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Note 5, page 208, line 2. Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height. In some of the Druid festivals, fires were lighted on all the cairns and eminences around, by priests, carrying sacred torches. All the household fires were previously extinguished, and those who were thought worthy of such a privilege, were allowed to re-light them with a flaming brand, kindled at the consecrated cairn-fire.

Note 6, page 209, line 11. 'Twas then the captives of Britannia's war. The French prisoners, taken in the wars with Napoleon, were confined in a depot on Dartmoor.

Note 7, page 214, line 19.

It lives in those soft accents, to the sky. In allusion to a plan for the erection of a great national school-house on Dartmoor, where it was proposed to educate the children of convicts.





HARP of the mountain-land! sound forth again

As when the foaming Hirlas horn was crown'd, And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain,

And the bright mead at Owain's feast went round: Wake with the spirit and the power of yore! Harp of the ancient hills! be heard once more!

Thy tones are not to cease! The Roman came

O’er the blue waters with his thousand oars: Through Mona's oaks he sent the wasting flame;

The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores : All gave

their ashes to the wind and seaRing out, thou harp! he could not silence thee.

Thy tones are not to cease! The Saxon pass'd,

His banners floated on Eryri’s gales ;
But thou wert heard above the trumpet's blast,

E'en when his towers rose loftiest o'er the vales!

Thine was the voice that cheer'd the brave and free; They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and thee.

Those were dark years !—They saw the valiant fall, The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain's

The hearth left lonely in the ruin'd hall-

Yet power was thine- gift in every chord!
Call back that spirit to the days of peace,
Thou noble harp! thy tones are not to cease!

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By the dread and viewless powers

Whom the storms and seas obey,
From the Dark Isle's* mystic bowers,

Romans! o'er the deep away!
Think ye, 'tis but nature's gloom

O'er our shadowy coast which broods ?
By the altar and the tomb,

Shun these haunted solitudes !

Know ye Mona's awful spells ?

She the rolling orbs can stay!
She the mighty grave compels

Back to yield its fetter'd prey!

* Ynys Dywyll, or the Dark Island-an ancient name for Anglesey.

Fear ye not the lightning-stroke?

Mark ye not the fiery sky?
Hence !-around our central oak

Gods are gathering-—Romans, fly!


WHERE are they, those green fairy islands, reposing

In sunlight and beauty on ocean's calm breast ? What spirit, the things which are hidden disclosing, Shall point the bright way to their dwellings of

rest? Oh! lovely they rose on the dreams of past ages,

The mighty have sought them, undaunted in faith; But the land hath been sad for her warriors and

sages, For the guide to those realms of the blessed is


* The “ Green Islands of Ocean,” or “ Green Spots of the Floods,” called in the Triads Gwerddonan Llion," (respecting which some remarkable superstitions have been preserved in Wales,) were supposed to be the abode of the Fair Family, or souls of the virtuous Druids, who could not enter the Christian heaven, but were permitted to enjoy this paradise of their own. Gafran, a distinguished British chieftain of the fifth century, went on a voyage with his family to discover these islands; but they were never heard of afterwards. This event, the voyage of Merddin Emrys with his twelve bards, and the expedition of Madoc, were called the three losses by disappearance of the island of Britain.-Vide W. 0. PUGHE's Cambrian Biography; also Cambro-Briton, vol. i. p. 124.

Where are they, the high-minded children of glory, Who steer'd for those distant green spots on the

wave ? To the winds of the ocean they left their wild story, In the fields of their country they found not a

grave. Perchance they repose where the summer-breeze

gathers From the flowers of each vale immortality's breath; But their steps shall be ne'er on the hills of their

fathersFor the guide to those realms of the blessed is





well! The moon is shrouded

On her bright throne;
Storms are gathering, stars are clouded,

Waves make wild moan.
'Tis no night of hearth-fires glowing,
And gay songs and wine-cups flowing;
But of winds, in darkness blowing,

O’er seas unknown!

In the dwellings of our fathers,

Round the glad blaze,
Now the festive circle gathers

With harps and lays;

* See note to the “ Green Isles of Ocean.”

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