Chapter 2

AN ADDRESS TO THE SUMMER.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

[Dafydd ap Gwilym was the son of Gwilym Gam, of Brogynin, in the parish of Llanbadarn Fawr, Cardiganshire, and was born about the year 1340. The bard was of illustrious lineage, and of handsome person. His poetical talent and personal beauty procured him the favourable notice of the fair sex; which, however, occasioned him much misfortune. His attachments were numerous, and one to Morvydd, the daughter of Madog Lawgam, of Niwbwrch, in Anglesea, a Welsh chieftain, caused the bard to be imprisoned. This lady was the subject of a great portion of the bard's poems. Dafydd ap Gwilym has been styled the Petrarch of Wales. He composed some 260 poems, most of which are sprightly, figurative, and pathetic. The late lamented Arthur James Johnes, Esquire, translated the poems of Dafydd ap Gwilym into English. They are very beautiful, and were published by Hooper, Pall Mall, in 1834. The bard, after leading a desultory life, died in or about the year 1400.]

Thou summer! so lovely and gay, Ah! whither so soon art thou gone? The world will attend to my lay While thy absence I sadly bemoan: With flow'rs hast thou cherish'd the glade, The fair orchard with opening buds,-- The hedge-rows with darkening shade, And with verdure the meadows and woods.

How calm in the vale by the brook-- How blithe o'er the lawn didst thou rove, To prepare the fresh bow'r in the nook For the damsel whose wishes were love: When, smiling with heaven's bright beam, Thou didst paint every hillock and field, And reflect, in the smooth limpid stream, All the elegance nature could yield.

Perfuming the rose on the bush, And arching the eglantine spray, Thou wast seen by the blackbird and thrush, And they chanted the rapturous lay: By yon river that bends o'er the plain, With alders and willows o'erhung, Each warbler perceiv'd the glad strain, And join'd in the numerous song.

Here the nightingale perch'd on the throne, The poet and prince of the grove, Inviting the lingering morn, Taught the bard the sweet descant of love: And there, from the brake by the rill, When night's sober steps have retir'd, Ten thousand gay choristers thrill Sweet confusion with rapture inspir'd.

Then the maiden, conducted by May, Persuasive adviser of love, With smiles that would rival the ray, Nimbly trips to the bow'r in the grove; Where sweetly I warble the song Which beauty's soft glances inspire; And, while melody flows from my tongue, My soul is enrapt with desire.

But how sadly revers'd is the strain! How doleful! since thou art away; Every copse, every hillock and plain, Has been mourning for many a day: My bow'r, on the verge of the glade, Where I sported in rapturous ease, Once the haunt of the delicate maid-- She forsakes it, and--how can it please?

Nor blame I the damsel who flies, When winter with threatening gale, Loudly howls through the dark frozen skies, And scatters the leaves o'er the vale: In vain to the thicket I look For the birds that enchanted the fair, Or gaze on the wide-spreading oak; No shelter, no music, is there.

But tempests, with hideous yell, Chase the mist o'er the brow of the hill, And grey torrents in every dell Deform the soft murmuring rill: And the hail, or the sleet, or the snow, On winter's hard mandate attends: To banishment, hence may they go-- Earth's tyrants, and destiny's friend!

But thou, glorious summer, return, And visit the destitute plains; Nor suffer thy poet to mourn, Unheeded, in languishing strains: O! come on the wings of the breeze, And open the bloom of the thorn; Display thy green robe o'er the trees, And all nature with beauty adorn.

'Midst the bow'rs of the fresh blooming May, Where the odours of violets float, Each bird, on his quivering spray, Will remember his sprightliest note: Then the golden hair'd lass, with a song, Will deign to revisit the grove; Then, too, my harp shall be strung, To welcome the season of love.

SONG TO ARVON.

BY THE REV. EVAN EVANS.

[The poem from which the following translation is extracted was composed by the Rev. Evan Evans, a Clergyman of the Church of England, better known by his bardic name of _Ieuan Glan Geirionydd_. He was born in 1795 at a freehold of his father, situate on the banks of the river Geirionydd, in Carnarvonshire, and died in 1855. He composed a great number of poems on different subjects, religious and patriotic, several of which obtained prizes at Eisteddfodau, and one on the Resurrection gained the chair or principal prize. This poet's compositions are distinguished by great elegance, sweetness and pathos, and are much esteemed in the Principality. Several of them have been set to music.]

