Is the sable warrior fled?

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising morn.

Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes:

Youth on the prow and Pleasure at the helm:
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,
That hushed in grim repose expects his evening
prey.

Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare;

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:

Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray,

Lance to lance and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head! Above, below, the rose of snow,

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled boar in infant-gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

'Edward, lo! to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof; the thread is spun);

Half of thy heart we consecrate

(The web is wove; the work is done).

Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn:
In yon bright track that fires the western skies
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height
Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:

All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!

'Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear;

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear.

In the midst a form divine!

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line:
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face
Attempered sweet to virgin grace.

What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play?
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.

Bright Rapture calls and, soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured wings.

'The verse adorn again

Fierce War and faithful Love

And Truth severe, by fairy diction drest.

In buskined measures move

Pale Grief and pleasing Pain,

With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
A voice as of the cherub-choir

Gales from blooming Eden bear,

And distant warblings lessen on my ear

That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,

Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.

Enough for me: with joy I see

The different doom our fates assign:

Be thine Despair and sceptred Care,

To triumph and to die are mine.'

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height

Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless

night.

CXX

Thomas Gray.

BODRYDDAN

O LAND of Druid and of Bard,
Worthy of bearded Time's regard,
Quick-blooded, light-voiced, lyric Wales,
Proud with mountains, rich with vales,
And of such valour that in thee
Was born a third of chivalry
(And is to come again, they say,
Blowing its trumpets into day,

With sudden earthquake from the ground,
And in the midst, great Arthur crown'd),
I used to think of thee and thine

As one of an old faded line

Living in his hills apart,

Whose pride I knew, but not his heart :-
But now that I have seen thy face,
Thy fields, and ever youthful race,
And women's lips of rosiest word
(So rich they open), and have heard
The harp still leaping in thy halls,
Quenchless as the waterfalls,

I know thee full of pulse as strong
As the sea's more ancient song
And of a sympathy as wide;

And all this truth, and more beside,
I should have known, had I but seen,

O Flint, thy little shore; and been

Where Truth and Dream walk, hand-in-hand,
Bodryddan's living Fairyland.

James Henry Leigh Hunt.

CXXI

THE HARP OF WALES

HARP of the mountain-land! sound forth again
As when the foaming Hirla's horn was crown'd,
And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain,

And the bright mead at Owain's feast went round: Wake with the spirit and the power of yore!

Harp of the ancient hills! be heard once more! Thy tones are not to cease! The Roman came O'er the blue waters with his thousand oars: Through Mona's oaks he sent the wasting flame; The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores: All gave their ashes to the wind and sea

Ring out; thou harp! he could not silence thee. Thy tones are not to cease! The Saxon pass'd, His banners floated on Eryri's gales;

But thou wert heard above the trumpet's blast,

E'en when his towers rose loftiest o'er the vales! Thine was the voice that cheer'd the brave and free; They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and thee.

Those were dark years!-They saw the valiant fall, The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain's board,

The hearth left lonely in the ruin'd hall

Yet power was thine- -a gift in every chord!

Call back that spirit to the days of peace,
Thou noble harp! thy tones are not to cease!

Felicia Hemans.

CXXII

PRINCE MADOG'S FAREWELL

WHY lingers my gaze where the last hues of day
On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep?
Too fair is the sight for a wand'rer whose way
Lies far o'er the measureless paths of the deep.
Fall shadows of twilight, and veil the green shore,
That the heart of the mighty may waver no more!

Why rise in my thoughts, ye free songs of the land Where the harp's lofty soul on each wild wind is

borne ?

Be hush'd! be forgotten! for ne'er shall the land
Of the minstrel with melody greet my return.
No, no! let your echoes still float on the breeze,
And my heart shall be strong for the conquest of
seas!

"Tis not for the land of my sires to give birth
Unto bosoms that shrink when their trial is nigh;
Away! we will bear over ocean and earth

A name and a spirit that never shall die. My course to the winds, to the stars I resign; But my soul's quenchless fire, oh, my country, is thine!

CXXIII

Felicia Hemans.

THE MARCH OF THE MEN OF HARLECH

GLYNDWR, see thy comet flaming!
Hear a heav'nly voice declaiming,
To the world below proclaiming
'Cambria shall be free!'

While thy star on high is beaming,
Soldiers from the mountain teeming,
With their spears and lances gleaming,
Come to follow thee.

Hear the trumpet sounding,

While the steeds are bounding!

On the gale from hill and dale
The war-cry is resounding.
Warriors famed in song and story,
Coming from the mountains hoary,
Rushing to the field of glory,

Eager for the fray,

To the valley wending,

Hearths and homes defending
With their proud and valiant Prince
From ancient kings descending,-