Though from their stormy haunts of yore

Thine eagles long have flown,1

As proud a flight the soul shall soar

Yet from thy mountain-throne !

Pierce then the heavens, thou hill of streams!
And make the snows thy crest !
The sunlight of immortal dreams
Around thee still shall rest.

Eryri! temple of the bard!

And fortress of the free!

Midst rocks which heroes died to guard,
Their spirit dwells with thee!

CHANT OF THE BARDS BEFORE THEIR MASSACRE BY
EDWARD I.2

RAISE ye the sword! let the death-stroke be given;
Oh! swift may it fall as the lightning of heaven!
So shall our spirits be free as our strains-
The children of song may not languish in chains!
Have ye not trampled our country's bright crest?
Are heroes reposing in death on her breast?
Red with their blood do her mountain-streams flow,
And think ye that still we would linger below?
Rest, ye brave dead! midst the hills of your sires,
Oh! who would not slumber when freedom expires?
Lonely and voiceless your halls must remain-
The children of song may not breathe in the chain !

THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.3
"All is not lost-the unconquerable will
And courage never to submit or yield."

THE hall of harps is lone to-night,

And cold the chieftain's hearth:

MILTON.

of Merddin Emrys, called by the Latins Merlinus Ambrosius, the celebrated prophet and magician: and there, tradition says, he wrote his prophecies concerning the future state of the Britons.

There is another curious tradition respecting a large stone, on the ascent of Snowdon, called Maen du yr Arddu, the black stone of Arddu. It is said, that if two persons were to sleep a night on this stone, in the morning one would find himself endowed with the gift of poetry, and the other would become insane. See WILLIAMS's Observations on the Snowdon Mountains. 1 It is believed amongst the inhabitants of these mountains, that eagles have heretofore bred in the lofty clefts of their rocks. Some wandering ones are still seen at times, though very rarely, amongst the precipices. -See WILLIAMS'S Observations on the Snowdon Mountains.

2 This sanguinary deed is not attested by any historian of credit. And it deserves to be also noticed, that none of the bardic productions since the time of Edward make any allusion to such an event.-See The Cambro-Briton, vol. i., p. 195.

At the time of the supposed massacre of the Welsh bards by Edward the First.

It hath no mead, it hath no light;

No voice of melody, no sound of mirth.

The bow lies broken on the floor

Whence the free step is gone;

The pilgrim turns him from the door

Where minstrel-blood hath stained the threshold stone.

"And I, too, go: my wound is deep,

My brethren long have died;

Yet, ere my soul grow dark with sleep,

Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride!

"Bear it where, on his battle-plain,

Beneath the setting sun,

He counts my country's noble slain

Say to him-Saxon, think not all is won. "Thou hast laid low the warrior's head, The minstrel's chainless hand:

Dreamer! that numberest with the dead

The burning spirit of the mountain-land!
"Thinkst thou, because the song hath ceased,
The soul of song is flown?

Thinkst thou it woke to crown the feast,

It lived beside the ruddy hearth alone?
"No! by our wrongs, and by our blood!
We leave it pure and free;

Though hushed awhile, that sounding flood
Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be.
"We leave it midst our country's woe-
The birthright of her breast;

We leave it as we leave the snow

Bright and eternal on Eryri's1 crest. "We leave it with our fame to dwell

Upon our children's breath;

Our voice in theirs through time shall swell—

The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death."

He dies; but yet the mountains stand,

Yet sweeps the torrent's tide;

And this is yet Aneurin's 2 land

Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride!

THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS.

[It is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that on the summit of the mountain Cader Idris is an excavation resembling a couch; and that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, would be found in the morning either dead, in a frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration.]

I LAY on that rock where the storms have their dwelling,
The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the cloud;

Eryri, Welsh name for the Snowdon mountains.

2 Aneurin, one of the noblest of the Welsh bards.

Around it for ever deep music is swelling,

The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud. 'Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming,

Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan; Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleaming; And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone.

I lay there in silence-a spirit came o'er me;

Man's tongue hath no language to speak what I saw ;
Things glorious, unearthly, passed floating before me,
And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe.
I viewed the dread beings around us that hover,

Though veiled by the mists of mortality's breath;
And I called upon darkness the vision to cover,

For a strife was within me of madness and death.

I saw them-the powers of the wind and the ocean,
The rush of whose pinion bears onward the storms;
Like the sweep of the white rolling wave was their motion-
I felt their dim presence, but knew not their forms!

I saw them—the mighty of ages departed—

The dead were around me that night on the hill: From their eyes, as they passed, a cold radiance they darted,There was light on my soul, but my heart's blood was chill.

I saw what man looks on, and dies-but my spirit

Was strong, and triumphantly lived through that hour; And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit

A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power!

Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud crested,
And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun;-

But oh! what new glory all nature invested,

When the sense which gives soul to her beauty was won!

These ballads are not translations from the Spanish, but are founded upon some of the "wild and wonderful" traditions preserved in the romances of that language, and the ancient poem of the Cid.

THE CID'S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE.

With sixty knights in his gallant train,
Went forth the Campeador of Spain;
For wild sierras and plains afar,
He left the lands of his own Bivar.

To march o'er field, and to watch in tent,
From his home in good Castile he went ;
To the wasting siege and the battle's van,
-For the noble Cid was a banished man!

Through his olive-woods the morn-breeze played,
And his native streams wild music made,
And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay,
When for march and combat he took his way.

With a thoughtful spirit his way he took,
And he turned his steed for a parting look,
For a parting look at his own fair towers,
-Oh! the exile's heart hath weary hours!

The pennons were spread, and the band arrayed,
But the Cid at the threshold a moment stayed-
It was but a moment; the halls were lone,
And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown.

There was not a steed in the empty stall,
Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall,
Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door,
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor.

Then a dim tear swelled to the warrior's eye,
As the voice of his native groves went by ;
And he said-"My foemen their wish have won :
Now the will of God be in all things done!"

But the trumpet blew, with its note of cheer, And the winds of the morning swept off the tear, And the fields of his glory lay distant far,

-He is gone from the towers of his own Bivar!

THE CID'S DEATHBED.

It was an hour of grief and fear
Within Valencia's walls,

When the blue spring-heaven lay still and clear
Above her marble halls.

There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes,
And steps of hurrying feet,

Where the Zambra's notes were wont to rise,
Along the sunny street.

It was an hour of fear and grief,

On bright Valencia's shore,

For Death was busy with her chief,

The noble Campeador.

The Moor-king's barks were on the deep,

With sounds and signs of war;

But the Cid was passing to his sleep,

In the silent Alcazar.

No moan was heard through the towers of state,

No weeper's aspect seen,

But by the couch Ximena sate,

With pale yet steadfast mien.

Stillness was round the leader's bed,
Warriors stood mournful nigh,
And banners, o'er his glorious head,
Were drooping heavily.

And feeble grew the conquering hand,
And cold the valiant breast;

He had fought the battles of the land,
And his hour was come to rest.

What said the Ruler of the field?

-His voice is faint and low;

The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield Hath louder accents now.

"Raise ye no cry, and let no moan

Be made when I depart;

The Moor must hear no dirge's tone;
Be ye of mighty heart!