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On the red fields they won; whose wild flowers Came he not thither, in his burning force,

The lord, the tamer of dark souls-Remorse? Now in luxuriant beauty o'er their grave.

Yes ! as the night calls forth from sea and sky, 'Twas then the captives of Britannia's war1 From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony, Here for their lovely southern climes afar Lost when the swift triumphant wheels of day In bondage pined; the spell-deluded throng In light and sound are hurrying on their way : Dragg'd at ambition's chariot-wheels so long Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart, To die--because a despot could not clasp The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might start, A sceptre fitted to his boundless grasp !

Call'd up by solitude, each nerve to thrill

With accents heard not, save when all is still ! Yes ! they whose march had rock'd the ancient thrones

The voice, inaudible when havoc's strain And temples of the world--the deepening tones Crush'd the red vintage of devoted Spain ; Of whose advancing trumpet from repose Mute, when sierras to the war-whoop rung, Had startled nations, wakening to their woes- And the broad light of conflagration sprung Were prisoners here. And there were some whose From the south's marble cities; hush'd midst cries dreams

(streams, That told the heavens of mortal agonies; Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain- But gathering silent strength, to wake at last And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain In concentrated thunders of the past ! And festal melody of Loire or Seine; And of those mothers who had watch'd and wept, And there, perchance, some long-bewilderd When on the field the unshelter'd conscript slept,

mind, Bathed with the midnight dews. And some' were Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined there

Of village duties, in the Alpine glen, Of sterner spirits, harden'd by despair ;

Where nature cast its lot midst peasant men; Who, in their dark imaginings, again

Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce ruler blent Fired the rich palace and the stately fane, The earthquake power of each wild element, Drank in their victim's shriek, as music's breath, To lend the tide which bore his throne on high And lived o'er scenes, the festivals of death ! One impulse more of desperate energy ;

Might—when the billow's awful rush was o'er And there was mirth, too !-strange and savage Which toss'd its wreck upon the storm-beat shore, mirth,

Won from its wanderings past, by suffering tried, More fearful far than all the woes of earth ! Search'd by remorse, by anguish purifiedThe laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that spring Have fix'd, at length, its troubled hopes and fears From minds for which there is no sacred thing; On the far world, seen brightest through our tears; And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee- And, in that hour of triumph or despair, The lightning's flash upon its blasted tree ! Whose secrets all must learn—but none declare,

When, of the things to come, a deeper sense But still, howe'er the soul's disguise were worn, Fills the dim eye of trembling penitence, If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn,

Have turn'd to Him whose bow is in the cloud, Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show, Around life's limits gathering as a shroudSlight was the mask, and all beneath it--woe. The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows,

And, by the tempest, calls it to repose !
Yet, was this all? Amidst the dungeon-gloom,
The void, the stillness of the captive's doom,

Who visited that deathbed? Who can tell Were there no deeper thoughts? And that dark Its brief sad tale, on which the soul might dwell, power

And learn immortal lessons? Who beheld To whom guilt owes one late but dreadful hour, The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt repell’d-The mighty debt through years of crime delay'd, The agony of prayer—the bursting tearsBut, as the grave's, inevitably paid ;

The dark remembrances of guilty years,

Crowding upon the spirit in their might ? 2 The French prisoners, taken in the wars with Napoleon,

He, through the storm who look'd, and there was were confined in a depot on Dartmoor.

light !

That scene is closed !--that wild, tumultuous And, midst thy hamlet shades, the embosom'd spire breast,

Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest With all its pangs and passions, is at rest I

fire. He, too, is fallen, the master-power of strife, Who woke those passions to delirious life ;

Thee, too, that hour shall bless, the balmy close And days, prepared a brighter course to run, Of labour's day, the herald of repose, Unfold their buoyant pinions to the sun ! Which gathers hearts in peace; while social mirth

Basks in the blaze of each free village hearth ; It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth While peasant-songs are on the joyous gales, O'er the bleak mountains of the shadowy north, And merry England's voice floats up from all her And with one radiant glance, one magic breath,

vales. Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death; Yet are there sweeter sounds; and thou shalt hear While the glad voices of a thousand streams, Such as to Heaven's immortal host are dear. Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams ! Oh ! if there still be melody on earth

Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew birth, But Peace hath nobler changes ! O'er the mind, when angel-steps their paths rejoicing trode, The warm and living spirit of mankind,

And the air trembled with the breath of God; Her influence breathes, and bids the blighted heart, It lives in those soft accents, to the sky To life and hope from desolation start !

Borne from the lips of stainless infancy, (sprung, She with a look dissolves the captive's chain, When holy strains, from life's pure fount which Peopling with beauty widow'd homes again; Breathed with deep reverence, falter on his tongue. Around the mother, in her closing years, Gathering her sons once more, and from the tears And such shall be thy music, when the cells, Of the dim past but winning purer light,

Where Guilt, the child of hopeless Misery, dwells, To make the present more serenely bright. (And, to wild strength by desperation wrought,

In silence broods o'er many a fearful thought,) Nor rests that influence here. From clime to Resound to pity's voice ; and childhood thence, clime,

Ere the cold blight hath reach'd its innocence, In silence gliding with the stream of time, Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be filed, Still doth it spread, borne onwards, as a breeze Which vice but breathes on and its hues are dead, With healing on its wings, o'er isles and seas. Shall at the call press forward, to be made And as Heaven's breath callid forth, with genial A glorious offering, meet for Him who said, power,

“Mercy, not sacrifice !" and, when of old From the dry wand the almond's living flower, Clouds of rich incense from his altars rolld, So doth its deep-felt charm in secret move Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love ; The heart's deep folds, to read its homage there ! While round its pathway nature softly glows, And the wide desert blossoms as the rose.

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

world Yes ! let the waste lift up the exulting voice ! His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurl d, Let the far-echoing solitude rejoice!

And, like those visitations which deform And thou, lone moor! where no blithe reaper's Nature for centuries, hath made the storm song

His pathway to dominion's lonely sphere, E'er lightly sped the summer hours along, Silence behind-before him, flight and fear ! Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain-source When kingdoms rock beneath his rushing wheels, Rushing in joy, make music on their course ! Till each fair isle the mighty impulse feels, Thou, whose sole records of existence mark And earth is moulded but by one proud will, The scene of barbarous rites in ages dark, And sceptred realms wear fetters, and are still; And of some nameless combat; hope's bright eye Shall the free soul of song bow down to pay, Beams o'er thee in the light of prophecy ! The earthquake homage on its baleful way? Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest, And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast ! 1 In allusion to a plan for the erection of a great national Yet shall thy cottage smoke, at dewy morn, school-house on Dartmoor, where it was proposed to educate Rise in blue wreaths above the flowering thorn,

the children of convicts.

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

| Hirlas, from hir, long, and glas, blue or azure.
? Eryri, the Welsh name for the Snowdon mountains.



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

Peace, joy, or praise.

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,

[death. For the guide to those realms of the blessed

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!

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 wildstory, 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

[death. For the guide to those realms of the blessèd is

FILL high the blue hirlas that shines like the waves When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the

sea; 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,

(the field; A beam, like heaven's lightning," flash'd over To those who camerushingas 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.


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 !

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," 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.

In the dwellings of our fathers,

Round the glad blaze, Now the festive circle gathers

With harps and lays;

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

W. 0. Pughe's Cambrian Biography; also Cambro-Briton, i. 124.

? 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.

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

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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 Maelorl shall swell with their

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

(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 ot 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 Llycarch Hen.)

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