Green island of the mighty! {87a} I see thine ancient race Driv'n from their fathers' realm, to make the rocks their dwelling place! I see from Uthyr's {87b} kingdom the sceptre pass away, And many a line of bards and chiefs, and princely men decay.

But long as Arvon's mountains shall lift their sovereign forms, And wear the crown to which is giv'n dominion o'er the storms, So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue, To which the harp of Mona's woods by Freedom's hand was strung.



THE MONARCHY OF BRITAIN. {87c}

BY MRS. HEMANS.

Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time, Ere spoilers had breath'd the free air of your clime! All that its eagles beheld in their flight Was yours from the deep to each storm-mantled height! Though from your race that proud birthright be torn, Unquench'd is the spirit for monarchy born. Darkly though clouds may hang o'er us awhile, The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle! {88} Ages may roll ere your children regain The land for which heroes have perish'd in vain. Yet in the sound of your names shall be pow'r, Around her still gath'ring, till glory's full hour. Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep, Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep. Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile, Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle!



FAREWELL TO WALES.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear; Farewell; and a blessing be with thee, Greenland; In thy halls, thy hearths, in thy pure mountain air, On the strings of the harp and the minstrel's free hand; From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed, Whilst I leave thee, O land of my home and my dead.

I bless thee; yet not for the beauty which dwells In the heart of thy hills, in the waves of thy shore; And not for the memory set deep in thy dells Of the bard and the warrior, the mighty of yore; And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled, Greenland, Poetland of my home and my dead.

I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat, Where e'er a low hamlet smiles, under thy skies, For thy peasant hearths burping the stranger to greet, For the soul that looks forth from thy children's bright eyes, May the blessing, like sunshine, around thee be spread, Greenland of my childhood, my home and my dead.



THE CASTLES OF WALES.

BY REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.

Ye fortresses grey and gigantic I see on the hills of my land, To my mind ye appear terrific, When I muse on your ruins so grand; Your walls were a shelter the strongest From the enemies' countless array, When they spilt with the blood of the bravest, Your sides in our ancestors' day.

Around you the war-horse was neighing, And pranced his rich trappings to feel, While through you were frightfully gleaming Bright lances and spears of steel; The fruits of the rich-laden harvest, Were ruthlessly trod by the foe, And the thunder of battle was loudest, To herald its message of woe.

While viewing your dilapidation, My memory kindles with joy, To think that the foes of our nation, No longer these valleys destroy; By sowing his fields in the winter, In hope of a rich harvest-home, The husbandman now feels no terror Of war with its havoc to come.

When I look at the sheep as they shelter In safety beneath your rude walls, Where erst the dread agents of slaughter Fell'd thousands, nor heeded their calls; The hillock where crossed the sharp spears Now shadows the ewe and its lamb, While seeing the peace of these years, My heart is with gratitude warm.

Ye towers that saw the wild ravens, And the eagles with hunger impell'd, Exultingly gorge 'mid your ruins. On corpses of men which they held; How sweet for you now 'tis to hear The shepherd, so peaceful and meek, Tune his reed with a melody clear, While his flock in you shelter do seek.

Upon your battlements sitting, To view the bright landscape below, My heart becomes sad when remembering That silent in death is the foe, And the friends who bravely did combat, And raised your grey towers so steep, Declaring their life-blood should stagnate, Ere ever in chains they would weep.

When I think of their purpose so pure, The tear must fast trickle from me, Their hearts did Providence allure To their country, and her did they free; We now live beneath a meek power, And feel the full blessings of peace, While on us abundantly shower, The mercies of Heaven with increase.



THE EISTEDDFOD,

BY MRS. CORNWELL BARON WILSON. {91}

Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be heard this day In music's witching strain! Wide let her ancient "soul of song," The echo of its notes prolong, O'er valley, hill, and plain! Minstrels! awake your harps aloud, Bid Cambria's nobles hither crowd, Her daughters fair, her chieftains proud, Nor shall the call be vain!

Let gen'rous wine around be pour'd! To many a chief in mem'ry stored, Of Cambria's ancient day! Sons of the mountain and the flood, Who shed for her their dearest blood, Nor own'd a conqueror's sway! Be they extolled in music's strain, Remembered, when the cup we drain, And let their deeds revive again In ev'ry minstrel's lay!

'Tis now the feast of soul and song! As roll the festive hours along, Here wealth and pow'r combine With beauty's smiles, (a rich reward,) To cheer the rugged mountain bard, And honour Cambria's line! Then, minstrels! wake your harps aloud, Behold her nobles hither crowd, Her daughters fair, her chieftains proud, Like gems around they shine!



LLYWARCH HEN'S LAMENT ON CYNDDYLAN.

[Llywarch Hen, warrior and poet, was the contemporary of Aneurin and Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the battle of Cattraeth, where he witnessed the fall of three of his sons, and in the endless wars of that period. He had twenty four sons, all of whom were slain in battle in the bard's lifetime. He retired for refuge to the Court of Cynddylan, then Prince of Powys, at Pengwern, now Shrewsbury. The Saxons at length drove Cynddylan from Pengwern, and the bard retired to Llanfor, near Bala, in Merionethshire, where he died at the long age of 150 years. Hence the appellation hen, or the aged. Twelve poems of this bard remain, but all are imbued with the melancholy of the poet's life.]

Cynddylan's hearth is dark to-night, Cynddylan's halls are lone; War's fire has revell'd o'er their might, And still'd their minstrel's tone; And I am left to chant apart One murmur of a broken heart!

Pengwern's blue spears are gleamless now, Her revelry is still; The sword has blanched his chieftain's brow, Her fearless sons are chill: And pagan feet to dust have trod The blue-robed messengers of God. {92}

Cynddylan's shield, Cynddylan's pride, The wandering snows are shading, One palace pillar stands to guide The woodbine's verdant braiding; And I am left, from all apart, The minstrel of the broken heart!



THE LAMENT OP LLYWARCH HEN.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom; But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing, The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb!

Oh! why should I live to hear music resounding, Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave? Why smile the waste flow'rs, my sad footsteps surrounding? My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave!

Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing, As on to the fields of your glory you trod! Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing, Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod!

I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding, Which rouses ye not, oh, my lovely, my brave! When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding, I turn from heav'n's light, for it smiles on your grave!



THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for the grave has extinguished its light; The beam of its lamp from the summit is o'er, The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more!

The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still, The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill! Be silent for ever, thou desolate scene, Nor let e'en an echo recall what hath been!

The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare, No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there! Oh! where are the warriors who circled its board?— The grass will soon wave where the mead-cup was pour'd.

The Hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night, Since he is departed whose smile made it bright: I mourn, but the sigh of my soul shall be brief, The pathway is short to the grave of my chief!



THE GRAVE OF KING ARTHUR. {94a}

I called on the sun, in his noonday height, By the power and spell a wizard gave: Hast thou not found, with thy searching light, The island monarch's grave?

"I smile on many a lordly tomb, Where Death is mock'd by trophies fair; I pierce the dim aisle's hallow'd gloom; King Arthur sleeps not there."

I watched for the night's most lovely star, And, by that spell, I bade her say, If she had been, in her wand'rings far, Where the slain of Gamlan lay. {94b}

"Well do I love to shine upon The lonely cairn on the dark hill's side, And I weep at night o'er the brave ones gone, But not o'er Britain's pride."

I bent o'er the river, winding slow Through tangled brake and rocky bed: Say, do thy waters mourning flow Beside the mighty dead?

The river spake through the stilly hour, In a voice like the deep wood's evening sigh: "I am wand'ring on, 'mid shine and shower, But that grave I pass not by."

I bade the winds their swift course hold, As they swept in their strength the mountain's bre'st: Ye have waved the dragon banner's fold, Where does its chieftain rest?

There came from the winds a murmured note, "Not ours that mystery of the world; But the dragon banner yet shall float On the mountain breeze unfurl'd."

Answer me then, thou ocean deep, Insatiate gulf of things gone by, In thy green halls does the hero sleep? And the wild waves made reply:

"He sleeps not in our sounding cells, Our coral beds with jewels pearl'd; Not in our treasure depths it dwells, That mystery of the world.

"Long must the island monarch roam, The noble heart and the mighty hand; But we shall bear him proudly home To his father's mountain land."



THE VENGEANCE OF OWAIN. {96}

[Owain Gwynedd, the subject of the following poem was the eldest son of Gruffydd ab Cynan, Prince of Gwynedd, or North Wales, and he succeeded his father on his death in 1137. Father and son were illustrious warriors and patriotic rulers. They were also celebrated for their munificent protection of the Welsh Bards. The Saxons had established themselves at the castle of Wyddgrug, now Mold, and thence committed great ravages on the Welsh in that vicinity. Owain collected his forces, and by a sudden and fierce attack he conquered the Saxons in their stronghold, and afterwards razed it with the ground in 1144. This celebrated Prince died in 1162, and was buried at Bangor, where a monument to his memory still remains.]

"It may be bowed With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb That weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom, Heaven gives its favourites—early death."

CHILDE HAROLD.

"Oh Gwynedd, fast thy star declineth, Thy name is gone, thy rights invaded, And hopelessly the strong oak pineth, Where the tall sapling faded; The mountain eagle idly cowers Beside his slaughtered young, Our sons must bow to other powers, Must learn a stranger tongue. Pride, valour, freedom, treasures that have been, Do they all slumber in the grave of Rhun?"

