CRY 'Tudor' ... and this ancient dust will swarm To companies and hosts of desperate men: And myriad feet will muster ... and alarm Shatter the years' long truce. So, surely, then You shall discern a grave, prophetic Prince Beneath the dragon-standard and the sun, Marching with men who yearned and waited since Llywelyn died and Glyndwr's dream was done— To make a kinsman king. And, lo! they come Hot-blooded in the faith. O doomed, crowned head So stubborn-valiant ... yet so swiftly dumb, Do you still linger with those Cymric dead Who by an easier path had haply lain Deep in their rugged hills beneath the rain? |