Trebarrow

Did the wild blast of battle sound,
Of old, from yonder lonely mound ?
Race of Pendragen ! did ye pour
On this dear earth your votive gore ?

Did stern swords cleave along this plain
The loose rank of the roving Dane ?
Or Norman charger's sounding tread
Smite the meek daisy's Saxon head ?

The wayward winds no answer breathe,
No legend cometh from beneath
Of chief, with good sword at his side
Or Druid in his tomb of pride.

One quiet bird, that comes to make
Her lone nest in the scanty brake ;
A nameless flower, a silent fern —
Lo ! the dim stranger's storied urn.

Hark ! on the cold wings of the blast
The future answereth to the past ;
The bird, the flower, may gather still,
Thy voice shall cease upon the hill !