The Strand of Rhuddlan.

I.

Low sinks the sun to rest
Over the lofty crest
   Of dim Eryri;
Now over moor and dale
Night spreads her darkening veil,
While from the rustling trees
Softly the evening breeze
   Dieth and fleeteth;
Fainter upon mine ear
Falls from the ocean near,
   Its murmur weary;
Only within my breast,
Tossing in strange unrest,
   Loud my heart beateth;
Beateth with rage and pain,
Beateth as once again
   I muse and ponder
On that accursed hour,
When ’neath the Saxon power,
Welshmen who freedom sought,
Fell as they bravely fought,
   On Rhuddlan yonder.

II.

See, through the gathering gloom
Dimly there seems to loom
   The sheen of targes;
Hark, with a swift rebound,
Loudly the weapons sound
   Upon them falling;
While from each rattling string
Death-dealing arrows ring,
   Hissing and sighing;
Trembles the bloodstained plain,
Trembles and rings again,
   Beneath the charges;
But through the deafening roar,
And moans of those who sore
   Wounded are lying,
Rises Caradog’s cry,
Rises to heaven on high,
   His warriors calling—­
“Welshmen! we ne’er will sell
Country we love so well! 
Turn we the foe to flight,
Or let the moon this night
Find all our warriors bold
On Rhuddlan stark and cold,
   For Cymru dying.”

III.

Hearing his high behest,
Swells every Briton’s breast,
Red as their lance in rest
   Their faces glowing;
See, through the Saxon band,
Many a strong right hand
Once and again strikes home,
As in their might they come,
   A broad lane mowing. 
Britons from far and near
Loud raise their voice in prayer,
“In this our hour of need
To Thee, O God, we plead,
   Send help from heaven! 
Guard now our fatherland,
Strengthen each Briton’s hand,
And now on Rhuddlan’s strand
   Be victory given.”

IV.

Ah! through my trembling heart
Pierce, like a bitter dart,
   Anguish and terror;
Hark to the foemen’s vaunt,
Boasting and bitter taunt
   Of Saxon warrior. 
Nay, do not triumph so,
Do not rejoice as though
   Your deeds were glorious;
Not your own valour brave,
Numbers, not courage, have
   Made you victorious. 
Those who on every side,
Have marked the battle’s tide,
Praying for Cymru’s arms,
Filled now with wild alarms,
   The heights are scaling. 
Old men and children flee,
As in amaze they see,
Their chosen warriors yield,
On Rhuddlan’s bloody field,
   The foe prevailing.

V.