Jones
CXXV Rhuddlan Marsh
Arvon’s heights hide the bright sun from our gazing,
Night’s dark pall enshrouds all in its embracing;
Still as death—not a breath mars the deep silence,
On mine ear waves roll near with soft hush’d cadence.
O the start of my heart’s quick palpitating,
Anger’s thrill doth me fill when meditating
On the day when the fray crushed the brave Cambrian,
When, through guile, pile on pile heaped Morfa Rhuddlan!
See, at once Britain’s sons’ bosoms are swelling,
Each face hot with fierce thought from each heart welling;
Strong arms bare through the air fierce blows are dealing,
Till the foes with the blows serried are reeling!
Through the day Britons pray in their great anguish,—
‘Thou, on high, hear our cry—help us to vanquish!
Hedge around the dear ground of our lov’d Britain,
Speed our host, or we’re lost on Morfa Rhuddlan!’
Like a dart through my heart anguish is flowing,
Hark, how loud, fierce, and proud is the foes’ crowing!
But, O host, do not boast as of aught glorious,
’Twas thy swarms, not thine arms, made thee victorious!
See, yon scores at their doors watching in terrors,
Full of care for the fare of their lov’d warriors!
Up the rocks quickly flock sire, child, and woman,—
Each heart bleeds for the deeds on Morfa Rhuddlan.
Richard Bellis Jones.