On the red fields they won; whose wild flowers wave Now in luxuriant beauty o'er their grave. 'Twas then the captives of Britannia's war1 Here for their lovely southern climes afar In bondage pined; the spell-deluded throng Dragg'd at ambition's chariot-wheels so long To die because a despot could not clasp A sceptre fitted to his boundless grasp ! Yes! they whose march had rock'd the ancient thrones And temples of the world--the deepening tones And of those mothers who had watch'd and wept, Of sterner spirits, harden'd by despair; And there was mirth, too!-strange and savage mirth, More fearful far than all the woes of earth! But still, howe'er the soul's disguise were worn, If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn, Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show, Slight was the mask, and all beneath it-woe. Yet, was this all? Amidst the dungeon-gloom, The void, the stillness of the captive's doom, Were there no deeper thoughts? And that dark power To whom guilt owes one late but dreadful hour, The mighty debt through years of crime delay'd, But, as the grave's, inevitably paid; 1 The French prisoners, taken in the wars with Napoleon, were confined in a depot on Dartmoor. Came he not thither, in his burning force, Yes! as the night calls forth from sea and sky, From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony, Lost when the swift triumphant wheels of day In light and sound are hurrying on their way: Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart, The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might start, Call'd up by solitude, each nerve to thrill With accents heard not, save when all is still! The voice, inaudible when havoc's strain Crush'd the red vintage of devoted Spain; Mute, when sierras to the war-whoop rung, And the broad light of conflagration sprung From the south's marble cities; hush'd midst cries That told the heavens of mortal agonies; But gathering silent strength, to wake at last In concentrated thunders of the past! And there, perchance, some long-bewilder'd mind, Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined Who visited that deathbed? Who can tell Its brief sad tale, on which the soul might dwell, And learn immortal lessons? Who beheld The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt repell'd-The agony of prayer-the bursting tearsThe dark remembrances of guilty years, Crowding upon the spirit in their might? He, through the storm who look'd, and there was light! That scene is closed!-that wild, tumultuous breast, With all its pangs and passions, is at rest! It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth O'er the bleak mountains of the shadowy north, And with one radiant glance, one magic breath, Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death; While the glad voices of a thousand streams, Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams! But Peace hath nobler changes! O'er the mind, The warm and living spirit of mankind, Her influence breathes, and bids the blighted heart, To life and hope from desolation start! She with a look dissolves the captive's chain, Peopling with beauty widow'd homes again; Around the mother, in her closing years, Gathering her sons once more, and from the tears Of the dim past but winning purer light, To make the present more serenely bright. Nor rests that influence here. From clime to clime, In silence gliding with the stream of time, From the dry wand the almond's living flower, Yes! let the waste lift up the exulting voice! Let the far-echoing solitude rejoice! And thou, lone moor! where no blithe reaper's song E'er lightly sped the summer hours along, And, midst thy hamlet shades, the embosom'd spire Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest fire. Thee, too, that hour shall bless, the balmy close Yet are there sweeter sounds; and thou shalt hear And such shall be thy music, when the cells, Where Guilt, the child of hopeless Misery, dwells, (And, to wild strength by desperation wrought, In silence broods o'er many a fearful thought,) Resound to pity's voice; and childhood thence, Ere the cold blight hath reach'd its innocence, Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled, Which vice but breathes on and its hues are dead, Shall at the call press forward, to be made A glorious offering, meet for Him who said, "Mercy, not sacrifice!" and, when of old Clouds of rich incense from his altars roll'd, Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare The heart's deep folds, to read its homage there! When some crown'd conqueror, o'er a trampled world His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurl`d, 1 In allusion to a plan for the erection of a great national school-house on Dartmoor, where it was proposed to educate the children of convicts. 1 The "Green Islands of Ocean," or "Green Spots of the Floods," called in the Triads "Gwerddonan Llion," (respecting which some remarkable superstitions have been preserved in Wales,) were supposed to be the abode of the Fair Family, or souls of the virtuous Druids, who could not enter the Christian heaven, but were permitted to enjoy this paradise of their own. Gafran, a distinguished British chieftain of the fifth century, went on a voyage with his family to discover these islands; but they were never heard of afterwards. This event, the voyage of Merddin Emrys with his twelve bards, and the expedition of Madoc, were called the three losses by disappearance of the island of Britain.-See 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,5 for the conflict is o'er ; And round let the golden-tipp'd hirlas be borne To the lion-defenders of Gwynedd's fair shore, Who rush'd to the field where the glory was won, As eagles that soar from their cliffs to the sun. W. O. PUGHE'S Cambrian Biography; also Cambro-Briton, i. 124. 2 See note to the "Green Isles of Ocean." 3 "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. 4"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?"-From the same. "Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn-badge of honour and mirth."-From the same. Fill higher the hirlas! forgetting not those which 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 crown'd-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 fill'd to their fame. THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN. THE Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night;2 The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still, The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare, The Hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night, 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 Cynddylan is gloomy this night, The Hall of Cynddylan is without love this night, Ah Death! it will be but a short time he will leave me. The Hall of Cynddylan it is not easy this night, 3 "What I loved when I was a youth is hateful to me now." 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! Alone on the rocks of the stranger I linger, Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing, I turn from heaven's light, for it smiles on your 4" Four and twenty sons to me have been Wearing the golden chain, and leading princes." Elegies of Llyrarch Hen. The golden chain, as a badge of honour, worn by heroes, is frequently alluded to in the works of the ancient British bards. 5" Hardly has the snow covered the vale, I do not go, I am hinder'd by infirmity." |