But, from the soaring Alps, the stranger's eye
Looks watchful down on our ensanguined plains,
And with the cruel rapture of a foe,

Numbers the mighty, stretched in death below.

Haste! form your lines again, ye brave and true!
Haste, haste! your triumphs and your joys sus-
pending!

Th' invader comes; your banners raise anew,
Rush to the strife, your country's cause defending!
Victors! why pause ye?—Are ye weak and few?
Ay, such he deemed you! and for this descending,
He waits you on the field ye know too well,
The same red war-field where your brethren fell.

Oh! thou devoted land! that canst not rear
In peace thine offspring; thou, the lost and won,
The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear
Too narrow still for each contending son;
Receive the stranger, in his fierce career,
Parting thy spoils!-thy chastening is begun!
And, wresting from thy chiefs the guardian sword,
Foes whom thou ne'er hadst wronged, sit proudly
at thy board.

Are these infatuate too? Oh! who hath known
A people e'er by guilt's vain triumph blest?
The wronged, the vanquished, suffer not alone,
Brief is the joy that swells th' oppressor's breast.
What though not yet his day of pride be flown,
Though yet Heaven's vengeance spare his tower-
ing crest,

Well hath it marked him—and ordained the hour
When his last sigh shall own its mightier power.

Are we not creatures of one hand divine?
Formed in one mould, to one redemption born?
Kindred alike, where'er our skies may shine,
Where'er our sight first drank the vital morn?
Brothers! one bond around our souls should twine,
And wo to him by whom that bond is torn!
Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth,
Who bears down spirits of immortal birth!

THE MEETING OF THE BARDS. WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF

WELSH BARDST

Held in London, May 22d, 1822.

The Gorseddau, or meetings of the British bards, were anciently ordained to be held in the open air, on some conspicuous situation, whilst the sun was above the horizon; or, according to the expression employed on these occasions, "in the face of the sun, and in the eye of light." The places set apart for this purpose were marked out! by a circle of stones, called the circle of federation. The presiding bard stood on a large stone (Maen

Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly), in the centre. The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was the ceremony which announced the opening of a Gersedd, or meeting. The bards always stood in their uni-coloured robes, with their heads and feet uncovered, within the circle of federation.-See Owen's Translation of the Heroic Elegies of Llyware Hen.

WHERE met our bards of old?-the glorious
throng,

They of the mountain and the battle-song?
They met-oh! not in kingly hall or bower,
But where wild Nature girt herself with power:
They met where streams flashed bright from
rocky caves,

They met-where woods made moan o'er war-
riors' graves,

And where the torrent's rainbow spray was cast,
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast,
And 'midst th' eternal cliffs, whose strength defied
The crested Roman in his hour of pride;
And where the Carnedd,* on its lonely hill,
Bore silent record of the mighty still;
And where the Druid's ancient Cromlecht frown'd,
And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round.
There thronged th' inspired of yore!—on plain or
height,

In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light,
And, baring unto heaven each noble head,
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread.

Well might their lays be lofty !-soaring thought
From Nature's presence tenfold grandeur caught:
Well might bold Freedom's soul pervade the
strains,

Which startled eagles from their lone domains,
And, like a breeze, in chainless triumph, went
Up through the blue resounding firmament!

Whence came the echoes to those numbers high?
-T was from the battle-fields of days gone by!
And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest
With their good swords, upon the mountain's

breast;

And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow,
Severed by cloud and storm, from all below;
And the turf-mounds, once girt by ruddy spears,
And the rock-altars of departed years.

Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent's roar,
The winds a thousand wild responses bore:
And the green land, whose every vale and glen
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men,

Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn.

↑ Cromlech, a Druidical monument, or altar. The word means a stone of covenant.

The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their followers from small artificial mounts of turf.-See Pennant.

On all her hills awakening to rejoice,
Sent forth proud answers to her children's voice.
For us, not ours the festival to hold,
'Midst the stone-circles, hallowed thus of old;
Not where great Nature's majesty and might
First broke, all-glorious, on our infant sight;
Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and
brave,

Not by the mountain-llyn,* the ocean wave,
In these late days we meet!-dark Mona's shore,
Eryri'st cliffs resound with harps no more!
But, as the stream (though time or art may turn
The current, bursting from its caverned urn,
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,
From Alpine glens, or ancient forest-bowers,)
Alike, in rushing strength or sunny sleep,
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep;
Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm
and free,

Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee!

