'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 hearts 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,1 that shines like the wave,2
When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the sea:
And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the brave,
The dragons of battle, the sons of the free!

3

To those from whose spears, in the shock of the fight,
A beam, like heaven's lightning, flashed over the field;
To those who came rushing as storms in their might,
Who have shivered 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 honour and mirth,* for the conflict is o'er;
And round let the golden-tipped hirlas be borne
To the lion-defenders of Gwynedd's fair shore,

1 Hirlas, from hir, long, and glas, blue or azure.

2" Fetch the horn, that we may drink together, whose gloss is like the waves of the sea; whose green handles show the skill of the artist, and are tipped with gold."-From the Hirlas Horn of OWAIN CYFEILIOG.

3 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 flashed out of their spears?" -Ibid.

"Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn-badge of honour and mirth."--From the Hirlas Horn of OWAIN CYFEILIOG.

Q

Who rushed 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 that 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 crowned-
So long by the bards shall their battles be sung,

And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound.
The free winds of Maelor1 shall swell with their name,
And Owain's rich hirlas be filled to their fame.

THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN.

THE Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night;1
I weep, for the grave has extinguished its light;
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 for ever, 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 poured!

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!

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

division.

2 "The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,

Without fire, without bed

I must weep awhile, and then be silent.

The Hall of Cyuddylan is gloomy this night,

Without fire, without being lighted-

Be thou encircled with spreading silence!

The Hall of Cynddylan is without love this night,

Since he that owned 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

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!

Álone 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,1
Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight's glad beam;
Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping!
-O grave! why refuse to the agèd thy bed,

When valour'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!2

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 !3

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 honourable 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

1 "What I loved when I was a youth is hateful to me now.' 2 "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 honour, worn by heroes, is frequently alluded

to in the works of the ancient British bards.

3" Hardly has the snow covered the vale,
When the warriors are hastening to the battle;

I do not go, I am hindered by infirmity."

Elegies of Llywarch Hen.

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 honourable gifts.”—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,1
That those may rejoice who have feared not to die!

Let the horn whose loud blast gave the signal for fight,
With the bee's sunny nectar now sparkle in light; 2
Let the rich draught it offers with gladness be crowned,
For the strong hearts in combat that leaped at its sound!
Like the billows' dark swell was the path of their might,
Red, red as their blood, fill the wine-cup on high,
That those may rejoice who have feared not to die!

And wake ye the children of song from their dreams,
On Maelor's wild hills and by Dyfed's fair streams!3
Bid them haste with those strains of the lofty and free,
Which shall float down the waves of long ages to be.

Sheath the sword which hath given them unperishing themes,
And pour the bright mead : let the wine-cup foam high,
That those may rejoice who have feared not to die!

THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA.

WHEN the last flush of eve is dying

On boundless lakes afar that shine;

When winds amidst the palms are sighing,
And fragrance breathes from every pine: 4
When stars through cypress boughs are gleaming,
And fire-flies wander bright and free,

Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming,

My thoughts, wild Cambria ! dwell with thee!

Alone o'er green savannas roving,

Where some broad stream in silence flows,

Or through the eternal forests moving,

One only home my spirit knows!

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

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

3 Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint. Dyfed, (said to signify

a land abounding with streams of water), the modern Pembrokeshire.

4 The aromatic odour of the pine has frequently been mentioned by travellers.

Sweet land, whence memory ne'er hath parted!
To thee on sleep's light wing I fly;
But happier could the weary-hearted
Look on his own blue hills and die!

THE FAIR ISLE.1

FOR THE MELODY CALLED THE "WELSH GROUND."

[The Bard of the Palace, under the ancient Welsh Princes, always accompanied the army when it marched into an enemy's country; and, while it was preparing for battle or dividing the spoils, he performed an ancient song, called Unbennaeth Prydain, the Monarchy of Britain. It has been conjectured that this poem referred to the tradition of the Welsh, that the whole island had once been possessed by their ancestors, who were driven into a corner of it by their Saxon invaders. When the prince had received his share of the spoils, the bard, for the performance of this song, was rewarded with the most valuable beast that remained.-See JONE'S Historical Account of the Welsh Bards.]

SONS of the Fair Isle ! forget not the time

Ere spoilers had breathed the free air of your clime :
All that its eagles behold in their flight

Was yours, from the deep of each storm-mantled height,
Though from your race that proud birthright be torn,
Unquenched is the spirit for monarchy born.

CHORUS.

Darkly though clouds may hang o'er us awhile,
The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle.

Ages may roll ere your children regain
The land for which heroes have perished in vain ;
Yet, in the sound of your names shall be power,
Around her still gathering in glory's full hour.
Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep,
Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep.

CHORUS.

Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile,
Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle.

TALIESIN'S PROPHECY.

[A prophecy of Taliesin relating to the Ancient Britons is still extant, and has been strikingly verified. It is to the following effect:

"Their God they shall worship,

Their language they shall retain,
Their land they shall lose,
Except wild Wales."]

A VOICE from time departed yet floats thy hills among,
O Cambria! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin sung:

1 Ynys Prydain was the ancient Welsh name of Britain, and signifies fair or beautiful isle