Where doth the cuckoo early sing, In woodland, dell and valley? Where streamlets deep o'er rocky cliffs Form cataracts so lofty? On Snowdon's summits high, In Arvon's pleasant county.

Flocks of thousand sheep are fed Upon its mountains rugged, Her pastures green and meadows fair With cattle-herds are studded, Deep are the lakes in Arvon's vales Where fish in shoals are landed.

The shepherd's soft and mellow voice Is heard upon her mountain, Where oft he hums his rustic song To his beloved maiden, Resounding through the gorges deep With bleat of sheep and oxen.

On Arvon's rock-bound shore doth break The surge in fretful murmur, And oft when stirr'd by tempest high The ocean speaks in thunder, Spreading through town and village wide Dismay, despair and fear.

* * * * *

The sun is glorious when it breaks The gloom of morning darkness, Sweet are the leaves and flowers of May Succeeding winter's baldness, Yet fairer than the whole to me Are Arvon's maids so guile-less.

If to the sick there is delight To heal of his affliction, If to the traveller's weary sight Sweet is the destination, Than all these sweeter far to me The hills and dales of Arvon.

Had I the wings and speed of morn To skim o'er mount and valley, I'd hie o'er earth and sea direct To Arvon's genial country, And there in peace would end my days, Far from deceit and envy.

TO THE SPRING.

Oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain, Far scatter the frost from our border, All nature cries loud for the sunshine and rain, For the howl of the winter is over.

Approach gentle spring, and show the white snow Thou cans't melt it by smiles and caresses, Chase far the cold winter away from us now, And cover the fields with white daisies.

Oh, come gentle spring, alight on the trees, Renew them with life and deep verdure, Then choristers gay will replenish the breeze With their songs and musical rapture.

Oh, come gentle spring, breathe soft on the flowers, And clothe them in raiments of beauty, The rose may reopen its petals in tears, And sunbeams unfold the white lily.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

BY THE REV. JOHN BLACKWELL, B.A.

[The Rev. John Blackwell, B.A., whose bardic name was _Alun_, from the river of that name was born at Mold, in Flintshire, in the year 1797, and died in 1840, in the parish of Manordeivi, Pembrokeshire, of which he was Rector. He participated much in the Eisteddfodau of that period, and his poems gained many of their prizes. He also edited the "Gwladgarwr," or the Patriot, a monthly magazine, and afterwards the "Cylchgrawn," or Circle of Grapes, another magazine, under the auspices of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge. The subjects of this poet's compositions were patriotic, sentimental and religious, and his poems are characterised by deep pathos, and great sweetness of diction.]

When night o'erspreads each hill and dale Beneath its darksome wing Are heard thy sweet and mellow notes Through the lone midnight ring; And if a pang within thy breast Should cause thy heart to bleed, Thou wilt not hush until the dawn Shall drive thee from the mead.

* * * * *

Altho' thy heart beneath the pang Should falter in its throes Thou wilt not grieve thy nestlings young, Thy song thou wilt not close. When all the chorus of the bush By night and sleep are still, Thou then dost chant thy merriest lays, And heaven with music fill.

THE FLOWERS OF SPRING.

BY THE REV. J. EMLYN JONES, M.A., LL.D.

[The Rev. John Emlyn Jones, M.A., LL.D., the lamented author of the beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation is made, was an eloquent minister of the Baptist Church in Wales, and died on the 20th day of January, 1873, at the age of 54 years, at Beaufort, in Monmouthshire, leaving a widow and seven children to mourn their great loss. He was also an eminent poet, and one of his poems obtained the chair prize at a Royal Eisteddfod. It may be remarked that the lamented poet on his death bed (in answer to an application from the editor) desired his wife to inform him that he was welcome to publish the translations of his poems which appear in this collection.]

Oh, pleasant spring-time flowers That now display their bloom, The primrose pale, and cowslip, Which nature's face illume; The winter bleak appears When you bedeck the land, Like age bent down by years, With a posy in its hand.

Oh, dulcet spring-time flowers Sweet honey you contain, And soon the swarming beehive Your treasure will retain; The busy bee's low humming Is heard among your leaves, Like sound of distant hymning, Or reaper 'mid the sheaves.

Oh, balmy spring-time flowers, The crocus bright and rose, The lily sweet and tulip, Which bloom within the close: Anoint the passing breezes Which sigh along the vale, And with your dulcet posies Perfume the evening gale.

Oh, wild-grown spring-time flowers That grow beside the brook, How happy once to ramble Beneath your smiling look, And of you form gay garlands To deck the docile lamb, In wreaths of colour'd neck-bands, Beside its loving dam.

