BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

"Sentinel of the morning light!

Reveller of the spring!

How sweetly, n.o.bly wild thy flight, Thy boundless journeying: Far from thy brethren of the woods, alone A hermit chorister before G.o.d's throne!

"Oh! wilt thou climb yon heav'ns for me, Yon rampart's starry height, Thou interlude of melody 'Twixt darkness and the light, And seek, with heav'n's first dawn upon thy crest, My lady love, the moonbeam of the west?

"No woodland caroller art thou; Far from the archer's eye, Thy course is o'er the mountain's brow, Thy music in the sky: Then fearless float thy path of cloud along, Thou earthly denizen of angel song."

DAFYDD AP GWILYM'S INVOCATION TO THE SUMMER TO VISIT GLAMORGANSHIRE,

Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion of Ivor Hael.

The bard, speaking from the land of Wild Gwynedd, or North Wales, thus invokes the summer to visit the sweet pastoral county of Glamorgan with all its blessings:

"And wilt thou, at the bard's desire, Thus in thy G.o.dlike robes of fire, His envoy deign to be?

Hence from Wild Gwynedd's mountain land, To fair Morganwg Druid strand, Sweet margin of the sea.

Oh! may for me thy burning feet With peace, and wealth, and glory greet, My own dear southern home; Land of the baron's, halls of snow!

Land of the harp! the vineyards glow, Green bulwark of the foam.

She is the refuge of distress; Her never-failing stores Have cheer'd the famish'd wilderness, Have gladden'd distant sh.o.r.es.

Oh! leave no little plot of sod 'Mid all her cl.u.s.t'ring vales untrod; But all thy varying gifts unfold In one mad emba.s.sy of gold: O'er all the land of beauty fling Bright records of thy elfin wing."

From this scene of ecstacy, he makes a beautiful transition to the memory of Ivor, his early benefactor: still addressing the summer, he says,

"Then will I, too, thy steps pursuing, From wood and cave, And flowers the mountain-mists are dewing, The loveliest save; From all thy wild rejoicings borrow One utterance from a heart of sorrow; The beauties of thy court shall grace My own lost Ivor's dwelling-place."

A BRIDAL SONG.

BY A WELSH HARPER.

Wilt thou not waken, bride of May, While the flowers are fresh, and the sweet bells chime?

Listen, and learn from my roundelay, How all life's pilot-boats sailed one day, A match with time.

Love sat on a lotus leaf afloat, And saw old time in his loaded boat; Slowly he crossed life's narrow tide, While love sat clapping his wings and cried, "Who will pa.s.s time?"

Patience came first, but soon was gone With helm and sail to help time on; Care and grief could not lend an oar, And prudence said while he staid on sh.o.r.e, "I will wait for time."

Hope filled with flowers her cork tree bark, And lighted its helm with a glow worm spark; Then love, when he saw her bark fly fast, Said, "Lingering time will soon be pa.s.sed, Hope outspeeds time."

Wit, next nearest old time to pa.s.s, With his diamond oar, and his boat of gla.s.s; A feathery dart from his store he drew, And shouted, while far and swift it flew, "O mirth kills time."

But time sent the feathery arrow back, Hope's boat of amaranths missed its track; Then love made his b.u.t.terfly pilots move, And, laughing, said, "They shall see how love Can conquer time."

His gossamer sails he spread with speed, But time has wings when time has need; Swiftly he crossed life's sparkling tide, And only memory stayed to chide Unpitying time.

Wake, and listen then bride of May, Listen and heed thy minstrel's rhyme; Still for thee some bright hours stay, For it was a hand like thine, they say, Gave wings to time.

THE LEGEND OF TRWST LLYWELYN.

Once upon a time, Llywelyn was returning from a great battle, against the Saxons, and his three sisters came down here to meet him; and, when they heard him coming, they said, "It is Trwst Llywelyn," (the sound of Llywelyn,) and the place has been called so ever since.--_Old Story_.

It is a scene of other days, That dimly meets my fancy's gaze; The moon's fair beams are glist'ning bright, On the Severn's loveliest vale, And yonder watchtower's gloomy height Looks stern, in her l.u.s.tre pale.

Within that turret fastness rude Three lovely forms I see, And marvel why, in that solitude, So fair a group should be.

I know them now, that beauteous band; By the broidered vest, so rich and rare, By the sparkling gem, on the tiny hand, And the golden circlet in their hair, I know Llywelyn's sisters fair, The pride of Powys land:

But the proof of lineage pure and high, Is better far supplied By the calm, fair brow, and fearless eye, And the step of graceful pride.

Why are the royal maidens here, Heedless of Saxon foemen near?

Their only court, the minstrel sage, Who wakes such thrilling sound; Their train, yon petty childish page; Their guard, that gallant hound.

They have left their brother's princely hall, To greet him from fight returning; And hope looks out from the eyes of all, Though fear in their heart lies burning.

"Now, hark!" the eldest maiden cried, "Kind minstrel, lay thy harp aside, And listen here with me; Did not Llywelyn's bugle sound From off that dark and wooded mound You named the Goryn Ddu?" {59}

"No, lady, no; my master, kind, I strive in vain to hear; 'Tis but the moaning of the wind That cheats thy anxious ear."

The second lady rous'd her page, From the peaceful sleep of his careless age; "Awake, fair child, from thy happy dreams, Look out o'er the turret's height, Is it a lance that yonder gleams In the moonbeams blue and bright?"

"No, lady mine; not on a lance Does that fair radiance quiver; I only see its l.u.s.tre dance On the blue and trembling river."

The youngest and fairest maiden sits On the turret's highest stone, Like the gentle flower that flings its sweets O'er the ruin drear and lone:

At her feet the hound is crouching still; And they look so calm and fair, You might almost deem, by a sculptor's skill, They were carved in the grey stone there.

A distant sound the spell hath broken, The lady and her hound Together caught the joyful token, And down the stair they bound.

"'Tis Trwst Llywelyn! dear sisters speed, Our own Llywelyn's near; I know the tramp of his gallant steed, 'Tis music to mine ear!"

Yes, 'twas his lance gleamed blue and bright, His horn made the echoes ring; He is safe from a glorious field of fight, And his sisters round him cling:

And Gelert lies at his master's feet, The page returns to his slumbers sweet, The minstrel quaffs his mead, And sings Llywelyn's fame and power, And, Trwst Llywelyn, names the tower, Where they heard his coming steed.

That tower, no more, o'erlooks the vale, But its name is unforgot, And the peasant tells the simple tale, And points to the well-known spot.