What though not yet his day of pride be flown,
Though yet Heaven's vengeance spare his towering crest,
Well hath it mark'd him-and ordain'd the hour
When his last sigh shall own its mightier power.
Are we not creatures of one hand divine,
Form'd in one mould, to one redemption born,
Kindred alike, where'er our skies may shine,
Where'er our sight first drank the vital morn?
Brothers! one bond around our souls should twine,
And woe to him by whom that bond is torn !
Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth,
Who bears down spirits of immortal birth!
SON of the ocean isle !
Where sleep your mighty dead?
Show me what high and stately pile
Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.
Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free, the white sail spread !
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.
On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o'ersway'd,
With fearful power the noon-day reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade.
But let the angry sun
From Heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose task is done!
There slumber England's dead.
The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
And far, by Ganges' banks at night,
Is heard the tiger's roar.
But let the sound roll on !
It hath no tone of dread,
For those that from their toils are gone ;-
There slumber England's dead!
Loud rush the torrent-floods
The western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia's woods,
The hunter's bow is strung.
But let the floods rush on !
Let the arrow's flight be sped!
Why should they reck whose task is done?
There slumber England's dead!
The mountain-storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,
Like rose-leaves on the breeze.
But let the storm rage on!
Let the forest-wreaths be shed.
For the Roncesvalles' field is won,-
There slumber England's dead.
On the frozen deep's repose
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
To chain her with their power.
But let the ice drift on!
Let the cold-blue desert spread ! Their course with mast and flag is done, There slumber England's dead.
The warlike of the isles,
The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?
Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.
THE MEETING OF THE BARDS.
WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF
Held in London, May 22nd, 1822.
THE Gorseddau, or meetings of the British bards, were anciently ordained to be held in the open air, on some conspicuous situation, whilst the sun was above the horizon; or, according to the expression employed on these occasions, "in the face of the sun, and in the eye of light." The places set apart for this purpose were marked out by a circle of stones, called the circle of federation. The presiding bard stood on a large stone (Maen Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly), in the centre. The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was the ceremony which announced the opening of a Gorsedd, or meeting. The bards always stood in their uni-coloured robes, with their heads and feet uncovered, within the circle of federation.-See OWEN's Translation of the Heroic Elegies of Llywarc Hen.
WHERE met our bards of old ?—the glorious throng,
They of the mountain and the battle-song?
They met-oh! not in kingly hall or bower,
But where wild Nature girt herself with power :
They met where streams flash'd bright from rocky caves,
They met where woods made moan o'er warriors' graves,
And where the torrent's rainbow spray was cast,
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast,
And midst th' eternal cliffs, whose strength defied
The crested Roman in his hour of pride;
And where the Carnedd,* on its lonely hill,
Bore silent record of the mighty still;
And where the Druid's ancient Cromlech + frown'd,
And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round :—
There throng'd th' inspired of yore!—on plain or height,
In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light,
And, baring unto heaven each noble head,
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread..
Well might their lays be lofty!-soaring thought
From Nature's presence tenfold gran
* Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn.
+ Cromlech, a Druidical monument, or altar. The word means a stone of
Well might bold Freedom's soul pervade the strains,
Which startled eagles from their lone domains,
And, like a breeze, in chainless triumph, went
Up through the blue resounding firmament !
Whence came the echoes to those numbers high ?—
'Twas from the battle-fields of days gone by!
And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest
With their good swords, upon the mountain's breast;
And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow,
Sever'd, by cloud and storm, from all below;
And the turf-mounds,* once girt by ruddy spears,
And the rock-altars of departed years.
Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent's roar,
The winds a thousand wild responses bore;
And the green land, whose every vale and glen、
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men,
On all her hills, awakening to rejoice,
Sent forth proud answers to her children's voice.
For us, not ours the festival to hold,
Midst the stone-circles, hallow'd thus of old;
Not where great Nature's majesty and might
First broke, all-glorious, on our infant sight;
Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and brave,
Not by the mountain-llyn,† the ocean wave,
In these late days we meet !-dark Mona's shore,
Eryri's cliffs reso.nd with harps no more!
But, as the stream (though time or art may turn
The current, bursting from its cavern'd urn,
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,
From Alpine glens, or ancient forest-bowers),
Alike, in rushing strength or sunny sleep,
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep;
Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm and free,
Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee!
To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts belong,
Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song!
Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less,
To the green memory of thy loveliness,
Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal'd from every height,
In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light!
The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their followers from small artificial mounds of turf. -See Pennant.
I COME, I come! ye have call'd me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars, in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves, opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the south, and the chestnut flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains ;-
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb !
I have look'd o'er the hills of the stormy north,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the rein-deer bounds o'er the pastures free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright, where my foot hath been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note, by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain,
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,
They are flinging spray o'er the forest-boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!
Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly!
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay.
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