Oh, pretty spring-time flowers None look so blithe and gay, While dancing in the breezes Upon the lap of May, Your fragrant petals open Beneath the balmy dew, You're nature's rich heave-offering On winter's grave anew.

Oh, wondrous spring-time flowers Tho' death stalk all around, Another spring will quicken Your bloom upon the ground, Speak hopeful, as you ripen, Of yet another spring, Where flowers never deaden And seasons have no wing.

TO MAY

BY THE REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.

[The Rev. Daniel Evans, B.D., Fellow of Jesus College, Oxford, composed the following and several other poems in this collection. He was a native of Cardiganshire, and, following the example of his countrymen, he assumed the bardic name of _Daniel Ddu_. He was born in 1792, and died in 1846. His compositions were very miscellaneous, and appeared separately, but the whole were afterwards published in one volume by Mr. W. Rees, of Llandovery, in 1831. This poet's writings are distinguished by great pathos, and a truthful description of nature.]

How fair and fragrant art thou, May! Replete with leaf and verdure, How sweet the blossom of the thorn Which so enriches nature, The bird now sings upon the bush, Or soars through fields of azure.

The earth absorbs the genial rays Which vivify the summer, The busy bee hums on his way Exhausting every flower, Returning to its earthen nest Laden with honied treasure.

How cheerful are the signs of May, The lily sweet and briar, Perfuming every shady way Beside the warbling river; And thou, gay cuckoo! hast returned To usher in the summer.

How pleasant is the cuckoo's song Which floats along the meadow, How rich the sight of woodland green, And pastures white and yellow, The lark now soars into the heights And pours her notes so mellow.

To welcome May, let thousands hie At the sweet dawn of morning, The winter cold has left the sky, The sun is mildly beaming, The dew bright sparkles on the grass, All nature is rejoicing.

Let May be crown'd the best of months Of all the passing year, Let her be deck'd with floral wreaths, And fed with juice and nectar, Let old and young forsake the town And shout a welcome to her.

THE DAWN.

BY THE REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.

Streaking the mantle of deep night The rays of light arise, Delightful day--shed by the sun-- Breaks forth from eastern skies, He--in his course o'er oceans vast And distant lands--returns Firm to his purpose, true his way, He nature's tribute earns: Before him messengers arrive And sparkle in the sky, These are the bright and twinkling stars Which spot the sable canopy.

The cock upon his lofty perch Has sung the break of day, The birds within the sheltering trees Now frolic, chirp and play; I see all nature is astir As tho' from sleep restor'd, Alive with joy and light renew'd By the Creator's word: Now every hill and valley low Appear in full charm, Beneath the sun's benignant smiles, Which now creation warm.

TO THE DAISY.

BY THE REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.

Oh, flower meek and modest That blooms of all the soonest, Some great delight possesses me When thy soft crystal bud I see.

Thou art the first of the year To break the bonds of winter, And for thy gallant enterprise I'll welcome thee and sing thy praise.

And hast thou no misgiving? Or fear of tempests howling To issue from the hardy sod Before thy sisters break their pod?

Behind thee millions lie And hide their faces shy, Lest winter's cold continue, Or tempests charged with mildew.

Inform thy sisters coy The spring's without alloy, Tell them there is no snow Or icy wind to blow.

Tell them the cattle meek Will joy their heads to seek, The lamb delighted be To see them on the lea.

Speed therefore all ye flowers That gleam upon the pastures, Ye white and yellow come And make the field your smiling home.

A thousand times more comely Your cheerful features lively, Than all the gems that shine In royal crown of princely line.

How pleasant then to roam Through field and forest home, And listen to the song Of birds that carol long.

THE LILY AND THE ROSE.

Once I saw two flowers blossom In a garden 'neath the hill, One a lily fair and handsome, And one a rose with crimson frill; Erect the rose would lift its pennon And survey the garden round, While the lily--lovely minion! Meekly rested on a mound.

Tempest came and blew the garden, Forthwith the rose fell to the ground, While the lily, like brave maiden, Steadfast stood the stormy bound; The red rose trusting to its prowess Fell beneath the wind and rain, While the lily in its meekness Firm did on its stalk remain.

THE CIRCLING OF THE MEAD HORNS.

Fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn: Natural is mead in the buffalo horn: As the cuckoo in spring, as the lark in the morn, So natural is mead in the buffalo horn.