Thus sad and low the murmurs spread Round Owain's stately walls, While he, a mourner o'er the dead, Sate lonely in his halls; And not the hardiest warrior there, Unpitying, might blame The reckless frenzy of despair Which shook that iron frame; Eyes that had coldly gazed on woman's grief, Wept o'er the anguish of their stern old chief.

Not all unheard those murmurs past, They reached a lady's bower, Where meekly drooped beneath the blast Proud Gwynedd's peerless flower; And she, the hero's widow'd bride, Has roused her from her sorrow's spell, And vowed one effort should be tried For that fair land he loved so well.

There came a footstep, light and lone, To break the Chieftain's solitude, And, bending o'er a harp's low tone, A form of fragile beauty stood; More like the maid, in fairy lay, {97} Whose very being was of flowers, Than creature, moulded from the clay, To dwell in this cold sphere of ours.

Her snowy brow through dark locks gleamed, And long and shadowy lashes curled, O'er eyes whose deep'ning radiance seemed Caught from the light of another world; And on her cheek there was a glow, Like clouds that kiss the parting sun; Death's crimson banner, spread to show His mournful triumph was begun.

Has grief so dulled Prince Owain's ear, Her melody he may not hear? No kindly look, or word, or token, His trance of wretchedness has broken, Yet knows she, in that lonely spot, Her presence felt, tho' greeted not; Knows that no foot, save hers, unbidden; Had dared to tread the living tomb, No other hand had waked, unchidden, The echoes of that sullen gloom; And now her voice's gentle tone Blends with the harp, in dirge-like moan:

"I mourn for Rhun; the spider's patient trail Hangs fairy cordage round his useless mail; The pennon, never seen to yield, Bends in the light breeze, idly gay, And rusted spear, and riven shield Tell of a warrior past away.

"I mourn for Rhun; alas! the damp earth lies Heavy and chill on those unconscious eyes; Around those cold and powerless fingers, The earthworm coils her slimy rings; Above his grave the wild bird lingers, And many a requiem o'er it sings.

"I mourn for Rhun; doth not the stranger tread, With spurning foot, upon his lowly bed? Doth not his spirit wailing roam, The land his dying wishes bless'd? And finds, within the Cymry's home, But the oppressor and oppress'd."

The minstrel pauses in her strain, To gaze on Owain's altered brow, Where shame and sorrow, pride and pain, Are striving for the mastery now.

Not long the pause, again she flings Her fingers o'er the sounding strings; Mournfully still, yet hurriedly, Waking a bolder melody; Her form assumes a loftier height, Her dark eyes flash more wildly bright, And the voice, that seem'd o'er the ear to float, Now stirs the heart like a trumpet's note.

"Whence is the light on my spirit cast, A glance of the future, a dream of the past? There's a coming sound in the shelter'd glen, Like the measur'd tread of warlike men, And the mingled hum of a gathering crowd, And the war-cry echoing far and loud.

"I hear their shields and corselets clashing, I see the gleam of their blue spears flashing, And the sun on plume-deck'd helmets glance, And the banners that on the free wind dance, And the steed of the chief in his gallant array As he rushes to glory, away, away!"

"Sweep on, sweep on, in your crushing might, Bear ye that banner o'er hill and height! Sweep on, sweep on, in your 'whelming wrath, The far-scented raven shall follow your path; Let him track the step of the mountain ranger, And his beak shall be red with the blood of the stranger.

"On, for the fortress, whose gloomy height Looks down on the valley in scornful might, Leave not one stone on another to tell That the Saxon has dwelt where no more he shall dwell; Let the green weed o'ershadow the desolate hearth That has rung to the spoiler's exulting mirth.

"On! When the strife grows fierce and high, Vengeance and Rhun be your battle-cry! Star of the Cymry! can it be They go to conquer and not with thee? Thy blood is on the foeman's glaive, My lost, my beautiful, my brave!"

The song has ceased, but ere its close, The lustre from those eyes is gone, The cheek has lost its crimson rose, The voice has changed its thrilling tone, Till the last notes in murmurs die, Faint as the echo of a sigh.

The task is done, the spell is cast, And, left in silent loneliness, The o'erwrought spirit breaks at last, Her hands her throbbing temples press, And tears are gushing fast and bright, Down those small palms and fingers slight.

Oh, human love! how beautiful thou art, Shading the ruin, clinging round the tomb, And ling'ring still, tho' all beside depart; Can the cold sceptic, with his creed of gloom, Deem that thy final dwelling is the dust, Thy faith but folly, nothingness thy trust?

The Saxon feasted high that night, In Wyddgrug's fortress proud, Where countless torches lent their light, And the song of mirth was loud; And ruby juice of Southern vine Sparkled in cups of golden shine.

Sudden there rose a fearful cry, That drowned the voice of revelry, And then a glare so fiercely bright, It paled the torches' waning light, And as its blaze more redly glowed, Leaving no niche or grey stone darkling, A deep and deadly current flowed To mingle with the wine-cup's sparkling.

And, in that triumph's wild'ring hour Of sated vengeance, grappled power, Owain has lost the show of grief, Once more his Cymry's warlike chief, With dauntless mien he proudly stands, The centre of his faithful bands, Who gladly view the haughty brow, Whence care and pain seem banished now, And little reck what deeper lies, All is not joy that wears its guise, And, not, 'mid valour's trophies won, Can he forget his slaughtered son.

Forget! no, time and absence have estranged Those who in sundered paths must tread, We may forget the distant or the changed, But not—oh, not the dead: All other things, that round us come and pass, Some with'ring chance or change have proved, But they still bear, in mem'ry's magic glass, The semblance we have loved.

The morning breaks all calm and bright On ruins stern and bloody plain, Flinging her rich and growing light O'er many a ghastly heap of slain; And pure and fresh her lustre showers On shattered helm and dinted mail, As when her coming wakes the flowers In some peace-hallow'd vale.

But where is she, whose voice had power To rouse the war storm's awful might? Glad eager footsteps seek her bower, With tidings of the glorious fight; On her loved harp her head is bowed, One slender arm still round it clings, And her dark tresses in a cloud, Are clust'ring o'er the silent strings. They clasp her hands, they call her name, They bid her strike the harp once more, And sing of victory, and fame, The song she loved in days of yore. Vain, vain, there comes no breath or sound Those faded lips to sever, The broken heart its rest hath found, The harp is hushed for ever.



PART IV. THE HUMOROUS.

OLD MORGAN AND HIS WIFE.

BY THE REV. EVAN EVANS.

TRANSLATED BY T. W. HARRIS, ESQ., AND ANOTHER.

Hus.—Jane, tell me have you fed the pigs, Their cry is not so fine: And if you have not, don't delay, 'Tis nearly half-past nine.

Wife.—There, now your noisy din begins, Ding, ding, and endless ding, I do believe your scolding voice Me to the grave will bring.

H.—Were you to drop in there to-day, This day would end my sorrow.

W.—But I shall not to please you, Mog, To-day, nor yet to-morrow.

H.—Oh! were you, Jane, to leave this world,

W.—And you to beg and borrow,

H.—Stop, Jane, talk not so silly, Jane,

W.—Not at your bidding, never; I'd talk as long as I thought fit, Were I to live for ever.

H.—Your voice if raised a little more, Would rouse the very dead, A pretty noise, because I ask'd If you the pigs had fed.

W.—I'll raise my voice, Mog, louder still, As sure as you were born, Why should you ask "How many loaves Came from the peck of corn?"

H.—Should not the master of the house Know every undertaking?

W.—And wear his wife's own crinoline, And try his hand at baking!

H.—The breeches you would like to wear!

W.—What vulgar jests you're making!

H.—Stop Jane, stop Jane, don't speak so loud, Your noise will stun the cattle!

W.—The only noise that could do that Is your continued rattle.

H.—As sounds a bee upon her back, So does this wasp I've got, And all because I ask'd if she Had fed the pigs or not.

W.—Your peevish growling, Mog, is worse, Yes, ten times worse and more, Still asking, "How this churning gave Less than the one before?"

H.—You know the butter pays our rent, And many another matter.

W.—I know that if the cows are starved They won't get any fatter!

H.—I give the cows enough to eat.

W.—Well do, and hold your clatter.

H.—Stop Jane, stop Jane, confound your noise, 'Twould shame a barrel organ.

W.—If I were half as loud as you, I think it would, Old Morgan!

H.—Your temper, Jane, will drive me soon To share a soldier's lot, To march with gun and martial tune 'Midst powder, smoke, and shot.

W.—What! you a soldier? never, Mog! Your heart is coward too, You'll fight with no one but with me, You've then enough to do!

H.—I'll go and fight the mighty Czar, To aid the Turkish nation.

W.—Then go, a greater Turk than you Breathes not within creation!

H.—For shame, to call your husband Turk.

W.—Such is my pledg'd relation.

H.—Stop Jane, stop Jane, let's now shake hands And we'll be henceforth friends.

W.—No, not till you have stopp'd will I, Be still, or make amends.



SONG OF THE FOSTER-SON, LOVE.

BY REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.

I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endued with beauty from above. To bring him up with fond and tender care— Was an obligation from my fair.—

And for the guileless, beaming star's sweet sake Him to my bosom did I kindly take, Him warmly cherished and with joy caress'd, Like Philomela in the parent breast!

