On the red fields they won; whose wild flowers

wave

Now in luxuriant beauty o'er their grave.

'Twas then the captives of Britannia's war1 Here for their lovely southern climes afar In bondage pined; the spell-deluded throng Dragg'd at ambition's chariot-wheels so long To die because a despot could not clasp A sceptre fitted to his boundless grasp !

Yes! they whose march had rock'd the ancient thrones

And temples of the world--the deepening tones
Of whose advancing trumpet from repose
Had startled nations, wakening to their woes
Were prisoners here. And there were some whose
dreams
[streams,
Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain-
And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain
And festal melody of Loire or Seine ;

And of those mothers who had watch'd and wept,
When on the field the unshelter'd conscript slept,
Bathed with the midnight dews. And some were
there

Of sterner spirits, harden'd by despair;
Who, in their dark imaginings, again
Fired the rich palace and the stately fane,
Drank in their victim's shriek, as music's breath,
And lived o'er scenes, the festivals of death!

And there was mirth, too!-strange and savage mirth,

More fearful far than all the woes of earth!
The laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that spring
From minds for which there is no sacred thing;
And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee-
The lightning's flash upon its blasted tree!

But still, howe'er the soul's disguise were worn, If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn, Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show, Slight was the mask, and all beneath it-woe.

Yet, was this all? Amidst the dungeon-gloom, The void, the stillness of the captive's doom, Were there no deeper thoughts? And that dark power

To whom guilt owes one late but dreadful hour, The mighty debt through years of crime delay'd, But, as the grave's, inevitably paid;

1 The French prisoners, taken in the wars with Napoleon, were confined in a depot on Dartmoor.

Came he not thither, in his burning force,
The lord, the tamer of dark souls-Remorse?

Yes! as the night calls forth from sea and sky, From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony, Lost when the swift triumphant wheels of day In light and sound are hurrying on their way: Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart, The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might start, Call'd up by solitude, each nerve to thrill With accents heard not, save when all is still!

The voice, inaudible when havoc's strain Crush'd the red vintage of devoted Spain; Mute, when sierras to the war-whoop rung, And the broad light of conflagration sprung From the south's marble cities; hush'd midst cries That told the heavens of mortal agonies; But gathering silent strength, to wake at last In concentrated thunders of the past!

And there, perchance, some long-bewilder'd mind,

Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined
Of village duties, in the Alpine glen,
Where nature cast its lot midst peasant men;
Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce ruler blent
The earthquake power of each wild element,
To lend the tide which bore his throne on high
One impulse more of desperate energy;
Might-when the billow's awful rush was o'er
Which toss'd its wreck upon the storm-beat shore,
Won from its wanderings past, by suffering tried,
Search'd by remorse, by anguish purified-
Have fix'd, at length, its troubled hopes and fears
On the far world, seen brightest through our tears;
And, in that hour of triumph or despair,
Whose secrets all must learn-but none declare,
When, of the things to come, a deeper sense
Fills the dim eye of trembling penitence,
Have turn'd to Him whose bow is in the cloud,
Around life's limits gathering as a shroud—
The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows,
And, by the tempest, calls it to repose !

Who visited that deathbed? Who can tell Its brief sad tale, on which the soul might dwell, And learn immortal lessons? Who beheld The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt repell'd-The agony of prayer-the bursting tearsThe dark remembrances of guilty years, Crowding upon the spirit in their might? He, through the storm who look'd, and there was light!

That scene is closed!-that wild, tumultuous breast,

With all its pangs and passions, is at rest!
He, too, is fallen, the master-power of strife,
Who woke those passions to delirious life;
And days, prepared a brighter course to run,
Unfold their buoyant pinions to the sun!

It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth O'er the bleak mountains of the shadowy north, And with one radiant glance, one magic breath, Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death; While the glad voices of a thousand streams, Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams!

But Peace hath nobler changes! O'er the mind, The warm and living spirit of mankind, Her influence breathes, and bids the blighted heart, To life and hope from desolation start! She with a look dissolves the captive's chain, Peopling with beauty widow'd homes again; Around the mother, in her closing years, Gathering her sons once more, and from the tears Of the dim past but winning purer light, To make the present more serenely bright.