As the cup of the flower to the bee when he sips, Is the full cup of mead to the true Briton's lips: From the flower-cups of summer, on field and on tree, Our mead cups are filled by the vintager bee.

Seithenyn ap Seithyn, the generous, the bold, Drinks the wine of the stranger from vessels of gold; But we from the horn, the blue silver-rimmed horn, Drink the ale and the mead in our fields that were born.

The ale-froth is white, and the mead sparkles bright; They both smile apart, and with smiles they unite: The mead from the flower, and the ale from the corn, Smile, sparkle, and sing in the buffalo horn.

The horn, the blue horn, cannot stand on its tip; Its path is right on from the hand to the lip; Though the bowl and the wine-cup our tables adorn, More natural the draught from the buffalo horn.

But Seithenyn ap Seithyn, the generous, the bold, Drinks the bright-flowing wine from the far-gleaming gold, The wine, in the bowl by his lip that is worn, Shall be glorious as mead in the buffalo horn.

The horns circle fast, but their fountains will last, As the stream passes ever, and never is past: Exhausted so quickly, replenished so soon, They wax and they wane like the horns of the moon.

Fill high the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn; Fill high the long silver-rimmed buffalo horn: While the roof of the hall by our chorus is torn, Fill, fill to the brim, the deep silver-rimmed horn.

DAFYDD AP GWILYM TO THE WHITE GULL.

Bird that dwellest in the spray, Far from mountain woods away, Sporting,--blending with the sea, Like the moonbeam--gleamily. Wilt thou leave thy sparkling chamber Round my lady's tower to clamber? Thou shalt fairer charms behold Than Taliesin's tongue has told, Than Merddin sang, or loved, or knew-- Lily nursed on ocean's dew-- Say (recluse of yon wild sea), "She is all in all to me."

TO THE LARK.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

"Sentinel of the morning light! Reveller of the spring! How sweetly, nobly wild thy flight, Thy boundless journeying: Far from thy brethren of the woods, alone A hermit chorister before God's throne!

"Oh! wilt thou climb yon heav'ns for me, Yon rampart's starry height, Thou interlude of melody 'Twixt darkness and the light, And seek, with heav'n's first dawn upon thy crest, My lady love, the moonbeam of the west?

"No woodland caroller art thou; Far from the archer's eye, Thy course is o'er the mountain's brow, Thy music in the sky: Then fearless float thy path of cloud along, Thou earthly denizen of angel song."

DAFYDD AP GWILYM'S INVOCATION TO THE SUMMER TO VISIT GLAMORGANSHIRE,

Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion of Ivor Hael. The bard, speaking from the land of Wild Gwynedd, or North Wales, thus invokes the summer to visit the sweet pastoral county of Glamorgan with all its blessings:

"And wilt thou, at the bard's desire, Thus in thy godlike robes of fire, His envoy deign to be? Hence from Wild Gwynedd's mountain land, To fair Morganwg Druid strand, Sweet margin of the sea. Oh! may for me thy burning feet With peace, and wealth, and glory greet, My own dear southern home; Land of the baron's, halls of snow! Land of the harp! the vineyards glow, Green bulwark of the foam. She is the refuge of distress; Her never-failing stores Have cheer'd the famish'd wilderness, Have gladden'd distant shores. Oh! leave no little plot of sod 'Mid all her clust'ring vales untrod; But all thy varying gifts unfold In one mad embassy of gold: O'er all the land of beauty fling Bright records of thy elfin wing."

From this scene of ecstacy, he makes a beautiful transition to the memory of Ivor, his early benefactor: still addressing the summer, he says,

"Then will I, too, thy steps pursuing, From wood and cave, And flowers the mountain-mists are dewing, The loveliest save; From all thy wild rejoicings borrow One utterance from a heart of sorrow; The beauties of thy court shall grace My own lost Ivor's dwelling-place."

A BRIDAL SONG.

BY A WELSH HARPER.

Wilt thou not waken, bride of May, While the flowers are fresh, and the sweet bells chime? Listen, and learn from my roundelay, How all life's pilot-boats sailed one day, A match with time.

Love sat on a lotus leaf afloat, And saw old time in his loaded boat; Slowly he crossed life's narrow tide, While love sat clapping his wings and cried, "Who will pass time?"

Patience came first, but soon was gone With helm and sail to help time on; Care and grief could not lend an oar, And prudence said while he staid on shore, "I will wait for time."

Hope filled with flowers her cork tree bark, And lighted its helm with a glow worm spark; Then love, when he saw her bark fly fast, Said, "Lingering time will soon be passed, Hope outspeeds time."

Wit, next nearest old time to pass, With his diamond oar, and his boat of glass; A feathery dart from his store he drew, And shouted, while far and swift it flew, "O mirth kills time."

But time sent the feathery arrow back, Hope's boat of amaranths missed its track; Then love made his butterfly pilots move, And, laughing, said, "They shall see how love Can conquer time."

His gossamer sails he spread with speed, But time has wings when time has need; Swiftly he crossed life's sparkling tide, And only memory stayed to chide Unpitying time.

Wake, and listen then bride of May, Listen and heed thy minstrel's rhyme; Still for thee some bright hours stay, For it was a hand like thine, they say, Gave wings to time.

THE LEGEND OF TRWST LLYWELYN.

Once upon a time, Llywelyn was returning from a great battle, against the Saxons, and his three sisters came down here to meet him; and, when they heard him coming, they said, "It is Trwst Llywelyn," (the sound of Llywelyn,) and the place has been called so ever since.--_Old Story_.

It is a scene of other days, That dimly meets my fancy's gaze; The moon's fair beams are glist'ning bright, On the Severn's loveliest vale, And yonder watchtower's gloomy height Looks stern, in her lustre pale.

Within that turret fastness rude Three lovely forms I see, And marvel why, in that solitude, So fair a group should be.

I know them now, that beauteous band; By the broidered vest, so rich and rare, By the sparkling gem, on the tiny hand, And the golden circlet in their hair, I know Llywelyn's sisters fair, The pride of Powys land:

But the proof of lineage pure and high, Is better far supplied By the calm, fair brow, and fearless eye, And the step of graceful pride.

Why are the royal maidens here, Heedless of Saxon foemen near? Their only court, the minstrel sage, Who wakes such thrilling sound; Their train, yon petty childish page; Their guard, that gallant hound.

They have left their brother's princely hall, To greet him from fight returning; And hope looks out from the eyes of all, Though fear in their heart lies burning.

"Now, hark!" the eldest maiden cried, "Kind minstrel, lay thy harp aside, And listen here with me; Did not Llywelyn's bugle sound From off that dark and wooded mound You named the Goryn Ddu?" {59}

"No, lady, no; my master, kind, I strive in vain to hear; 'Tis but the moaning of the wind That cheats thy anxious ear."

The second lady rous'd her page, From the peaceful sleep of his careless age; "Awake, fair child, from thy happy dreams, Look out o'er the turret's height, Is it a lance that yonder gleams In the moonbeams blue and bright?"

"No, lady mine; not on a lance Does that fair radiance quiver; I only see its lustre dance On the blue and trembling river."

The youngest and fairest maiden sits On the turret's highest stone, Like the gentle flower that flings its sweets O'er the ruin drear and lone:

At her feet the hound is crouching still; And they look so calm and fair, You might almost deem, by a sculptor's skill, They were carved in the grey stone there.

A distant sound the spell hath broken, The lady and her hound Together caught the joyful token, And down the stair they bound.

"'Tis Trwst Llywelyn! dear sisters speed, Our own Llywelyn's near; I know the tramp of his gallant steed, 'Tis music to mine ear!"

* * * * *

Yes, 'twas his lance gleamed blue and bright, His horn made the echoes ring; He is safe from a glorious field of fight, And his sisters round him cling:

And Gelert lies at his master's feet, The page returns to his slumbers sweet, The minstrel quaffs his mead, And sings Llywelyn's fame and power, And, Trwst Llywelyn, names the tower, Where they heard his coming steed.

* * * * *

That tower, no more, o'erlooks the vale, But its name is unforgot, And the peasant tells the simple tale, And points to the well-known spot.

Oh, lady moon! thy radiance fills An altered scene, to-night, All here is chang'd save the changeless hills, And the Severn, rippling bright.

We dwell in peace, beneath the yoke That roused our father's spears, The very tongue our fathers spoke, Sounds strangely in our ears. {61}

But the human heart knows little change: 'Tis woman's to watch, 'tis man's to range For pleasure, wealth, or fame; And thou may'st look, from thy realms above, On many a sister's yearning love, The same--still, still the same.

Ye students grave, of ancient lore, Grudge not my skilless rhyme, One tale (from tradition's ample store) Of Cambria's olden time; Seek, 'mid the hills and glens around, For names and deeds of war; And leave this little spot of ground, A record holier far.

THE GOLDEN GOBLET,

IN IMITATION OF GOTHE.

There was a king in Mon, {62} A true lover to his grave; To whom in death his lady A golden goblet gave.

When Christmas bowls were circling, And all was joy and cheer, He passed that goblet from him With a kiss and with a tear.

When death he felt approaching, To all his barons bold, He left some fair dominion-- To none, that cup of gold.

He sate at royal banquet, With all his lordly train, In the castle of his fathers, On the rock above the main.

Upstood the tottering monarch, And drank the cup's last wine; Then flung the holy goblet, Deep, deep, into the brine.

He watch'd it, bubbling, sinking, Far, far, beneath the wave; And the light sank from his eyelid, With the cup his lady gave.

THE SICK MAN'S DREAM.

Dans le solitaire bourgade, Revant a ses maux tristement, Languissait un pauvre malade, D'un long mal qui va consumant.--MILLEVOYE.

It was a dream, a pleasant dream, that o'er my spirit came, When faint beneath the lime-trees' shade I flung my weary frame: I stood upon a mountain's brow, above the haunts of men, And, far beneath me, smiling, lay my lovely native glen.

I watch'd the silv'ry Severn glide, reflecting rock and tree, A gentle pilgrim, bound to pay her homage to the sea; And waking many a treasured thought, that slumb'ring long had lain: Some mountain minstrel's harp poured forth a well remember'd strain.

I rais'd my voice in thankfulness, and vowed no more to roam, Or leave my heart's abiding-place, my beauteous mountain home. Alas! how different was the scene that met my waking glance! It fell upon the fertile plains, the sunny hills of France.

The Garonne's fair and glassy wave rolls onward in its pride; It cannot quench my burning thirst for thee, my native tide; And, for the harp that bless'd my dream with mem'ries from afar, I only hear yon peasant maid, who strikes the light guitar: The merry stranger mocks at griefs he does not understand, He cannot--he has never seen my own fair mountain land.

They said Consumption's ruthless eye had mark'd me for her prey: They bade me seek in foreign climes her wasting hand to stay; They told me of an altered form, an eye grown ghastly bright, And called the crimson on my cheek the spoiler's hectic blight.

Oh! if the mountain heather pined amidst the heaven's own dew, Think ye the parterre's wasting heat its freshness could renew? And thus, 'mid shady glens and streams, was my young life begun, And now, my frame exhausted sinks beneath this southern sun.

I feel, I feel, they told me true; my breath grows faint and weak, And, brighter still, this crimson spot is glowing on my cheek; My hour of life is well nigh past, too fleetly runs the sand: Oh! must I die so far from thee, my dear lov'd mountain land?

THE FAIRY'S SONG.

"Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!"--SHAKSPEARE.

I am a wand'rer o'er earth and sea, The trackless air has a path for me; Ye may trace my steps on the heather green, By the emerald ring, where my foot hath been; Ye may hear my voice in the night wind's sigh, Or the wood's low moan when a storm is nigh.

My task is to brighten the rainbow's hue, To sprinkle the flowers with glit'ring dew, To steep in crimson the evening cloud, And wrap the hills in their misty shroud; To track the course of a wandering star, And marshal it back to its home afar.

I am no child of the murky night, But a being of music, and joy, and light; If the fair moon sleep in her bower o'er long, I break on her rest with my mirthful song; And when she is shining o'er hill and heath, I dance in the revels of Gwyn ab Nudd. {65}

Few are the mortals whose favoured feet May tread unscathed where the fairies meet; Wo to the tuneless tongue and ear, And the craven heart, that has throbbed with fear, If I meet them at night, on the lonely heath, As I haste to the banquet of Gwyn ab Nudd.

But joy to the minstrel, whose deathless song On the breeze of the mountain is borne along, And joy to the warrior, whose heart and hand Are strong in the cause of his native land; For them we are twining our fairest wreath, They are welcome as moonlight to Gwyn ab Nudd!

WALTER SELE.

O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallow'd roam; For here the grave hath found a grave, The wanderer a home. This little mound encircles round A heart that once could feel; For none possess'd a warmer heart Than gallant Walter Sele.

The primrose pale, from Derwen vale, Through spring shall sweetly bloom, And here, I ween, the evergreen Shall shed its death perfume; The branching tree of rosemary The sweet thyme may conceal; But both shall wave above the grave Of gallant Walter Sele.

They brand with shame my true love's name, And call him traitor vile, Who dar'd disclose to Charlie's foes The secret postern aisle; But though, alas! that fatal pass He rashly did reveal, He ne'er betray'd his maniac maid,-- My gallant Walter Sele!