Thus on my breast, and sipping from my cup, With food and nurture did I bring him up; He grew a winged stripling, plump and fair, And yet he filled and fills my soul with care!

Foster-son, indeed, a rebel has become, Morose, insubordinate and glum, A peevish, wayward, wanton, wicked swain: To strive against the darts of love is vain.

And now with his ruthless, vengeful bow, He points it at me and shoots high and low. Ah! whither shall I from his anger flee; Where from his darts and wily snares be free?

All fickle is the foster-son, indeed; He leads me on to the flowery mead, When all is peace and harmony around He wrings my ears with doleful sound.

And woe betide if e'er he sees one dare A single word exchange with the fair, He forthwith casts his vengeance like a dart, And thrusts his pointed dagger through my heart.

One day, when feeling somewhat brisk and strong On summer-morn, I strolled the meads along, A curious thought upon my mind did flash That I would try this foster-boy to thrash.

With this intent I straightway armed myself, My oaken cudgel drew to chase the elf; When lo! the elf felt not the slightest stroke, But in return the tendrils of my heart he broke!

I am father to a foster-son Most cruel since this earth began to run: Oh, thousand times how sorely have I said, "The fates may take him, foster'd on my bread."

Then must I live in sorrow evermore No hope to cheer my spirit as of yore? And is despair, dark, sullen, on my heart To plant its talons with a fatal dart?

No, there yet will beam a brilliant day To chase these lurid, murky clouds away! Arise, sweet soul, thy sorrows cast away, Blow off thy cares, like ocean's shifting spray.

There is a blushing rose that blooms unseen In yonder valley decked with leaflets green, 'Twill healthy heart, tho' shatter'd and forlorn, Like scented balm from distant Gilead borne.

'Tis there my darling Dora makes her home; 'Tis there my wand'ring glances fondly roam; 'Tis there my star of beauty mildly shines; 'Tis there the chain of life my soul entwines.

'Tis there where kind maternal fondness dwells, And sister gentleness the bosom swells, 'Tis there where now the lovely lily grows Beside the purling brook that ever flows.

There's one, and only one to cheer my soul, To heal my anguish, and my grief control; 'Tis she who did the foster-boy impart To nestle deeply in my restless heart.

And if, indeed, the fair one will not pay For time and nurture, anguish and delay, Unless a guerdon in her smiles I see Then must I from her arms for ever flee.



PENNILLION.

[Pennillion singing formed quite a feature in the eisteddfodau of the Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh gentry. The pennillion were sung by one voice to the harp, and followed a quaint air which was not only interesting, but owing to its peculiarity, it set forth in a striking manner the humour of the verse. This practice, which was quite a Welsh institution, is fast dying out, and is not now much in use except at eisteddfodau.]

Many an apple will you find In hue and bloom so cheating, That, search what grows beneath its rind, It is not worth your eating. Ere closes summer's sultry hour, This fruit will be the first to sour.

* * * * * *

Those wild birds see, how bless'd are they! Where'er their pleasure leads they roam, O'er seas and mountains far away, Nor chidings fear when they come home.

* * * * *

Thou dearest little Gwen, kindest maiden of all, With cheeks fair and ruddy, and teeth white and small, With thy blue sparkling eyes, and thy eye-brows so bright, Ah, how I would love thee, sweet girl, if I might!

* * * * *

Place on my breast, if still you doubt, Your hand, but no rough pressure making, And, if you listen, you'll find out, How throbs a little heart when breaking.

* * * * *

Both old maids and young ones, the witless and wise Gain husbands at pleasure, while none will me prize; Ah! why should the swains think so meanly of me, And I full as comely as any they see!

* * * * *

From this world all in time must move, 'Tis known to every simple swain; And 'twere as well to die of love As any other mortal pain.

* * * * *

'Tis noised abroad, where'er one goes, And I am fain to hear, That no one in the country knows The girl to me most dear: And, 'tis so true, that scarce I wot, If I know well myself or not.

* * * * *

What noise and scandal fill my ear, One half the world to censure prone! Of all the faults that thus I hear, None yet have told me of their own.

* * * * *

Varied the stars, when nights are clear, Varied are the flowers of May, Varied th' attire that women wear, Truly varied too are they.

* * * * *

To rest to-night I'll not repair, The one I love reclines not here: I'll lay me on the stone apart, If break thou wilt, then break my heart.

* * * * *

In praise or blame no truth is found, Whilst specious lies do so abound; Sooner expect a tuneful crow, Than man with double face to know.

* * * * *

My speech until this very day, Was ne'er so like to run astray: But now I find, when going wrong, My teeth of use to atop my tongue.



TRIBANAU.

[The editor of the "Cambro Briton" (J. H. Parry, Esq., father of Mr. Serjeant Parry, the eminent barrister) says: "The following translations will serve to give the English reader a faint, though perhaps, but a faint idea of the Welsh Tribanau, which are most of them, like these, remarkable for their quaintness, as well as for the epigrammatic point in which they terminate."]

No cheat is it to cheat the cheater, No treason to betray the traitor, Nor is it theft, I'm not deceiving, To thieve from him who lives by thieving.

* * * * *

Three things there are that ne'er stand still; A pig upon a high-topt hill, A snail the naked stones among, And Tom the Miller's rattling tongue.

* * * * *

Three things 'tis difficult to scan; The day, an aged oak, and man: The day is long, the oak is hollow, And man—he is a two fac'd fellow.



PART V. THE SENTIMENTAL.

THE ROSE OF LLAN MEILEN.

BY DAFYDD AB GWILYM.

Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forget That ever in moments of pleasure we met; You bid me remember no longer a name The muse hath already companioned with fame; And future ap Gwilyms, fresh wreaths who compose, Shall twine with the chaplet of song for the brows Of each fair Morvida, Llan Meilen's sweet Rose.

Had the love I had loved been inconstant or gay, Enduring at most but a long summer's day, Growing cold when the splendour of noontide hath set, I might have forgotten that ever we met. But long as Eryri its peak shall expose To the sunshine of summer, or winter's cold snows, My love will endure for Llan Meilen's sweet Rose.

Then bid me not, maiden, remember no more A name which affection and love must adore, 'Till affection and love become one with the breath Of life in the silent oblivion of death, Perchance in that hour of the spirit's repose, But not until then, when the dark eyelids close, Can this fond heart forget thee, Llan Meilen's sweet Rose.



MY NATIVE COT.

The white cot where I spent my youth Is on yon lofty mountain side, The stream which flowed beside the door Adown the mossy slope doth glide; The holly tree that hid one end Is shaken by the moaning wind, Like as it was in days of yore When 'neath its boughs I shade did find.

Clear is the sky of morning tide, Bright is the season time of youth, Before the mid-day clouds appear, And fell deceit obliterates truth; Black tempest in the evening lowers, The rain descends with whirlwind force, And long ere midnight's hour nears Full is the heart of deep remorse.

Where are my old companions dear, Who in those days with me did play? The green graves in the parish yard Will soon the mournful answer say: Farewell therefore ye pleasures light, Which in my youth I did enjoy, Dark evening's come with all its trials, And these the bliss of life destroy.



UNDER THE ORCHARD TREE.

Under the deep-laden boughs of the orchard Walks a maid that is fairer than all its rich fruit, And little I doubt if I stood beneath them, To which of the objects I'd offer my suit. 'Twas little I thought when I was a stripling While gazing upon the apples so sweet, I ever should see beneath the green branches An object which yet I much sooner would greet.

Thy father was careful about his rich orchard, To fence well and strong lest the neighbours should stray, For now there doth, wander amid its green arbours A maiden more lovely than aught in the way; Its fruit I would leave to the one who may wish it, But her, who moves so majestic between, I'd steal from the orchard without a misgiving, And never would touch its apples so green.



THE BANKS OF THE DEE.

One morning in May, when soft breezes were blowing O'er Dee's pleasant tide with a ripple and swell, A shepherdess tended her flock that was feeding Upon the green meadows that lay in the dell, Her blue eye she raised, and she looked all around her, As if she'd fain see some one far on the lea, And spite of its brightness, I saw the salt tear For one who was far from the banks of the Dee.

The maiden I thought was preparing to solace Her stay with a song amid the fair scene, Nor long was I left in suspense of her object, Before she broke forth with a melody clean; The tears she would wipe away with her napkin, While often a sigh would escape from her breast, And as she sent forth the notes of her mourning, I could find that to love the lay was address'd:

"Four summers have pass'd since I lost my sweet William, And from this fair valley he mournful did go; Four autumns have shower'd their leaves on the meadows Since he on these eyelids a smile did bestow; Four winters have sped with their snowflakes and tempest Since he by my side did sing a light glee; But many more springs will be sown for the harvest Ere William revisit the banks of the Dee."



GWILYM GLYN AND RUTH OF DYFFRYN.

In the depth of yonder valley, Where the fields are bright and sunny, Ruth was nurtured fair and slender Neath a mother's eye so tender.

Listening to the thrush's carols. Was her pleasure in her gambols, And ere she grew up a maiden Gwilym's voice was sweet in Dyffryn.

Together did they play in childhood, Together ramble in the greenwood, Together dance upon the meadow, Together pluck the primrose yellow.

Both grew up in youthful beauty On the lap of peace and plenty, And before they could discover Love had linked its silent fetter.

Ruth had riches—not so Gwilym, Her stern sire grew cold unto him, And at length forbade him coming Any more to visit Dyffryn.

Gwilym thence would roam the wild-wood, Where he wander'd in his childhood, And would shun his home and hamlet, Pensive sitting in the thicket.

Ruth would, weeping, walk the garden, And survey the blank horizon For a passing glimpse of Gwilym— But all vain her tears and wailing.

Gwilym said, "I'll cross the ocean, And abide among the heathen, In the hope of getting riches, Which alone the father pleases."

But, before he left his country, Once, by stealth, he met the lady, And beneath the beech's shadow Vow'd undying love in sorrow.

Much the weeping—sad the sighing, When they parted in the gloaming, Gwilym for a distant region, Ruth behind in desolation.

Time flew fast, and many a wooer Came to Ruth an ardent lover; But in vain they sought the maiden, For she held her troth unbroken.

Owain Wynn had wealth in plenty, Earnest was his deep entreaty, And tho' favour'd by the father, Yet all vain was his endeavour.

Years now pass'd since Ruth saw Gwilym, But her dreams were always of him, And tho' morning undeceived her, Nightly did she see him near.

One fair evening Ruth was sitting In the spot of their last parting, When she thought she saw her Gwilym Cross the meadows green of Dyffryn.

Was it fact or apparition? Slow she mov'd to test the vision, Who was there but her own true love Come to claim her in the green grove.

Gwilym now possessed abundance, Gold and pearls displayed their radiance, Soon the father gave him welcome To his house and daughter handsome.

Quick the wedding-day was settled, Ruth to Gwilym then was married, Long they lived in bliss and plenty, Pride and envy of the valley.



THE LORD OF CLAS.

The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone, Over plain and sedgy moor; The glare of his bridle bit has shone On the heights of wild Benmore.

Why does he stay away from hound? Nor urge the fervid chase? Where is the shrill blast of his bugle sound? And the bloom of his radiant face?

The Lord of Clas has found other game Than the buck and timid roe; His heart is warm'd by other flame, His eyes with love-light glow.

On the mountain side a damsel he met Collecting flowers wild; Her eyes like diamonds were set, And modest as a child.

Fair was her face, and lovely to see Her form of slender mould, Her dark hair waved in tresses free On shoulders arch and bold.

The Lord of Clas did blush and sigh When the lovely maid he saw; He stoutly tried to pass her by; His bridle rein did draw.

But his heart quick flutter'd in his breast, The rein fell from his hand, In accents weak the maid address'd, While trembling did he stand.

"Fair lady, may I ask your name? And what your purpose here? From what bright homestead far you came? And is your guardian near?"

Answer'd the maid with haughty mien, That show'd her high estate: "I know not, sir, why you should glean Such knowledge as you prate.

I ask'd not your name, or whence you came? Nor on you deign'd a look; Wherefore should you my wrath inflame, By taking me to book?"

The chieftain high was now subdu'd, And lower'd was his crest; With deep humility imbued The maid he thus address'd:

"My lady fair, your beauteous mien My heart has deep impress'd; Altho' I hear the chase so keen, My thoughts with you do rest.

I did essay to pass your charms, And spurr'd my steed to flight, But your dazzling beauty numb'd my arms, And chain'd me to your sight.

If I may humbly crave your love, I'll tell you my degree: I am the Lord of yonder grove And of this mountain free.

These broad lands will your dowry be, If you my suit receive, And ye shall urge the chase with me From morn to winter eve."

The maid's reply was firm, yet bland, And in a calmer mood: "I thank you, sir, for your offer'd hand, With dowry large and good.

I thank you for all your praises fair, And for your gallant grace; Had we but met an earlier year I might be Lady Clas.

Behold this ring on my finger worn— A token of plighted love; Lo, he who plac'd it there this morn Sits on yon cairn above."

The chieftain look'd to the lonely cairn And saw the Knight of Lleyn! Like mountain deer he flew o'er the sarn, And there no more was seen!



THE ROSE OF THE GLEN.

Although I've no money or treasure to give, No palace or cottage wherein I may live, Altho' I can't boast of high blood or degree, Than all these my sweet Rose is dearer to me.

The lambs on the mountain are frisky and gay, The birds in the forest are restless with play, The maidens rejoice at the advent of spring, Yet my fair Rose to me more enjoyment can bring.



THE MOUNTAIN GALLOWAY.

BY MADOC MERVYN.

My tried and trusty mountain steed, Of Aberteivi's hardy breed, Elate of spirit, low of flesh, That sham'st thy kind of vallies fresh; And three score miles and twelve a day Hast sped, my gallant galloway.

Like a sea-boat, firm and tight, Dancing on the ocean, light, That the spirit of the wind Actuates to heart and mind Elastic, buoyant, proud, and gay, Art thou, my mountain galloway.

Thou'st borne me, like a billow's sweep, O'er mountains high and vallies deep, Oft drank at lake and waterfall, Pass'd sunless gulfs whose glooms appall, And shudder'd oft at ocean's spray, Where breakers roar'd, destruction lay.

And thou hast snuff'd sulphureous fumes 'Mid rural nature's charnel tombs; Thou hast sped with eye unscar'd Where Merthyr's fields of fire flar'd; And thou wert dauntless on thy way, My faithful mountain galloway.

There is a vale, 'tis far away, But we must reach that vale to-day; There is a mansion in that vale, Its white walls well the eye regale! And there's a hand more white they say, Shall pat my gallant galloway.

And she is young, and she is fair, The lovely one who sojourns there; Oh, truly dear is she to me! As thou art mine, she'll welcome thee: Then off we go, at break of day, On, on! my gallant galloway.



GLAN GEIRIONYDD.

FROM THE REV. EVAN EVANS.

One time upon a summer day I saunter'd on the shore Of swift Geirionydd's waters blue, Where oft I walked before In youth's bright season gone, And spent life's happiest morn In drawing from its crystal waves The trout beneath the thorn, When every thought within my breast Was light as solar ray, Enjoying every pastime dear Throughout the livelong day.

The breeze would soften on the lake, Unruffled be its deep, And all surrounding nature be As calm as silent sleep, Except the raven's dismal shriek Upon the lofty spray, And bleat of sheep beside the bush Where light their lambkins play, And noise made by the busy mill Upon the river shore, With cuckoo's song perch'd in the ash To show that winter's o'er.

The impressive scene would rather tend To nurse reflection deep, Than cast the gay and sprightly fly Beneath the rocky steep; 'Twould fill my spirit now subdued With sober earnest thought, Of other days, and other things, My youthful hands had wrought; The tears would spring into my eyes, My heart with heaving fill, To think of all that I had been, And all that I am still.

* * * * *

The sober stillness would beget Thoughts of departed friends, Who not long since companions were Upon the river's bends; And soon will come the sombre day When I shall meet their doom, And 'stead of fishing by the lake, I shall be in the tomb. Some brother bard may chance to stray And ask for Ieuan E'an?— "Geirionydd lake is still the same, But here no Ieuan's seen."



THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD AFTER ITS FATHER'S DEATH.

BY THE REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.

My gentle child, thou dost not know Why still on thee I am gazing so, And trace in meditation deep Thy features fair in silent sleep.

Thy mien, my babe, so full of grace, Reminds me of thy father's face; Although he rests beneath the tree, His features all survive in thee.

Thou knowest not, my gentle child, The deep remorse that makes me wild, Nor why sometimes I can't bestow A smile for smile when thine doth glow.

Thy father, babe, lies in the clay, Lock'd in the tomb, his prison gray; And yet methinks he still doth live, When on thy face a glance I give.

And dost thou smile, my baby fair, Before my face so pale with care? What for the world and its deceit, With myriad snares for youthful feet?

These are before thee, while the aid Of father's counsel is deep laid; And soon thy mother wan may find A last home there—and thou behind.

Thy sad condition then will be Like some lone flower upon the lea, Without a cover from the wind, Or winter's hail and snow unkind.

But smile thou on—in heaven above Thy father lives, and He is love; He knows thy lot, and well doth care For all, and for thee will prepare.

If through His help, Jehovah good! Thou smilest now in blissful mood; May I not think, safe in His hand Thou mayest travel through this land?

Smile on, my child, for thou wilt find In Him a friend and father kind; He'll guide the orphan on his way, Nor ever will his trust betray.

At last in the eternal land We all shall meet a joyous band, Without ought danger more to part, Or tear or sigh to heave the heart.



WOMAN.

BY REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.

Gentle Woman! thou most perfect Work of the Divine Architect; Pearl and beauty of creation, Rose of earth by all confession.

Myriad times thy smiles are sweeter Than the morning sun doth scatter, All the loveliness of Nature Into thee almost doth enter.

The rose's hues and of the lily, Verdant spring in all its beauty, Brighter yet among the flowers Is fair woman in her bowers.

As the water fills the river, Full of feeling is her temper, And her love, once it doth settle, Truer than the steel its mettle.

Full of tenderness her bosom, Deep affection there doth blossom, Gentle Woman! who can wonder After thee man's heart doth wander?

I have seen without emotion Fields of blood and desolation, But I never saw the tear On woman's eye and mine not water.

From her lips a word of soothing Will disarm all angry feeling, On her tongue a balm of comfort, Great its virtue, strong its support.

Pleasant is it for the traveller On his way to meet with succour, Sweeter far when at his own home, To receive fair woman's welcome.

Woman cheerful in a family Makes the group around so happy, And her voice filled with affection, Yields an Eden of communion.

