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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 relight them with a flaming brand, kindled at the consecrated cairn-fire.

Note 6, page 585, 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 588, line 7.

It lives in those soft accents to the sky. In allusion to a plan for the erection of a great national schoolhouse 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 sea-
Ring out, thou harp he could not silence thee.

Thy tones are not to cease !—The Saxon pass'd,
His banners floated on Eryri's galis;
But thou wert hard above the trumpet's blast,
E'en when his towers rose lottiest 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 board,

The hearth left lonely in the ruined hall-
Yet power was thine--a gift in every chord!
Call back that spirit to the days of peace,
Thou noble Harp!-thy tones are not to cease!


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!
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 death. * Ynys Dywyll, or the Dark Island, an ancient name for Anglesey:

f 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 sup. posed 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, west on a voyage, with his family, to discover these islands; bit they were never heard of afterwards. This event, the voyage of Merddin Emrys with his twelve bards, and the expedition of Madog, were called the three losses by disappearance of the island of Britain.-Vide W.O. Pucuk's Cam. brain Biography, also Cambro-Briton, vol. i. p. 124.

Where are they, the high-minded children of glory

Who steerd 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 fathers

For the guide to those realms of the blessed, is death.


Watch ye 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;
Now the rush-strewn halls are ringing,
Steps are bounding, bards are singing,
-Ay! the hour to all is bringing

Peace, joy, or praise :
Save to us, our night-watch keeping,

Storm-winds to brave,
While the very sea-bird sleeping,

Rests in its cave!
Think of us when hearths are beaming,
Think of us when mead is streaming,
Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming

On the dark wave!


FILL high the blue hirlas,t that shines like the wavef

When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the sea ;

* See note to the “Green Isles of Ocean."
| Hirlas, from hir, long, and glas, blue or azure.

"Fetch the horn, that we may drink together, whose gloss is nike the waves of the sea ; whose green handles show the skill of the artist, and are tipped with gold.”--From the Hirlas of Owain CrFEILIOG.

And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the brave,

The dragons of battle, the sons of the free!
To those from whose spears, in the shock of the fight,

A beam, like heaven's lightning,* flash'd over the field;
To those who came rushing as storms in their might.

Who have shiver’d the helmet, and cloven the shield;
The sound of whose strife was like 'oceans afar,
When lances were red from the harvest of war.
Fill high the blue hirlas! O cup-bearer, fill

For the lords of the field, in their festival's hour,
And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill,

That bursts o'er the rock in the pride of its power. Praise, praise to the mighty, fill high the smooth horn

Of honor and mirth, for the conflict is o'er;
And round let the golden-tipp'd hirlas be borne,

To the lion defenders of Gwynedd's fair shore,
Who rush'd to the field where the glory was won,
As eagles that soar from their cliffs to the sun.
Fill higher the hirlas! forgetting not those

Who shared its bright draught in the days which are fled ! Though cold on their mountains the valiant repose,

Their lot shall be lovely-renown to the dead! While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung,

While regal Eryri with snow shall be crown's So long by the bards shall their battles be sung,

And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound The free winds of Maelorf shall swell with their name, And Owain's rich hirlas be fillu to their fame.


The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night ;
I weep, for the grave has extinguish'd its light;

* “Heard ye in Maelor the noise of war, the horrid din of arms, their furious onset, loud as in the battle of Bangor, where fire flash ed out of their spears.”—From the Hirlas of OWAIN CYFEILIOA.

† “Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn-badge of honor and mirth.' -From the sane.

# Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint, according to the modern division. V “The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,

Without fire, without bed-
I must weep awhile, and then be silent.
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,
Without fire, without being lighted-
Be thou encircled with spreading silence!

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The Hall of Cynddylan is without love this night,

The beam of the lamp from its 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 forever, 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,
T'he pathway is short to the grave of my chief!

THE LAMENT OF LLYWARCH HEN. (Llywarch Hen, or Llywarch the Aged, a celebrated bard and chief

of the times of Arthur, was prince of Argoed, supposed to be a part of the present Cumberland. Having sustained the loss of his patrimony, and witnessed the fall of most of his sons, in the unequal contest maintained by the North Britons against the growing power of the Saxons, Llywarch was compelled to fly from his country, and seek refuge in Wales. He there found an asylum for soine tinie in the residence of Cynddylan, Prince of Powys, whose fall he pathetically laments in one of his poems. ,These are still extant, and his elegy on old age and the loss of his sons, is remarkable for its siinplicity and beauty.-See Cambrian Biography, and Owen's

Heroic Elegies and other poems of Llywarch Hen.]
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 Howers, my sad footsteps surrounding?
-My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave!
Alone on the rocks of the stranger I linger,
My spirit all wrapt in the past as a dream!
Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer, *
Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight's glad beam;

Since he that own'd it is no more-
Ah Death! it will be but a short time he will leave me.
The Hall of Cynddylan it is not easy this night,
On the top of the rock of Hydwyth,
Without its lord, without company, without the circling feasts!"

See Owen's Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen.* “What I loved when I was a youth is hateful to me now."



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