Britain ... - Blue-Lite

366 THE VARANGIAN. [Act IV.
<
Ah !
When our fathers on the heath
Drew the battle-sword of death ;
When, returned from blood-drenched fields,
In the hall they hung their shields,
And at banquet, victory crowned,
Song and mead-cup circled round.
Years of glory, days of old,
Deeds forgotten, tales untold,
Ye are past, as soon shall be
Lan-Ivan's feeble minstrelsy.
gentle harp of Locmar's sacred spring,
Soon must I cease to strike thy magic string !
How many silent years have flown away,
Since thou in Celtic hall hast woke the lay !
And when I with my Bardic fathers sleep,
Thou shalt be hurled amid the ocean deep,
That rolls its stormy tide on Purbeck's shore,
And none shall ever wake thy music more !
Who then for the Celtic warrior shall mourn,
As he slumbering lies in his dusty urn ?
His death-song the winds of the forest shall be,
And his requiem the midnight hymn of the sea.
Who then for the harp and its minstrel shall weep,
When with strangers he far from his fathers shall sleep ?
The Morning will come in her beautiful light,
And, veiled in her darkness, the widow-like Night :
To his tomb, with her roses and tears, will come Morn,
And Night shall be there, with her cloud and her storm,
To mourn o'er the last Druid-bard of the isle,
On whom his proud age deigned never to smile !