To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts be-
long,

Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song!
Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less,
To the green memory of thy loveliness,

Than theirs, whose harp-notes pealed from every
height,

In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light!

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

Where's the coward that would not dare
To fight for such a land 7-Marmion.

The stately Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!

Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land.

The deer across their greensward bound

Through shade and sunny gleam,

Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime
Floats through their woods at morn;

All other sounds, in that still time,

Of breeze and leaf are born.

The Cottage Homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet-fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves,
And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair Homes of England!

Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be reared
To guard each hallowed wall!
And green for ever be the groves,

And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!*

THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE.

-I have dreamt thou wert

A captive in thy hopelessness; afar
From the sweet home of thy young infancy,
Whose image unto thee is as a dream

Of fire and slaughter; I can see thee wasting,
Sick for thy native air.-L. E. L.

THE champions had come from their fields of war,
Over the crests of the billows far,

They had brought back the spoils of a hundred
shores,

Where the deep had foamed to their flashing oars.

They sat at their feast round the Norse-king's
board,

By the glare of the torch-light the mead was poured,
The hearth was heaped with the pine-boughs high,

And the swan glides past them with the sound And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by.

Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry Homes of England!

Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet, in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,

Or childhood's tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old.

The blessed Homes of England!

How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath-hours!

The Scalds had chaunted in Runic rhyme,
Their songs of the sword and the olden time,
And a solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung,
Had breathed from the walls where the bright
spears hung.

But the swell was gone from the quivering string,
They had summoned a softer voice to sing,
And a captive girl, at the warriors' call,
Stood forth in the midst of that frowning hall.

Lonely she stood:-in her mournful eyes
Lay the clear midnight of southern skies,

'Originally published in Blackwood's Magazine.

And the drooping fringe of their lashes low,
Half veiled a depth of unfathomed wo.

Stately she stood-though her fragile frame
Seemed struck with the blight of some inward
flame,

And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn,
Under the waves of her dark hair worn.

And a deep flush passed, like a crimson haze,
O'er her marble cheek by the pine-fire's blaze;
No soft hue caught from the south-wind's breath,
But a token of fever, at strife with death.

She had been torn from her home away,
With her long locks crowned for her bridal day,
And brought to die of the burning dreams
That haunt the exile by foreign streams.

They bade her sing of her distant land—
She held its lyre with a trembling hand,
Till the spirit its blue skies had given her, woke,
And the stream of her voice into music broke.

Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow,
Troubled its murmur, and sad, and low;
But it swelled into deeper power ere long,

As the breeze that swept over her soul grew strong.

"

They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny land! of thee!

It is above my own fair land, and round my laughing home,

And arching o'er my vintage-hills, they hang their cloudless dome,

And making all the waves as gems, that melt along the shore,

And steeping happy hearts in joy-that now is mine no more.

"And there are haunts in that green land-oh! who may dream or tell,

Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell! By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and glossy leaves,

And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest untroubled weaves;

The myrtle dwells there, sending round the richness of its breath,

And the violets gleam like amethysts, from the dewy moss beneath.

"And there are floating sounds that fill the skies through night and day,

Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven away!

They wander through the olive-woods, and o'er the shining seas,

They mingle with the orange-scents that load the sleepy breeze;

Lute, voice, and bird, are blending there;-it were a bliss to die,

Am I not parted from thy shores by the mourn-As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Si

ful-sounding sea?

Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul?-in silence

let me die,

In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts and thy pure deep sapphire sky;

How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried sweetness forth?

Its tones, of summer's breathings born, to the wild winds of the north?

"Yet thus it shall be once, once more!-my spirit shall awake,

And through the mists of death shine out, my country! for thy sake!

That I may make thee known, with all the beauty and the light,

And the glory never more to bless thy daughter's yearning sight!

Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright
streams warble by,

Thy soul flow o'er my lips again-yet once, my
Sicily!

I

cily!

may not thus depart-farewell! yet no, my country! no!

Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it must be so!

My flecting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains and the main,

And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy woods again.

Its passion deepens-it prevails!-1 break my chain-I come

To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest—in thy sweet air, my home!"

And her pale arms dropped the ringing lyre
There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire,
And her dark rich tresses, in many a fold,
Loosed from their braids, down her bosom rolled.
For her head sank back on the rugged wall,—

"There are blue heavens-far hence, far hence! A silence fell o'er the warrior's hall;

but oh! their glorious blue!

Its very night is beautiful, with the hyacinth's deep hue!

She had poured out her soul with her song's last

tone;

The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone!