I BENEATH this massy keep And down this glen Rode our great lord, the Prince Glyndwr, That king of men; But now the years are old And his hearths are cold ... And he will not ride again. II But yet I saw him come, Stalwart and strong, Riding—with eyes that blazed like stars— To quench a wrong: And this I saw and heard In a dream that stirred Out of a peasant's song. III I saw him come once more, Still proud and tall, But there were none to staunch his wounds Or hear his call: And he passed from grave to grave, But the dead no answer gave To his lone footfall. IV And so, from hill to hill, Calling, he crept Until Death answered,'Come—my Prince' ... And the woods wept: And they rode where no man knows— Not even the wind that blows Saw where his great soul slept. |