And Walwyn and Frankton and Mortimer fell
Closed round unawares by the fold in the dell!

--As who, where the shadow beneath him is thrown,
By some well in Saharan high noontide alone
Sits under the palm-tree, nor hears the low breath
Of the russet-maned foe panting hot for his death;

So Llywelyn,--unarm'd, unaware:--Is it she,
Bright star of his morning, when Gwynedd was free,
Fair bride, the long sought, taken early, goes by?
In the heart of the breeze the lost Eleanor's sigh?

Or the one little daughter's sweet face with a gleam
Of glamour looks out, as the dream in a dream?
Or for childhood's first sunshine and calm does he yearn,
As the days of Maesmynan in memory return?

Or,--dear to the heart's-blood as first-love or wife,--
The mountains whose freedom was one with his life,
Gray farms and green vales of that ancient domain,
The thousand-years' kingdom, he dreams of again?

Or is it the rage of stark Edward; the base
Unkingly revenge on a kinglier race;
The wrong idly wrought on the patriot dead;
The dark castle of doom; the scorn-diadem'd head?

--Lo, where Rhodri and Owain await thee!--The foe
Slips nearing in silence: one flash--and one blow!