THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.
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And I too go—my wound is deep,
My brethren long have died—
Yet ere my soul grow dark with sleep,
Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride!
Bear it, where on his battle plain,
Beneath the setting sun,
He counts my country's noble slain—
Say to him—Saxon! think not all is won.
Thou hast laid low the warrior's head,
The minstrel's chainless hand;
—Dreamer! that number'st with the dead,
The burning spirit of the mountain land!
Think'st thou because the song hath ceas'd,
The soul of song is flown?
Think'st thou it woke to crown the feast,
It liv'd beside the ruddy hearth alone?