Nor rests that influence here. From clime to clime,

In silence gliding with the stream of time,
Still doth it spread, borne onwards, as a breeze
With healing on its wings, o'er isles and seas.
And as Heaven's breath call'd forth, with genial
power,

From the dry wand the almond's living flower,
So doth its deep-felt charm in secret move
The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love;
While round its pathway nature softly glows,
And the wide desert blossoms as the rose.

Yes! let the waste lift up the exulting voice! Let the far-echoing solitude rejoice!

And thou, lone moor! where no blithe reaper's song

E'er lightly sped the summer hours along,
Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain-source
Rushing in joy, make music on their course!
Thou, whose sole records of existence mark
The scene of barbarous rites in ages dark,
And of some nameless combat; hope's bright eye
Beams o'er thee in the light of prophecy!
Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest,
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast!
Yet shall thy cottage smoke, at dewy morn,
Risc in blue wreaths above the flowering thorn,

And, midst thy hamlet shades, the embosom'd spire Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest fire.

Thee, too, that hour shall bless, the balmy close
Of labour's day, the herald of repose,
Which gathers hearts in peace; while social mirth
Basks in the blaze of each free village hearth;
While peasant-songs are on the joyous gales,
And merry England's voice floats up from all her
vales.

Yet are there sweeter sounds; and thou shalt hear
Such as to Heaven's immortal host are dear.
Oh! if there still be melody on earth
Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew birth,
When angel-steps their paths rejoicing trode,
And the air trembled with the breath of God;
It lives in those soft accents, to the sky1
Borne from the lips of stainless infancy, [sprung,
When holy strains, from life's pure fount which
Breathed with deep reverence, falter on his tongue.

And such shall be thy music, when the cells, Where Guilt, the child of hopeless Misery, dwells, (And, to wild strength by desperation wrought, In silence broods o'er many a fearful thought,) Resound to pity's voice; and childhood thence, Ere the cold blight hath reach'd its innocence, Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled, Which vice but breathes on and its hues are dead, Shall at the call press forward, to be made A glorious offering, meet for Him who said, "Mercy, not sacrifice!" and, when of old Clouds of rich incense from his altars roll'd, Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare The heart's deep folds, to read its homage there!

When some crown'd conqueror, o'er a trampled world

His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurl`d,
And, like those visitations which deform
Nature for centuries, hath made the storm
His pathway to dominion's lonely sphere,
Silence behind before him, flight and fear!
When kingdoms rock beneath his rushing wheels,
Till each fair isle the mighty impulse feels,
And earth is moulded but by one proud will,
And sceptred realms wear fetters, and are still;
Shall the free soul of song bow down to pay,
The earthquake homage on its baleful way?

1 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.

1 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.-See

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 honour and mirth,5 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.

W. O. PUGHE'S Cambrian Biography; also Cambro-Briton, i. 124.

2 See note to the "Green Isles of Ocean."

3 "Fetch the horn, that we may drink together, whose gloss is like the waves of the sea; whose green handles show the skill of the artist, and are tipped with gold."-From the Hirlas Horn of OWAIN CYFEILIOG.

4"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 flashed out of their spears?"-From the same.

"Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn-badge of honour and mirth."-From the same.

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'd-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 Maelor1 shall swell with their name,

And Owain's rich hirlas be fill'd to their fame.

THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN.

THE Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night;2
I weep, for the grave has extinguish'd its light;
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 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!

1 Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint, according to the modern division.

2 "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!

The Hall of Cynddylan is without love this night,
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, [cling feasts!"
Without its lord, without company, without the cir-
OWEN's Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen.

3 "What I loved when I was a youth is hateful to me

now."

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 some time 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 simplicity 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 flowers, 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, 3
Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight's glad beam;
Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping!
-O grave! why refuse to the aged thy bed,
When valour's high heart on thy bosom is sleeping,
When youth's glorious flower is gone down to the
dead!

Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing,
As on to the fields of your glory ye trode! [ing,
Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wear-
Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod !4
I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding,
Which rouses ye not, O my lovely! my brave!
When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds
are bounding,
[grave !5

I turn from heaven's light, for it smiles on your

4" Four and twenty sons to me have been Wearing the golden chain, and leading princes." Elegies of Llyrarch Hen. The golden chain, as a badge of honour, worn by heroes, is frequently alluded to in the works of the ancient British

bards.

5" Hardly has the snow covered the vale,
When the warriors are hastening to the battle;

I do not go, I am hinder'd by infirmity."
Elegies of Llywarch Hen.