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Within its solitary bound 



No sign of human life is found ; 



Its waters, black by day, 'tis said 



At night, beneath the moon, gleam red, 



And so of old its name ( I J it got. 



But whether this be so or not. 



No tongue of mortal can express 



Its weird and gloomy ghostliness, 



Which makes no traveller pass that way 



If he can help it, night or day. 



Such feeling o'er our travellers three. 



Though they were brave, as brave could be, 



A moment stole ; but soon Fitz Paine 



And Milo were themselves again ; 



And thus the latter, with a laugh, 



Began his British friend to chaff. 



"This, sure, must be the place," quoth he, 



" I've heard about from infancy, 



(I know among these hills it lies) 



O'er which the wild fowl silent flies. 



Nor utters once a cry or song 



From year to year its reeds among, 



Save when some prince of native right 



Commands ! then up, in sudden flight. 



From every soak and pool they rise, 



And fill the air with clamorous cries ; 



And now, Ap Rhys, it seems to me 



No fitter time could ever be 



To prove this story, false or true. 



I'd like to test it ; what say you ? " 



Quoth Gryffyn " I consent ; but since 

 Of this domain you now are prince 

 Suppose you first your title try." 

 Quoth Milo. " Willingly will I ; " 

 Then, turning towards the marsh, he gave 

 A shout that might have pierced a grave. 

 But when its echoes died away 

 The marsh, as erst, in silence laj'. 

 Again he tried, and tried Fitz Paine, 

 In French and Welsh, but all in vain ; 

 At their command no feather stirred. 

 Nor voice along the Mere was heard. 



(/) Rhosgoch— Red Marsh. 



