Though from their stormy haunts of yore Thine eagles long have flown,1 As proud a flight the soul shall soar Yet from thy mountain-throne ! Pierce then the heavens, thou hill of streams! Eryri! temple of the bard! And fortress of the free! Midst rocks which heroes died to guard, CHANT OF THE BARDS BEFORE THEIR MASSACRE BY RAISE ye the sword! let the death-stroke be given; THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.3 THE hall of harps is lone to-night, And cold the chieftain's hearth: MILTON. of Merddin Emrys, called by the Latins Merlinus Ambrosius, the celebrated prophet and magician: and there, tradition says, he wrote his prophecies concerning the future state of the Britons. There is another curious tradition respecting a large stone, on the ascent of Snowdon, called Maen du yr Arddu, the black stone of Arddu. It is said, that if two persons were to sleep a night on this stone, in the morning one would find himself endowed with the gift of poetry, and the other would become insane. See WILLIAMS's Observations on the Snowdon Mountains. 1 It is believed amongst the inhabitants of these mountains, that eagles have heretofore bred in the lofty clefts of their rocks. Some wandering ones are still seen at times, though very rarely, amongst the precipices. -See WILLIAMS'S Observations on the Snowdon Mountains. 2 This sanguinary deed is not attested by any historian of credit. And it deserves to be also noticed, that none of the bardic productions since the time of Edward make any allusion to such an event.-See The Cambro-Briton, vol. i., p. 195. At the time of the supposed massacre of the Welsh bards by Edward the First. It hath no mead, it hath no light; No voice of melody, no sound of mirth. The bow lies broken on the floor Whence the free step is gone; The pilgrim turns him from the door Where minstrel-blood hath stained the threshold stone. "And I, too, go: my wound is deep, My brethren long have died; Yet, ere my soul grow dark with sleep, Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride! "Bear it where, on his battle-plain, Beneath the setting sun, He counts my country's noble slain Say to him-Saxon, think not all is won. "Thou hast laid low the warrior's head, The minstrel's chainless hand: Dreamer! that numberest with the dead The burning spirit of the mountain-land! Thinkst thou it woke to crown the feast, It lived beside the ruddy hearth alone? Though hushed awhile, that sounding flood We leave it as we leave the snow Bright and eternal on Eryri's1 crest. "We leave it with our fame to dwell Upon our children's breath; Our voice in theirs through time shall swell— The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death." He dies; but yet the mountains stand, Yet sweeps the torrent's tide; And this is yet Aneurin's 2 land Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride! THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS. [It is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that on the summit of the mountain Cader Idris is an excavation resembling a couch; and that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, would be found in the morning either dead, in a frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration.] I LAY on that rock where the storms have their dwelling, Eryri, Welsh name for the Snowdon mountains. 2 Aneurin, one of the noblest of the Welsh bards. Around it for ever deep music is swelling, The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud. 'Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming, Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan; Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleaming; And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone. I lay there in silence-a spirit came o'er me; Man's tongue hath no language to speak what I saw ; Though veiled by the mists of mortality's breath; For a strife was within me of madness and death. I saw them-the powers of the wind and the ocean, I saw them—the mighty of ages departed— The dead were around me that night on the hill: From their eyes, as they passed, a cold radiance they darted,There was light on my soul, but my heart's blood was chill. I saw what man looks on, and dies-but my spirit Was strong, and triumphantly lived through that hour; And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power! Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud crested, But oh! what new glory all nature invested, When the sense which gives soul to her beauty was won! These ballads are not translations from the Spanish, but are founded upon some of the "wild and wonderful" traditions preserved in the romances of that language, and the ancient poem of the Cid. THE CID'S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE. With sixty knights in his gallant train, To march o'er field, and to watch in tent, Through his olive-woods the morn-breeze played, With a thoughtful spirit his way he took, The pennons were spread, and the band arrayed, There was not a steed in the empty stall, Then a dim tear swelled to the warrior's eye, But the trumpet blew, with its note of cheer, And the winds of the morning swept off the tear, And the fields of his glory lay distant far, -He is gone from the towers of his own Bivar! THE CID'S DEATHBED. It was an hour of grief and fear When the blue spring-heaven lay still and clear There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes, Where the Zambra's notes were wont to rise, It was an hour of fear and grief, On bright Valencia's shore, For Death was busy with her chief, The noble Campeador. The Moor-king's barks were on the deep, With sounds and signs of war; But the Cid was passing to his sleep, In the silent Alcazar. No moan was heard through the towers of state, No weeper's aspect seen, But by the couch Ximena sate, With pale yet steadfast mien. Stillness was round the leader's bed, And feeble grew the conquering hand, He had fought the battles of the land, What said the Ruler of the field? -His voice is faint and low; The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield Hath louder accents now. "Raise ye no cry, and let no moan Be made when I depart; The Moor must hear no dirge's tone; |