Poor the man that roams creation Without woman for companion, Destitute of all protection, Without her to bless his station.

Gentle Woman! all we covet Without thee would be but wretched, Without thy voice to banish sorrow, Or sweet help from thee to borrow.

Thou art light to cheer our progress, Star to brighten all our darkness, For the troubled soul an anchor On each stormy sea of terror.



THE FAITHFUL MAIDEN.

BY REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.

At the dawning of day on a morning in May, When the birds through the forests were skipping so gay; While crossing the churchyard of a parish remote, In a district of Cambria, whose name I don't note:

I saw a fair maiden so rich in attire, Second but to an angel her mien did appear; Quick were her footsteps in tripping the sand, And flowers resplendent were borne in her hand.

I fled to concealment that I might best learn Her object and wish in a place so forlorn, Without a companion—so early the hour— For a region so gloomy thus leaving her bower.

Anon she advanced to a new tomb that lay By the churchyard path, and there kneeling did stay, While she planted the flowers with hands so clear, And her looks were replete of meekness and fear.

The tears she would dry from eyelids fair With a napkin so snow-white its hue and so rare; And I heard a voice, that sadden'd my mind, While it smote the breeze with words of this kind:—

"Here lieth in peace and quiet the one I loved as dear as the soul of my own; But death did us part to my endless woe, Just when each to the other his hand would bestow.

Here resteth from turmoil, and sorrow to be, The whole that in this world was precious to me; Grow sweetly, ye flowers! and fair on his tomb, Altho' you'll ne'er rival his beauty and bloom.

He erst received from me gifts that were more dear, My hand for a promise—and a lock of my hair, With total concurrence my portion to bear Of his weal or his woe, whether cloudy or fair.

While sitting beside him how great my content, In this place where my heart is evermore bent; If I should e'er travel the wide globe around, To this as their centre my thoughts would rebound.

Altho' from the earth thou dost welcome nor chide, Nor smilest as once thou didst smile on thy bride; And yet my beloved! 'tis comfort to me, To sit but a moment so near to thee.

Thy eyes bright and tender my mind now doth see, And remembers thy speech like the honey to me; Thy grave I'll embrace though the whole world beheld, That all may attest the love we once held."



THE EWE.

BY REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.

So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles feeling; And every bosom doth bedew, Each true affection stealing.

Thou hast no weapon of aught kind Against thy foes to combat; No horn or hoof the dog to wound That worries thee so steadfast.

No, nought hast thou but feeble flight, Therein thy only refuge; And every cur within thy sight Is swifter since the deluge.

And when thy lambkin weak doth fail, Tho' often called to follow, Thy best protection to the frail Wilt give through death or sorrow.

Against the ground her foot will beat, Devoutly pure her purpose; Full many a time the sight thus meet Brought tears to me in billows.

But if wise nature did not give To her sharp tooth or weapon, She compensation doth receive From human aid and reason.

She justly has from man support 'Gainst wounds and tribulation; And has the means without distort To yield him retribution.

Yea, of more value is her gift Than priceless mines of silver Or gold which from the depth they lift Through India's distant border.

To man she gives protection strong From winds and tempests howling, From pelting rain, and snow-drifts long, When storms above are beating.

The mantle warm o'er us the night Throughout the dismal shadows; What makes our hearts so free and light? What but the sheep so precious!

Then let us not the Ewe forget When winter bleak doth hover; When rains descend—and we safe set— Let us be grateful to her.

Her cloak to us is comfort great When by the ditch she trembles; Let us then give her the best beat For her abode and rambles.



THE SONG OF THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE.

BY REV. JOHN BLACKWELL, B.A.

Restless wave! be still and quiet, Do not heed the wind and freshet, Nature wide is now fast sleeping, Why art thou so live and stirring? All commotion now is ending, Why not thou thy constant rolling?

Rest thou sea! upon thy bosom Is one from whom my thoughts are seldom, Not his lot it is to idle, But to work while he is able; Be kind to him, ocean billow! Sleep upon thy sandy pillow!

Wherefore should'st thou still be swelling? Why not cease thy restless heaving? There's no wind to stir the bushes, And all still the mountain breezes: Be thou calm until the morning When he'll shelter in the offing.

* * * * *

Deaf art thou to my entreaty, Ocean vast! and without mercy. I will turn to Him who rules thee, And can still thy fiercest eddy: Take Thou him to Thy protection Keep him from the wave's destruction!



THE WITHERED LEAF.

BY REV. JOHN BLACKWELL, B.A.

Dry the leaf above the stubble, Soon 'twill fall into the bramble, But the mind receives a lesson From the leaf when it has fallen.

Once it flourished in deep verdure, Bright its aspect in the arbour, Beside myriad of companions, Once it danc'd in gay rotations.

Now its bloom is gone for ever, 'Neath the morning dew doth totter, Sun or moon, or breezes balmy Can't restore its verdant beauty.

* * * * *

Short its glory! soon it faded, One day's joy, and then it ended; Heaven declared its task was over, It then fell, and that for ever.



SAD DIED THE MAIDEN.

Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish she felt in expiring, The moonbeams were weeping the evening dew When the life of the Maiden was sinking.

Sad died the Maiden! beside the fast door, With her head resting low on the flagging, And the raindrops froze as they fell in store On a bosom that lately was bleeding.

She died on the sill of her father's dear home, From which he had forc'd her to wander, While her clear white hands were trying to roam In search of the latch and warm shelter.

* * * * *

She died! and her end will for ever reveal A father devoid of affection, While her green grave will always testify well To the strength of love and devotion.



THE WORLD AND THE SEA: A COMPARISON.

Like the world and its dread changes Is the ocean when it rages, Sometimes full and sometimes shallow, Sometimes green and sometimes yellow.

Salt the sea to all who drink it, Bitter is the world in spirit, Deep the sea to all who fathom, Deep the world and without bottom.

Unsupporting in his danger Is the sea unto the sailor, Less sustaining to the traveller Is the world through which he'll wander.

Full the sea of rocky places, Shoals and quicksands in its mazes, Full the world of sore temptation Charged with sorrow and destruction.



THE POOR MAN'S GRAVE.

BY THE REV. J. EMLYM JONES, M.A., LL.D.

'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound its verdant head, As if to receive the riches Which the dew of heaven doth spread; Many a foot doth inconsiderate Tread upon the humble pile, And doth crush the turf so ornate:— That's the Poor Man's Grave the while.

The paid servants of the Union Followed mute his last remains, Piling the earth in fast confusion, Without sigh, or tear or pains; After anguish and privation, Here at last his troubles cease, Quiet refuge from oppression Is the Poor Man's Grave of peace.

The tombstone rude with two initials, Carved upon its smoother side, By a helpmate of his trials, Is now split and sunder'd wide; And when comes the Easter Sunday, There is neither friend nor kin To bestow green leaves or nosegay On the Poor Man's Grave within.

Nor doth the muse above his ashes Sing a dirge or mourn his end, And ere long time's wasting gashes Will the mound in furrows rend: Level with the earth all traces, Hide him in oblivion deep; Yet, for this, God's angel watches, O'er the Poor Man's Grave doth weep.



THE BARD'S LONG-TRIED AFFECTION FOR MORFYDD.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden mien!" I have loved beyond belief, Many a day to love and grief For her sake have been a prey, Who has on the moon's array! Pledged my truth from youth will now To the girl of glossy brow. Oh, the light her features wear, Like the tortured torrent's glare! Oft by love bewildered quite, Have my aching feet all night Stag-like tracked the forest shade For the foam-complexioned maid, Whom with passion firm and gay I adored 'mid leaves of May! 'Mid a thousand I could tell One elastic footstep well! I could speak to one sweet maid— (Graceful figure!)—by her shade. I could recognize till death, One sweet maiden by her breath! From the nightingale could learn Where she tarries to discern; There his noblest music swells Through the portals of the dells!

When I am from her away, I have neither laugh nor lay! Neither soul nor sense is left, I am half of mind bereft; When she comes, with grief I part, And am altogether heart! Songs inspired, like flowing wine, Rush into this mind of mine; Sense enough again comes back To direct me in my track! Not one hour shall I be gay, Whilst my Morfydd is away!



THE GROVE OF BROOM.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

The girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in golden dress, No longer dares to give her plight To meet the bard at dawn or night! To the blythe moon he may not bear The maid, whose cheeks the daylight wear— She fears to answer to his call At midnight, underneath yon wall— Nor can he find a birchen bower To screen her in the morning hour; And thus the summer days are fleeting Away, without the lovers meeting! But stay! my eyes a bower behold, Where maid and poet yet may meet, Its branches are arrayed in gold, Its boughs the sight in winter greet With hues as bright, with leaves as green, As summer scatters o'er the scene. (To lure the maiden) from that brake, For her a vesture I will make, Bright as the ship of glass of yore, That Merddin o'er the ocean bore; O'er Dyfed's hills there was a veil In ancient days—(so runs the tale); And such a canopy to me This court, among the woods, shall be; Where she, my heart adores, shall reign, The princess of the fair domain.

To her, and to her poet's eyes, This arbour seems a paradise; Its every branch is deftly strung With twigs and foliage lithe and young, And when May comes upon the trees To paint her verdant liveries, Gold on each threadlike sprig will glow, To honour her who reigns below. Green is that arbour to behold, And on its withes thick showers of gold! Joy to the poet and the maid, Whose paradise is yonder shade! Oh! flowers of noblest splendour, these Are summer's frost-work on the trees! A field the lovers now possess, With saffron o'er its verdure roll'd, A house of passing loveliness, A fabric of Arabia's gold— Bright golden tissue, glorious tent, Of him who rules the firmament, With roof of various colours blent! An angel, 'mid the woods of May, Embroidered it with radiance gay— That gossamer with gold bedight— Those fires of God—those gems of light! 'Tis sweet those magic bowers to find, With the fair vineyards intertwined; Amid the wood their jewels rise, Like gleams of starlight o'er the skies— Like golden bullion, glorious prize! How sweet the flowers which deck that floor, In one unbroken glory blended— Those glittering branches hovering o'er— Veil by an angel's hand extended. Oh! if my love will come, her bard Will, with his case, her footsteps guard, There, where no stranger dares to pry, Beneath yon Broom's green canopy!



ADDRESS TO A BIRCH TREE,

THAT HAD BEEN CONVERTED INTO A MAY-POLE IN THE TOWN OF LLANIDLOES, IN MONTGOMERYSHIRE.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

Ah! birch tree, with the verdant locks, And reckless mind—long hast thou been A wand'rer from thy native rocks; With canopy of tissue green, And stem that 'mid the sylvan scene A sceptre of the forest stood— Thou art a traitress to the wood! How oft, in May's short nights of old, To my love-messenger and me Thou didst a couch of leaves unfold! Thou wert a house of melody,— Proud music soared from every bough; Ah! those who loved thee sorrow now! Thy living branches teemed and rang With every song the woodlands know, And every woodland flow'ret sprang To life—thy spreading tent below. Proud guardian of the public way, Such wert thou, while thou didst obey The counsel of my beauteous bride— And in thy native grove reside! But now thy stem is mute and dark, No more by lady's reverence cheered; Rent from its trunk, torn from its park, The luckless tree again is reared— (Small sign of honour or of grace!) To mark the parish market-place! Long as St. Idloes' town shall be A patroness of poesy— Long as its hospitality The bard shall freely entertain, My birch! thy lofty stature shall remain!



THE HOLLY GROVE.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

Sweet holly grove, that soarest A woodland fort, an armed bower! In front of all the forest Thy coral-loaded branches tower. Thou shrine of love, whose depth defies The axe—the tempest of the skies; Whose boughs in winter's frost display The brilliant livery of May! Grove from the precipice suspended, Like pillars of some holy fane; With notes amid thy branches blended, Like the deep organ's solemn strain.

* * * * *

House of the birds of Paradise, Round fane impervious to the skies; On whose green roof two nights of rain May fiercely beat and beat in vain! I know thy leaves are ever scathless; The hardened steel as soon will blight; When every grove and hill are pathless With frosts of winter's lengthened night, No goat from Hafren's {141} banks I ween, From thee a scanty meal may glean! Though Spring's bleak wind with clamour launches His wrath upon thy iron spray; Armed holly tree! from thy firm branches He will not wrest a tithe away! Chapel of verdure, neatly wove, Above the summit of the grove!



THE SWAN.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like abbot white! Bird of the spray, to whom is giv'n The raiment of the men of heav'n; Bird of broad hand, in youth's proud age, Syvaddon was thy heritage! Two gifts in thee, fair bird, unite To glean the fish in yonder lake, And bending o'er yon hills thy flight A glance at earth and sea to take. Oh! 'tis a noble task to ride The billows countless as the snow; Thy long fair neck (thou thing of pride!) Thy hook to catch the fish below; Thou guardian of the fountain head, By which Syvaddon's waves are fed! Above the dingle's rugged streams, Intensely white thy raiment gleams; Thy shirt like crystal tissue seems; Thy doublet, and thy waistcoat bright, Like thousand lilies meet the sight; Thy jacket is of the white rose, Thy gown the woodbine's flow'rs compose, {142} Thou glory of the birds of air, Thou bird of heav'n, oh, hear my pray'r! And visit in her dwelling place The lady of illustrious race: Haste on an embassy to her, My kind white-bosomed messenger— Upon the waves thy course begin, And then at Cemaes take to shore; And there through all the land explore, For the bright maid of Talyllyn, The lady fair as the moon's flame, And call her "Paragon" by name; The chamber of the beauty seek, And mount with footsteps slow and meek; Salute her, and to her reveal The cares and agonies I feel— And in return bring to my ear Message of hope, my heart to cheer! Oh, may no danger hover near (Bird of majestic head) thy flight! Thy service I will well requite!



MAY AND NOVEMBER.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves Thy hand for thy wild band of choristers weaves; Proud knight, that subduest with glory and power, Each glen into verdure, to joy every bower; That makest the wilderness laugh and rejoice, In the chains of thy love, in thy cuckoo's shrill voice; That fillest the heart of the lover with glee, And bringest my Morfydd's dear image to me.

Alas! that dark Winter thy mansions should blight, With his chill mottled show'rs, and his flickering light, His moon that gleams wanly through snows falling fast, His pale mist that floats on the wings of the blast: With the voice of each river more fearfully loud— Every torrent all foam, and the heaven all cloud! Alas! that stern Winter has power to divide Each lover from hope—from the poet his bride.



THE CUCKOO'S TALE.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav'n is thy home; With the tidings of summer thy bright pinions roam— The summer that thickens with foliage the glade, And lures to the woodland the poet and maid. Sweet as "sack," gentle bird, is thy beautiful voice, In thy accents the lover must ever rejoice: Oh! tell me at once, in thy musical lay, Where tarries the girl whose behest I obey.

"Poor bard," said the cuckoo, "what anguish and pain Hast thou stored for thyself, all thy cares are in vain, All hopes of the maid thou awaitest resign, She has wedded another, and ne'er can be thine."

"For the tale thou hast told"—to the cuckoo I cried, "For thus singing to me of my beautiful bride These strains of thy malice—may winter appear And dim the sun's light—stay the summer's career; With frost all the leaves of the forest boughs fill, And wither the woods with his desolate chill, And with cold in the midst of thy own forest spray, Take thy life and thy song, foolish cuckoo, away!"



DAFYDD AP GWILYM'S ADDRESS TO MORFYDD AFTER SHE MARRIED HIS RIVAL.

Too long I've loved the fickle maid, My love is turned to grief and pain; In vain delusive hopes I stray'd, Through days that ne'er will dawn again; And she, in beauty like the dawn, From me has now her heart withdrawn! A constant suitor—on her ear My sweetest melodies I pour'd; Where'er she wander'd I was near; For her whose face my soul ador'd My wealth I madly spent in wine, And gorgeous jewels of the mine. I deck'd her arms with lovely chains, With bracelets wove of slender gold; I sang her charms in varied strains, Her praise to every minstrel told: The bards of distant Keri know That she is spotless as the snow. These proofs of love I hoped might bind My Morfydd to be ever true: Alas! to deep despair consign'd, My bosom's blighted hopes I rue, And the base craft that gave her charms, Oh, anguish! to another's arms!



PART VI. THE RELIGIOUS.

FROM THE HYMNS OF THE REV. WILLIAM WILLIAMS, PANTYCELYN.

[The Reverend William Williams, styled of "Pantycelyn," a tenement which he inherited from his ancestors, was born in the parish of Llanfair-on- the-hill, in Carmarthenshire, in the year 1717. He was educated for the ministry, and appointed to the Curacy of Llanwrtyd and Abergwesyn, in Breconshire, in 1740. After serving for about three years he became a convert to the Welsh Puritanism of the period, introduced by the eloquence and piety of the Revs. Daniel Rowlands of Llangeitho, and Howel Harris of Trevecca, both theretofore eminent ministers of the Established Church, with whom he became a successful co-operator, not only as an eloquent preacher, but especially as the most celebrated Hymnist of Wales. This eminent man died in 1791, and his hymns were published by his son in 1811, and Mr. Mackenzie, of Glasgow, issued a superb edition of his works with biography in 1868.]

Hasten, Israel! from the desert After tarrying there so long, Milk and honey, wine and welcome Wait you 'mong the ransom'd throng; Wear your arms, advance to warfare, Onward go, and bravely fight, Fair the land, and there shall lead you Cloud by day and flame by night.

Babel's waters are so bitter, There is nought but weeping still, Zion's harps, so sweet and tuneful, Do my heart with rapture fill: Bring thou us a joyful gathering From the dread captivity, And until on Zion's mountain Let there be no rest for me.

In this land I am a stranger, Yonder is my native home, Far beyond the stormy billows, Where the flowers of Canaan bloom: Tempests wild from sore temptation Did my vessel long detain, Speed, ye gentle southern breezes, Aid me soon to cross the main.

* * * * *

Jesus—thou my only pleasure, Naught like thee this world contains; In thy name is greater treasure, Than in India's golden plains; And this treasure, Jesus' love for me obtains.

Jesus, lovely is the aspect Of thy gracious face divine; Eye hath seen no fairer object, On this beauteous world of thine, Rose of Sharon, Heaven's glories in thee shine.

Jesus, shield from sin's dark errors, Name which every foe o'ercomes; Death, the dreaded king of terrors, Death itself to thee succumbs. Thou hast conquered, Joyful praise my soul becomes.

* * * * *

Fix, O Lord, a tent in Goshen, Thither come and there abide, Bow thyself from light celestial, And with sinful man reside. Dwell in Zion, there continue, Where the holy tribes ascend; Do not e'er desert thy people, Till the world in flames shall end.

