Oh, lady moon! thy radiance fills An altered scene, to-night, All here is chang'd save the changeless hills, And the Severn, rippling bright.

We dwell in peace, beneath the yoke That roused our father's spears, The very tongue our fathers spoke, Sounds strangely in our ears. {61}

But the human heart knows little change: 'Tis woman's to watch, 'tis man's to range For pleasure, wealth, or fame; And thou may'st look, from thy realms above, On many a sister's yearning love, The same--still, still the same.

Ye students grave, of ancient lore, Grudge not my skilless rhyme, One tale (from tradition's ample store) Of Cambria's olden time; Seek, 'mid the hills and glens around, For names and deeds of war; And leave this little spot of ground, A record holier far.

THE GOLDEN GOBLET,

IN IMITATION OF GOTHE.

There was a king in Mon, {62} A true lover to his grave; To whom in death his lady A golden goblet gave.

When Christmas bowls were circling, And all was joy and cheer, He pa.s.sed that goblet from him With a kiss and with a tear.

When death he felt approaching, To all his barons bold, He left some fair dominion-- To none, that cup of gold.

He sate at royal banquet, With all his lordly train, In the castle of his fathers, On the rock above the main.

Upstood the tottering monarch, And drank the cup's last wine; Then flung the holy goblet, Deep, deep, into the brine.

He watch'd it, bubbling, sinking, Far, far, beneath the wave; And the light sank from his eyelid, With the cup his lady gave.

THE SICK MAN'S DREAM.

Dans le solitaire bourgade, Revant a ses maux tristement, Languissait un pauvre malade, D'un long mal qui va consumant.--MILLEVOYE.

It was a dream, a pleasant dream, that o'er my spirit came, When faint beneath the lime-trees' shade I flung my weary frame: I stood upon a mountain's brow, above the haunts of men, And, far beneath me, smiling, lay my lovely native glen.

I watch'd the silv'ry Severn glide, reflecting rock and tree, A gentle pilgrim, bound to pay her homage to the sea; And waking many a treasured thought, that slumb'ring long had lain: Some mountain minstrel's harp poured forth a well remember'd strain.

I rais'd my voice in thankfulness, and vowed no more to roam, Or leave my heart's abiding-place, my beauteous mountain home.

Alas! how different was the scene that met my waking glance!

It fell upon the fertile plains, the sunny hills of France.

The Garonne's fair and gla.s.sy wave rolls onward in its pride; It cannot quench my burning thirst for thee, my native tide; And, for the harp that bless'd my dream with mem'ries from afar, I only hear yon peasant maid, who strikes the light guitar: The merry stranger mocks at griefs he does not understand, He cannot--he has never seen my own fair mountain land.

They said Consumption's ruthless eye had mark'd me for her prey: They bade me seek in foreign climes her wasting hand to stay; They told me of an altered form, an eye grown ghastly bright, And called the crimson on my cheek the spoiler's hectic blight.

Oh! if the mountain heather pined amidst the heaven's own dew, Think ye the parterre's wasting heat its freshness could renew?

And thus, 'mid shady glens and streams, was my young life begun, And now, my frame exhausted sinks beneath this southern sun.

I feel, I feel, they told me true; my breath grows faint and weak, And, brighter still, this crimson spot is glowing on my cheek; My hour of life is well nigh past, too fleetly runs the sand: Oh! must I die so far from thee, my dear lov'd mountain land?

THE FAIRY'S SONG.

"Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!"--SHAKSPEARE.

I am a wand'rer o'er earth and sea, The trackless air has a path for me; Ye may trace my steps on the heather green, By the emerald ring, where my foot hath been; Ye may hear my voice in the night wind's sigh, Or the wood's low moan when a storm is nigh.

My task is to brighten the rainbow's hue, To sprinkle the flowers with glit'ring dew, To steep in crimson the evening cloud, And wrap the hills in their misty shroud; To track the course of a wandering star, And marshal it back to its home afar.

I am no child of the murky night, But a being of music, and joy, and light; If the fair moon sleep in her bower o'er long, I break on her rest with my mirthful song; And when she is shining o'er hill and heath, I dance in the revels of Gwyn ab Nudd. {65}

Few are the mortals whose favoured feet May tread unscathed where the fairies meet; Wo to the tuneless tongue and ear, And the craven heart, that has throbbed with fear, If I meet them at night, on the lonely heath, As I haste to the banquet of Gwyn ab Nudd.

But joy to the minstrel, whose deathless song On the breeze of the mountain is borne along, And joy to the warrior, whose heart and hand Are strong in the cause of his native land; For them we are twining our fairest wreath, They are welcome as moonlight to Gwyn ab Nudd!

WALTER SELE.

O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallow'd roam; For here the grave hath found a grave, The wanderer a home.

This little mound encircles round A heart that once could feel; For none possess'd a warmer heart Than gallant Walter Sele.

The primrose pale, from Derwen vale, Through spring shall sweetly bloom, And here, I ween, the evergreen Shall shed its death perfume; The branching tree of rosemary The sweet thyme may conceal; But both shall wave above the grave Of gallant Walter Sele.

They brand with shame my true love's name, And call him traitor vile, Who dar'd disclose to Charlie's foes The secret postern aisle; But though, alas! that fatal pa.s.s He rashly did reveal, He ne'er betray'd his maniac maid,-- My gallant Walter Sele!

PART III. THE PATRIOTIC.

MY FATHER-LAND.

Land of the Cymry! thou art still, In rock and valley, stream and hill, As wild and grand; As thou hast been in days of yore, As thou hast ever been before, As thou shalt be for evermore, My Father-land!

Where are the bards, like thine, who've sung The warrior's praise? the harp hath strung, With mighty hand?

Made chords of magic sound arise, That flung their echoes through the skies, And gained the fame that never dies, My Father-land?

And where are warriors like thine own, Who in the battle's front have shown So firm a stand?

Who fought against the Romans' skill, "The conquerors of the world," until They found thou wert "invincible,"

My Father-land?

And where are hills like thine, or where Are vales so sweet, or scenes so fair, Such praise command?