And the swift charger sweep,
In full career,

Trampling thy place of sleep-
Why cam'st thou here?

Why?-Ask the true heart why
Woman hath been
Ever, where brave men die,
Unshrinking seen?

Unto this harvest ground
Proud reapers came,

Some for that stirring sound,
A warrior's name:

Some for the stormy play,

And joy of strife,

And some to fling away
A weary life.

But thou, pale sleeper, thou,
With the slight frame,

And the rich locks, whose glow
Death cannot tame;

Only one thought, one power,
Thee could have led,

So through the tempest's hour
To lift thy head!

Only the true, the strong,
The love, whose trust
Woman's deep soul too long
Pours on the dust.


-Women act their parts

When they do make their ordered houses know them.
Men must be busy out of doors, must stir

The city; yea, make the great world aware
That they are in it; for the mastery
Of which they race and wrestle.

WARRIOR! whose image on thy tomb,
With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom
By the stain'd window shed;
The records of thy name and race
Have faded from the stone,
Yet through a cloud of years I trace
What thou hast been and done.

A banner from its flashing spear
Flung out o'er many a fight;
A war-cry ringing far and clear,
And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance
On for the holy shrine,

A haughty heart and kingly glance-
Chief! were not these things thine?

A lofty place where leaders sate
Around the council board;

In festive halls a chair of state,

When the blood-red wine was pour'd;

A name that drew a prouder tone
From herald, harp, and bard;


-Surely these things were all thine own;
So hadst thou thy reward!

Woman! whose sculptur'd form at rest
By the armed knight is laid,
With meek hands folded o'er thy breast
In matron robes array'd;
What was thy tale ?-Oh, gentle mate
Of him the bold and free,
Bound unto his victorious fate,
What bard hath sung of thee?

He woo'd a bright and burning star;
Thine was the void, the gloom,
The straining eye that followed far
His oft receding plume;

The heart sick listening while his steed
Sent echoes on the breeze;

The pang-but when did Fame take heed
Of griefs obscure as these?

Thy silent and secluded hours,
Through many a lone day,

While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers,
With spirit far away;

Thy weeping midnight prayers for him
Who fought on Syrian plains;
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim,—
These fill no minstrel-strains.

A still sad life was thine!-long years,
With tasks unguerdon'd fraught,
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,
Vigils of anxious thought;
Prayers at the cross in fervor pour'd,
Alms to the pilgrims given;
O happy, happier than thy lord
In that lone path to heaven!



SAW ye the blazing star?

The heavens look down on Freedom's war, And light her torch on high:

Bright on the dragon-crest

It tells that glory's wing shall rest,
When warriors meet to die!
Let earth's pale tyrants read despair
And vengeance in its flame,
Hail ye, my bards! the omen fair
Of conquest and of fame,

And swell the rushing mountain air,
With songs to Glyndwr's name.

At the dead hour of night,
Mark'd ye how each majestic height
Burn'd in its awful beams!

Red shone th' eternal snows,
And all the land, as bright it rose,
Was full of glorious dreams.

Oh! eagles of the battles, rise!

The hope of Gwynedd wakes-

It is your banner in the skies,

Thro' each dark cloud that breaks,

And mantles with triumphal dyes,
Your thousand hills and lakes!

A sound is on the breeze,

A murmur, as of swelling seas!

The Saxon's on his way!

Lo! spear, and shield, and lance,

From Deva's waves, with lightning glance, Reflected to the day.

But who the torrent-wave compels

A conqueror's chains to bear?

Let those who wake the soul that dwells
On our free winds, beware!

The greenest and the loveliest dells
May be the lion's lair!

Of us they told the seers

And monarch-bards of elder years,
Who walk'd on earth as powers;
And in their burning strains,

A spell of might and mystery reigns,
To guard our mountain towers.
-In Snowdon's caves a prophet lay,
Before his gifted sight

The march of ages pass'd away,
With hero-footsteps bright,
But proudest, in that long array
Was Glyndwr's path of light!


"To a mysteriously consorted pair,

This place is consecrate; to death and life,
And to the best affections that proceed
From this conjunction."


How many hopes were borne upon thy bier,
O bride of stricken love! in anguish hither!
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year,
Pluck'd on the bosom of the dead to wither;
Hopes, from their source all holy, though of earth,
All brightly gathering round affection's hearth.
Of mingled prayer they told; of sabbath hours;
Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed meeting;
Of childhood's voice, amidst the household bowers,
And bounding step, and smile of joyous greeting,
But thou, young mother! to thy gentle heart,
Didst take thy babe, and meekly so depart.

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