden, yet I loved it more
For Owen's sake. O how the Violet
The tepid morn of Spring would hail, its breath
All fragrance, and its purple buds unclose
Beside our casement; but, my
Father! soon,
Thy loss methought lamenting, soon it cast
Its withering leaves, and died. This vermil Rose, Pluck'd from the favorite tree thine own hands rear'd, Shall o'er its planter's humble sepulchre
Its short-lived sweets exhale. Ah me! the time
I well remember, 'twas one summer eve,
Grateful the sportive breeze, as with my Sire
I strayed; the half-blown petals of a rose
Sudden he spied, "See'st thou, my Margaret!
That moss-clad Rosebush? how its infant germ
"Is bursting into bloom!" Ah me, my Girl!
"Ere those fair flowerets fade, thy hand perchance
"May strew them on my grave; but, by the love
"Thou bearest thy parent, I conjure thee heed
"This my request; when I am dead, this tree
"Be thine to tend, to prune, and kindly shield
"From winter's chilly blights." I little thought,
Thy bodings, OWEN! were alas too just !
How lately did'st thou to our social hut
The way worn traveller hail, before him spread
A homely fare, and whilst our crackling fire
Blazed cheerily, and frequent on the roof
Fell the loud raindrops, bless thy happy stars,
And many an hour beguile, reciting tales
Of legendary lore, or on thy harp
The plaintive dirge of Morfa Rhuddlan chant.
When, peeping through thy lattice, Phœbus' rays
The morning dawn proclaim'd, then didst thou haste
To guide the stranger o'er the craggy steeps
Of Snowden, saying, "God be with thee, Friend!
"And if perchance thou hither comest again,
"Know, thou shalt e'er at OWEN's lowly Cot
"A cordial welcome find." Thus late thy heart
Throbb'd with benevolence, but now, alas!
It beats no more. Yet, O departed shade!
One task is mine-thy church-glebe-tenement
These living perfumes oft to strew around,
And o'er thy coffined relics drop my tears.
And soothing is the thought, that at the hour,
The witching hour of night, when airy sprites
Their cloud-built mansions quit, thy sainted form
With printless feet this roscid turf shall tread,
And view thine Orphan's labours with a smile!
Joy, joy in London now!
He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to death,
At length the traitor meets the traitor's doom, Joy, joy in London now!
He on a sledge is drawn,
His strong right arm unweapon'd and in chains,
And garlanded around his helmless head
The laurel wreath of scorn.
They throng to view him now
Who in the field had fled before his sword, Who at the name of Wallace once grew pale
And faltered out a prayer.
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