I am through the lone night waiting, For the dawning of the day; When my prison door is opened, When my fetters fall away; O come quickly, Happy day of jubilee.

Let me still be meekly wakeful, Trusting that to all my woes, By thy mighty hand, Redeemer, Shall be given a speedy close; Keep me watching, For the joyful jubilee.

* * * * *

O'er the gloomy hills of darkness, Look, my soul, be still and gaze; All the promises do travail, With a glorious day of grace; Blessed jubilee, May thy morning dawn apace.

Let the Indian, let the Negro, Let the rude Barbarian see That divine and Godlike conquest, Once obtained on Calvary; Let the gospel, Loud resound from pole to pole.

* * * * *

Kingdoms wide, that sit in darkness, Grant them, Lord, the saving light; And from eastern coast to western, May the morning chase the night; Pouring radiance, As if one day sevenfold bright.

Blessed Saviour, spread thy gospel, Ride and conquer, never cease; May thy wide, thy vast dominions, Multiply and still increase; Sway thy sceptre, Saviour, all the world around.

* * * * *

O'er the earth, in every nation, Reign, Jehovah, in each place; Take all kingdoms in possession, Heathen darkness thence displace; Fill each people, Sun of Righteousness, with grace.

Oh! ye heralds of salvation, Jesus' mercy far proclaim; Bear, ye seas, the sacred mission, Till the pagan bless his name; Let the gospel Fly on wings of heavenly flame.

Let all those in deserts dwelling, All on hills—in dales around, Those who live 'midst oceans swelling, Jesus' glorious praises sound; Till the echo Of his name the world surround.

* * * * *

Ride in triumph, holy Saviour, Go and conquer o'er the land; Earth and hell, with all their forces, Now before thee cannot stand; At the radiance of thy glory, Every foe must flee away; All creation thrills with terror Under thine eternal sway.

Aid me, Lord, always to tarry In my Father's courts below; Live in light divine and glorious, Without darkness, without woe; Live without the sun's departure, Live without a cloud or pain; Live on Jesus' love unconquer'd, Who on Calvary was slain.

Let me view the great atonement, And the kingdom that is mine, Which thy blood hath purchased for me, Sealed also as divine; Let me daily strive to find it, Let this be my chief employ; On my way I ask no favour But thy presence to enjoy.

* * * * *

Great Redeemer, Friend of sinners, Thou hast glorious power to save, Grant me light and still conduct me Over each tempestuous wave; May my soul with sacred transport View the dawn while yet afar, And until the sun arises, Lead me by the morning star.

* * * * *

O what madness, O what folly, That my thoughts should go astray, After toys and empty pleasures, Pleasures only for a day; This vain world with all its treasures, Very soon will be no more, There's no object worth admiring, But the God whom I adore.

* * * * *

I look beyond the distant hills, My Saviour dear to see; O come, Beloved, ere the dusk, My sun doth set on me.

Methinks that were my feet released From these afflicting chains, I would but sing of Calvary, Nor think of all my pains.

I long for thy divine abode, Where sinless myriads dwell, Who ceaseless sing thy boundless love, And all thy glories tell.

* * * * *

My soul's delight I will proclaim, O! Jesus 'tis thy face; Each letter of thy holy name, Is full of life and grace.

Beneath thy wing, thou Saviour meek, I would for ever be; No other pleasure vainly seek, My God, than loving thee.

Thy strength alone supports each day My footsteps, lest I fall; And thy salvation is my stay, My joy, my song, my all.

Than combs of honey sweeter is Thy favour to enjoy; In life, in death, no joy than this Will last without alloy.

* * * * *

Angelic throngs unnumbered, As dawn's bright drops of dew, Present their crowns before Him With praises ever new; But saints and angels blending Their songs above the sun, Can ne'er express the glories Of God with man made one.

* * * * *

Direct unto my God, With speed, my cry ascend; Present to Him this urgent plea:— "In mercy, Lord, attend! Fulfil thy gracious word, To bring me to thy rest; In Salem soon my place prepare, And make me ever blest!"

Down in a vale of tears, Where dwelt my Christ I mourn, And in the conflict with my foes, My tender heart is torn; O heal each bleeding wound, With thy life-giving tree; In Salem, Lord, above the strife, A place prepare for me!"



TRANSLATIONS FROM MISCELLANEOUS WELSH HYMNS.

Had I but the wings of a dove, To regions afar I'd repair, To Nebo's high summit would rove, And look on a country more fair; My eyes gazing over the flood, I'd spend the remainder of life Beholding the Saviour so good, Who for sinners expired in strife.

* * * * *

Once I steered through the billows, On a dark, relentless night, Stripped of sail—the surge so heinous, And no refuge within sight. Strength and skill alike were ended, Nought, but sinking in the tide, While amid the gloom appeared Bethlehem's star to be my guide.

* * * * *

Of all the ancient race, Not one be left behind, But each, impell'd by secret grace, His way to Canaan find.

Rebuilt by His command, Jerusalem shall rise; Her temple on Moriah stand Again, and touch the skies.

Send then thy servants forth, To call the Hebrews home; From east and west, and south and north, Let all the wanderers come.

With Israel's myriads seal'd Let all the nations meet, And show the mystery fulfill'd, The family complete.

* * * * *

Teach me Aaron's thoughtful silence When corrected by the rod; Teach me Eli's acquiescence, Saying, "Do thy will, my God;" Teach me Job's confiding patience, Dreading words from pride that flow, For thou, Lord, alone exaltest, And thou only layest low.

* * * * *

Who cometh from Edom with might, Far brighter than day at its dawn? He routed and conquered his foes, And trampled the giants alone; His garments were dyed with their blood, His sword and his arrows stood strong, His beauty did fill the whole land, While travelling in greatness along.

* * * * *

He who darts the winged light'ning, Walks upon the foaming wave; Send forth arrows of conviction, Here exert thy power to save; Burst the bars of Satan's prison, Snatch the firebrand from the flame, Fill the doubting with assurance, Teach the dumb to sing thy name.

* * * * *

The clouds, O Lord, do scatter, Between me and thy face; Reveal to me the glory Of thy redeeming grace; Speak thou in words of mercy, While in distress I call; And let me taste forgiveness, Through Christ, my all-in-all.



THE FARMER'S PRAYER.

BY REV. REES PRICHARD, M.A.

TRANSLATED BY THE REV. WILLIAM EVANS.

[Any collection of Welsh poetry that does not contain a portion of the poems of the "Good Vicar Prichard of Llandovery" would be incomplete. This excellent man was born at Llandovery, in Carmarthenshire, in the year 1579, and died there in 1644. After a collegiate course in Oxford he was inducted to the Vicarage of his native parish, and received successively afterwards the appointments of Prebendary, and Chancellor of St. David's. He composed a multitude of religious poems and pious carols, which were universally popular among his contemporaries and had great influence upon the Welsh of after-times. They were collected and published after his death under the title of "Canwyll y Cymry," or "The Candle of the Welsh," of which about twenty editions have appeared. The "Welshman's Caudle" has for the last two hundred and fifty years found a place beside the Holy Bible in the bookshelf of almost every native of the Principality, and has been consecrated by the nation. It consists of pious advice and religious exhortation suited to all conditions and circumstances of life. An English translation of the poems was published by Messrs. Longman & Co., in 1815.]

O Thou! by whom the universe was made, Mankind's support, and never failing aid, Who bid'st the earth her various products bear, Who waterest the soft'ned soil with rain, Who givest vegetation to the grain, Unto a peasant's ardent pray'r give ear!

I now intend, with care, my land to dress, And in its fertile womb to sow my grain; Which, if, O God! thou deignest not to bless, I never shall receive, or see again.

In vain it is to plant, in vain to sow, In vain to harrow well the levell'd plain, If thou wilt not command the seed to grow, And shed thy blessing on the bury'd grain.

For not a single corn will rush to birth Of all that I've entrusted to the earth, If thou dost not enjoin the blade to spring And the young shoot to full perfection bring.

I therefore beg thy blessing on my lands, O Lord! and on the labour of my hands, That I thereby, may as a Christian, live, And my support, and maintenance receive!

Open the windows of the skies, and pour Thy blessings on them in a genial show'r; My corn with earth's prolific fatness feed, And give increase to all my cover'd seed!

Let not the skies, like brass in fusion, glow, Nor the earth, with heat, as hard as iron grow, Let not our pastures and our meads of hay, For our supine neglect of Thee, decay!

But give us in good time and measure meet, A temp'rate season, and sufficient heat, Give us the former and the latter rains, Give peace and plenty to the British swains.

The locust and the cankerworm restrain, The dew that blights and tarnishes the grain, The drought, the nipping winds, the lightning's glare, Which to the growing corn pernicious are.

O, let the year be with thy goodness crown'd, Let it with all thy choicest gifts abound, Let bleating flocks each fertile valley fill, And lowing herds adorn each rising hill.

Give to the sons of men their daily bread, Give grass to the mute beasts, that crop the mead, Give wine and oil to those that till the field, And let thy heritage abundance yield.

Give us a harvest with profusion crown'd, Let ev'ry field and fold with corn abound, Let herbs each garden, fruit each orchard fill, Let rocks their honey, kine their milk distill.

Prosper our handy work thou gracious God, And further our endeavours with success: So, on our knees, shall we thy name applaud, And night and morn our benefactor bless.



