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!

DRUID CHORUS ON THE LANDING OF THE ROMANS.

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 !

THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN.*

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. †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, west 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 Madog, were called the three losses by disappearance of the island of Britain.-Vide W. O. PUGHE's Cam brain Biography, also Cambro-Briton, vol. i. p. 124.

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 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.

THE SEA-SONG OF GAFRAN.*

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!

THE HIRLAS HORN.

FILL high the blue hirlas,† that shines like the wavet
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 ke the waves of the sea; whose green handles show the skill of the artist, and are tipped with gold."--From the Hirlas of OWAIN CY

FEILIOG.

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'dSo long by the bards shall their battles be sung,

And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound The free winds of Maelort shall swell with their name, And Owain's rich hirlas be fill'd to their fare.

THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN.

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 CYFEILIOG.

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

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

"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,

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,
The 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 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,*
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.”

*

*

*

*

*

Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping!
-Oh grave! why refuse to the aged thy bed,
When valor'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 !

Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing,
Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod !*
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, I turn from heaven's light, for it smiles on your grave!†

GRUFYDD'S FEAST.

["Grufydd ab Rhys ab Tewdwr, having resisted the English successfully in the time of Stephen, and at last obtained from them an honorable peace, made a great feast at his palace in Ystrad Tywi to celebrate this event. To this feast, which was continued for forty days, he invited all who would come in peace from Gwynedd, Powys, the Deheubarth, Glamorgan, and the marches. Against the appointed time he prepared all kinds of delicious viands and liquors; with every entertainment of vocal and instrumental song; thus patronising the poets and musicians. He encouraged. too, all sorts of representations and manly games, and afterwards sent away all those who had excelled in them with honorable gifts."-Vide Cambrian Biography.

LET the yellow mead shine for the sons of the brave,
By the bright festal torches around us that wave!
Set open the gates of the prince's wide hall,

And hang up the chief's ruddy spear on the wall!

There is peace in the land we have battled to save:
Then spread ye the feast, bid the wine-cup foam high,t
That those may rejoice who have fear'd not to die!

Let the horn, whose loud blast gave the signal for fight,
With the bee's sunny nectar now sparkle in light,

* "Four and twenty sons to me have been,
Wearing the golden chain, and leading princes."

Elegies of Llywarch Hen.

The golden chain as a badge of honor, worn by heroes, is frequently alluded to in the works of the ancient British bards.

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."

OWEN'S Elegies of Llwarch Hen.

Wine, as well as mead, is frequently mentioned in the poems of the ancient British bards.

The horn was used for two purposes, to sound the alarm in war, and to drink the mead at feasts.