Where are the men who went forth in the morning,
    Hope brightly beaming in every face? 
  Fearing no danger,—­the Saxon foe scorning,—­
    Little thought they of defeat or disgrace! 
  Fallen is their chieftain—­his glory departed—­
    Fallen are the heroes who fought by his side! 
  Fatherless children now weep, broken-hearted,
    Mournfully wandering by Rhuddlan’s dark tide!

  Small was the band that escaped from the slaughter,
    Flying for life as the tide ’gan to flow;
  Hast thou no pity, thou dark rolling water? 
    More cruel still than the merciless foe! 
  Death is behind them, and death is before them;
    Faster and faster rolls on the dark wave;
  One wailing cry—­and the sea closes o’er them;
    Silent and deep is their watery grave.

From the Welsh of TALIESSIN,
Translation of THOMAS OLIPHANT

* * * * *

BRUCE AND THE SPIDER.

[About 1307.]

  For Scotland’s and for freedom’s right
    The Bruce his part had played,
  In five successive fields of fight
    Been conquered and dismayed;
  Once more against the English host
  His band he led, and once more lost
    The meed for which he fought;
  And now from battle, faint and worn,
  The homeless fugitive forlorn
    A hut’s lone shelter sought.

  And cheerless was that resting-place
    For him who claimed a throne: 
  His canopy, devoid of grace,
    The rude, rough beams alone;
  The heather couch his only bed,—­
  Yet well I ween had slumber fled
    From couch of eider-down! 
  Through darksome night till dawn of day,
  Absorbed in wakeful thoughts he lay
    Of Scotland and her crown.

  The sun rose brightly, and its gleam
    Fell on that hapless bed,
  And tinged with light each shapeless beam
    Which roofed the lowly shed;
  When, looking up with wistful eye,
  The Bruce beheld a spider try
    His filmy thread to fling
  From beam to beam of that rude cot;
  And well the insect’s toilsome lot
    Taught Scotland’s future king.

  Six times his gossamery thread
    The wary spider threw;
  In vain the filmy line was sped,
    For powerless or untrue
  Each aim appeared, and back recoiled
  The patient insect, six times foiled,
    And yet unconquered still;
  And soon the Bruce, with eager eye,
  Saw him prepare once more to try
    His courage, strength, and skill.

  One effort more, his seventh and last—­
    The hero hailed the sign!—­
  And on the wished-for beam hung fast
    That slender, silken line! 
  Slight as it was, his spirit caught
  The more than omen, for his thought
    The lesson well could trace,
  Which even “he who runs may read,”
  That Perseverance gains its meed,
    And Patience wins the race.