There towering Snowdon, first in height, Or Cader Idris, dreary sight, And lonely Clwyd? Oh! how bright, My Father-land!

Oh! how I love thee, though I mourn That cold neglect should on thee turn, Thy name to brand; And oft the scalding tear will start Raining its dew-drops from the heart, To think how far we are apart, My Father-land.

And when my days are almost done, And, faltering on, I've nearly run Life's dreary sand; Still, still my fainting breath shall be Bestowed upon thy memory, My soul shall wing its way to thee, My Father-land!

MY NATIVE LAND.

BY THE REV. D. EVANS, B.D.

TRANSLATED BY MISS LYDIA JONES.

My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my heart prevails, Whilst chill'd with grief, it mourns and wails For my old Native Land.

Gold and wine have power to please, And Summer's pure and gentle breeze,-- But ye are dearer far than these, Hills of my Native Land.

Lovely to see the sun arise, Breaking forth from eastern skies; But oh! far lovelier in my eyes Would be my Native Land.

As pants the hart for valley dew, As bleats the lambkin for the ewe, Thus I lament and long to view My ancient Native Land.

What, what are delicacies, say, And large possessions, what are they?

What the wide world and all its sway Out of my Native Land?

O should I king of India be, Might Europe to me bend the knee, Such honours should be nought to me Far from my Native Land.

In what delightful country strays Each gentle friend of youthful days?

Where dwelleth all I love or praise?

O! in my Native Land.

Where are the fields and gardens fair Where once I sported free as air, Without despondency or care?

O! in my Native Land.

Where is each path and still retreat Where I with song held converse sweet With true poetic fire replete?

O! in my Native Land.

Where do the merry maidens move, Who purely live and truly love-- Whose words do not deceitful prove?

O! in my Native Land.

And where on earth that friendly place, Where each presents a brother's face, Where frowns or anger ne'er debase!

O! 'tis my Native Land.

And O! where dwells that dearest one My first affections fix'd upon, Dying with grief that I am gone?

O! in my Native Land.

Where do they food to strangers give?

Where kindly, liberally relieve?

Where unsophisticated live?

O! in my Native Land.

Where are the guileless rites retain'd, And customs of our sires maintain'd?

Where has the ancient Welsh remain'd?

O! in my Native Land.

Where is the harp of sweetest string?

Where are songs read in bardic ring?

Genius and inspiration sing Within my Native Land.

Once Zion's sons their harps unstrung, On Babylonian willows hung, And mute their songs--with sorrow wrung, They mourn'd their Native Land.

Captives, the Babylonians cry, Awake Judaean melody,-- There is no music they reply, Out of our Native Land.

And thus when I in misery Beseech my muse to visit me, She echo's--there's no hope for thee Out of thy Native Land.

A bard how dull in Indian groves, Distant from the land he loves!

The muse to melody ne'er moves Far from her Native Land.

Day and night I ceaseless groan Among these foreigners, alone; Yet not for fame or gold I moan, But for my Native Land.

Oft to the rocky heights I haste, And gaze intent, while tears flow fast, Over old ocean's troubled waste, Towards my Native Land.

Then breaks my heart with grief to see The mountain waves o'erspread the sea, Which widely separates from me My charming Native Land.

To see the boiling ocean near, Whose waves as if they joy'd appear, Rolling betwixt me and my dear Enchanting Native Land.

O had I wings! to cure my pain I'd flee across the widening main, To view the extensive vales again Of my dear Native Land.

There I would lay me down secure, And cheerfully my wants endure: The wealth of worlds could not allure Me from my Native Land.

ODE TO CAMBRIA.

BY THE REV. JOHN WALTERS.

Cambria, I love thy genius bold; Thy dreadful rites, and Druids old; Thy bards who struck the sounding strings, And wak'd the warlike souls of kings; Those kings who, prodigal of breath, Rush'd furious to the fields of death; Thy maids for peerless beauty crown'd, In songs of ancient fame renown'd, Pure as the gem of Arvon's caves, Bright as the foam of Menai's waves, With sunny locks and jetty eyes, Of valour's deeds the glorious prize, Who tam'd to love's refin'd delight Those chiefs invincible in fight.

Thy sparkling horns I next recall In many a hospitable hall Circling with haste, whose boundless mirth To many an amorous lay gave birth, And many a present to the fair, And many a deed of bold despair.

I love thy harps with well-rank'd strings, Heard in the stately halls of kings, Whose sounds had magic to bestow Or sunny joy, or dusky woe.

I love thy fair Silurian vales Fann'd by Sabrina's temperate gales, That fir'd the Roman to engage The scythed cars of Arvirage.

Oft to the visionary skies I see thy ancient genius rise, Who mounts the chariot of the wind, And leaves our mortal steeds behind; And while to rouse the drooping land He strikes the harp with glowing hand, Light spirits with aerial wings Dance upon the trembling strings.

Oh, lead me thou in strains sublime Thy sacred hill of oaks to climb, To haunt thy old poetic streams, And sport in fiction's fairy dreams, There let the rover fancy free, And breathe the soul of poesy!

To think upon thy ravish'd crown, Thy warlike deeds of old renown; Thy valiant sons at Maelor slain, {75a} The stubborn fight of Bangor's plain, {75b} A thousand banners waving high Where bold Tal Moelvre meets the sky! {75c}

Nor seldom, Cambria, I explore Thy treasures of poetic store, And mingle with thy tuneful throng, And range thy realms of ancient song, That like thy mountains, huge and high, Lifts its broad forehead to the sky; Whence Druids fanes of fabling time, And ruin'd castles frown sublime, Down whose dark sides torn rocks resound, Eternal tempests whirling round; With many a pleasant vale between, Where Nature smiles attir'd in green, Where Innocence in cottage warm Is shelter'd from the pa.s.sing storm, Stretch'd on the banks of lulling streams Where fancy lies indulging dreams, Where shepherds tend their fleecy train, Where echoes oft the pleading strain Of rural lovers. O'er my soul Such varied scenes in vision roll, Whether, O prince of bards, I see The fire of Greece reviv'd in thee, That like a deluge bursts away; Or Taliesin tune the lay; Or thou, wild Merlin, with thy song Pour thy ungovern'd soul along; Or those perchance of later age More artful swell their measur'd rage, Sweet bards whose love-taught numbers suit Soft measures and the Lesbian lute; Whether, Iolo, mirtle-crown'd, Thy harp such amorous verse resound As love's and beauty's prize hath won; Or led by Gwilym's plaintive song, I hear him teach his melting tale In whispers to the grove and gale.

But since thy once harmonious sh.o.r.e Resounds th' inspiring strain no more, That s.n.a.t.c.h'd in fields of ancient date, The palm from number, strength, and fate; Since to thy grove no more belong The sacred eulogies of song; Since thou hast rued the waste of age, And war, and Scolan's fiercer rage;--{76} The spirit of renown expires, The brave example of thy sires Is lost; thy high heroic crest Oblivion and inglorious rest Have torn with rude rapacious hand; And apathy usurps the land.

Lo! silent as the lapse of time Sink to the earth thy towers sublime; Where whilom harp'd the minstrel throng, The night-owl pours her feral song: For ever sinks blest Cambria's fame, By ignorance, and sword, and flame Laid with the dust, amidst her woes The taunt of her ungenerous foes; For ever sleeps her warlike praise, Her wealth, dominion, language, lays.