THE PRAISE AND COMMENDATION OF A GOOD WOMAN.

BY REV. REES PRICHARD, M.A.

TRANSLATED BY THE REV. WILLIAM EVANS.

As a wise child excells the sceptr'd fool Who of conceit and selfishness is full— As a good name exceeds the best perfume, And richest balms that from the Indies come.

A virtuous, cheerful, and obliging wife Is better far than all the pomp of life, Better than houses, tenements and lands, Than pearls and precious stones, and golden sands.

She is a ship with costly wares well-stow'd, A pearl, with virtues infinite endow'd, A gem, beyond all value and compare: Happy the man, who has her to his share!

She is a pillar with rich gildings grac'd, And on a pedestal of silver plac'd, She is a turret of defence, to save A weak and sickly husband from the grave, She is a gorgeous crown, a glorious prize, And ev'ry grace, in her, concent'red lies!



TWENTY THIRD PSALM.

BY REV. REES PRICHARD, M.A.

TRANSLATED BY THE REV. WILLIAM EVANS.

My shepherd is the Lord above, Who ne'er will suffer me to rove; In Him I'll trust, he is so good, He'll never let me want for food.

To pastures green and flow'ry meads, His happy flock he gently leads, Where water in abundance flows, And where luxuriant herbage grows.

When o'er my bounds I chance to roam, My shepherd finds and brings me home; And when I wander o'er the plain, He drives me to the fold again.

Or should I hap to lose my way, And in death's gloomy valley stray, I need not ever be dismay'd, For God himself will be my aid.

In whate'er pasture I abide, He still is present at my side; His rod, his crook, his shepherd's staff, In every path shall keep me safe.

My soul with comfort overflows, In spite of all my numerous foes; And thou with richness hast, O Lord! And plenty crown'd my crowded board.

His precious balms, my God hath shed, Upon my highly favoured head: And with the blessings of the Lord, My larder is completely stor'd.

His bounty and his mercies past, Shall follow me unto the last; And, for his favours shown to me, His house, my home shall ever be.

To God, the Father—and the Son— And Holy Spirit—Three-in-one, Let us our bounden homage pay, Each hour, each moment of the day!



SHORT IS THE LIFE OF MAN.

BY REV. REES PRICHARD, M.A.

TRANSLATED BY THE REV. W. EVANS.

Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, Or, like a tender flow'ret, droops and dies, Or, like a race, it ends without delay, Or, like a vapour, vanishes away,

Or, like a candle, in each moment wastes, Or, like a packet under sail, it hastes, Or, like a courier, travels very fast, Or, like the shadow of a cloud, 'tis past.

Strong is our foe, but very weak the fort, Our death is certain, and our time is short; But as the hour of death's a secret still, Let us be ready, come He when he will.



CONCERNING THE DIVINE PROVIDENCE.

BY THE REV. REES PRICHARD, M.A.

TRANSLATED BY THE REV. WILLIAM EVANS.

God doth withhold no good from those Who meekly fear him here below; On them he grace and fame bestows, Nor loss, nor cross they e'er shall know.

Cast thou on him thy troubles all, And he will thee with plenty feed; He will not let the righteous fall, Nor ever suffer them to need.

God says (of that advantage make)! "Open thy mouth, I will thee feed;" Pains in some honest calling take, And all thy labours shall succeed.

Though lions, and their young beside, Are oft distress'd for want of food; Yet they, who in their God confide, Shall never want for aught that's good.

God gives the sinful pagan food, Supplies the Ethiopian's need, His very foes he fills with good, And shall he not his servants feed?

At too much riches never aim, But be content with what is thine; God never will those folks disclaim, Who duly keep his laws divine.

Implore God's help in every ill, He is the Giver of all good; But should'st thou trust thy wit and skill, Thou'lt lose the prize that by thee stood.

Full many a man still lives in need, Because on God he ne'er rely'd; Full many a one still begs his bread, Who did in his own strength confide.

Since God is always to them kind, Why do they die for want of aid? Because they on their strength reclin'd, And ne'er for his assistance pray'd.

God never knows the least repose, But for his servants still prepares; Whilst at our ease we sweetly doze, He daily for his household cares.

Say, can a mother e'er forget Her charge, her sucking babe neglect? Should even maternal fondness set, God will his servants recollect.

Ere thou shalt woe or want behold, (If thou dost truly God obey) He'll tell a fish to fetch thee gold, Thy just expenses to defray.

Though, like the widow's meal, thy store Should be but small—yet in a trice (If thou dost strictly God adore) He'll make that little store suffice.

Do not on thy own arm rely, Thy strength or thy superior skill, But on thy friend, the Lord most high! If thou would'st be preserv'd from ill.

God feeds the warblers of the wood, And clothes the lilies of the plain; God gives to all things living food, And will he not his sons sustain?

The ravens neither sow nor reap, They have no barns to house their seed; Yet God does even the ravens keep, And them, through every season, feed.

Observe the lily, and the rose, To toil and spin they ne'er were given; Yet God on them a robe bestows, More rich than monarch's vesture even.

On God, each living creature's eyes Are fix'd—he, with a parent's care, The wants of all the world supplies, And gives to each its proper share.

He opes his bounteous hand full wide, And feeds each animal that lives, And ne'er leaves any unsupplied, But to them all due measure gives.

He to the lion's cubs gives food, To each fierce rambler of the wild, To the black raven's glossy brood, And shall he not to every child?

Thou dost not drop a single hair, Without a providence divine; No sparrow tumbles from the air, Nought haps which God did not design.

Already has God's providence To thee, breath, being, strength allow'd— Health, knowledge, reason, memory, sense, Will he not, think'st thou, give thee food?

Two sparrows, as they are so small, Are purchas'd for a single mite; Though little, yet God feeds them all, Art thou less precious in his sight?

Though God, for all his creatures here With a most lib'ral hand provides; Yet is the soul of man more dear To him, than all his works besides.

On God, thy cares and troubles lay— For thee, he always is in pain; If Christ thou truly dost obey, A sure reward thou shalt obtain.



Footnotes:

{59} The Goryn Ddu (black crown), is surmounted by a circular ancient British station, in a very perfect state, about a mile from Trwst Llywelyn, on the other side of the river, up the vale: like the ancient Mathraval, it is situated in a wood.

{61} Trwst Llywelyn is only four or five miles from the nearest point of Shropshire; and the inhabitants, except the very old people, do not understand the Welsh language.

{62} Anglesey.

{65} King of the Fairies.

{75a} The battle of Maelor, fought with the English in the 12th century, by Owen Cyveiliog, prince of Powys, who composed the admired poem called Hirlas, or the Drinking Horn, on the victory he obtained.

{75b} The battle of the Britons and Saxons at Bangor Is Coed, in the 7th century.

{75c} "Before the prince himself there was vast confusion, havoc, conflict, horrible consternation, and upon Tal Moelvre, a thousand banners."—Panegyric on Owain Gwynedd. Evans's Specimens of the Welsh Bards, p. 26.

{76} The captive Welsh nobles, either hostages or prisoners of war, who were detained in the Tower of London, obtained permission that their libraries should be sent them from Wales, to amuse them in their solitude and confinement. This was a frequent practice, so that in process of time the Tower became the principal repository of Welsh literature. The present poverty of ancient Welsh manuscripts may be dated from the time when the history and poetry of our country received a fatal blow in the loss of those collected at London, by the villainy of one Scolan, who burned them.

{77} The poet, and author of the elegy written in a country churchyard.

{81} Snowdon.

{86} This prophecy of Taliesin relating to the Ancient Britons is still extant, and has been strikingly verified:—

"Their God they'll adore, Their language they'll keep, Their country they'll lose, Except wild Wales."

{87a} Ynys Cedeirn, or Isle of the Mighty, an ancient name given to Britain.

{87b} Uthyr Pendragon, King of Britain, supposed to have been the father of Arthur.

{87c} The bard of the palace, under the ancient Welsh princes, always accompanied the army when it marched into an enemy's country; and while it was preparing for battle or dividing the spoils he performed an ancient song, called "Unbennaeth Prydain," the Monarchy of Britain. It has been conjectured that this poem referred to the tradition of the Welsh, that the whole island had been possessed by their ancestors, who were driven into a corner of it by their Saxon invaders. When the prince had received his share of the spoils, the bard, for the performance of this song, was rewarded with the most valuable beast that remained.—See JONES'S Historical Account of the Welsh Bards.

{88} Ynys Prydain, the ancient name of Britain, signifies the Fair, or Beautiful Island.

{91} This lady was born near the beautiful Breidden hills in Montgomeryshire.

{92} The bards.

{94a} King of Britain, and of Bretagne in France, celebrated for his prowess. He and his famous Knights of the Round Table are the themes of much romance.

{94b} A great battle was fought at Gamlan, between the Welsh and Saxons in 512, where King Arthur was slain.

{96} The death of Rhun overwhelmed his father (Owain Gwynedd) with grief, from which he was only roused by the ravages of the English, then in possession of Mold Castle; he levelled it with the ground, and, it is said, forgot his sorrow in his triumph.

{97} Flower Aspect, vide the Mabinogion.

{141} "Hafren," the river Severn.

{142} These words "doublet," "jacket," &c., are English words applied sportively by the poet.

JOHN PRYSE, PRINTER, LLANIDLOES.

THE END