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“Souls of the mighty! wake and say,

To what high strain your harps were strung, When Lochlin ploughed her billowy way,

And on your shores her Norsemen fung?
Her Norsemen trained to spoil and blood,
Skilled to prepare the raven's food,
All by your harpings doomed to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.
" Mute are ye all? No murmurs strange

Upon the midnight breeze sail by;
Nor through the pines with whistling change

Mimic the harp's wild harmony !
Mute are ye now?-Ye ne'er were mute,
When Murder with his bloody foot,
And Rapine with his iron hand,
Were hovering near your mountain strand.
“O yet awake the strain to tell,

By every deed in song enrolled,
By every chief who fought or fell,

'For Albion's weal in battle bold ;From Coilgach, first who rolled his car, Through the deep ranks of Roman war, To him, of veteran memory dear, Who victor died on Aboukir. “By all their swords, by all their scars,

By all their names, a mighty spell !
By all their wounds, by all their wars

Arise, the mighty strain to tell ;
For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain,
More impious than the heathen Dane,
More grasping than all-grasping Rome,
Gaul's ravening legions hither come !”—
The wind is hushed, and still the lake

Strange murmurs fill my tinkling ears,
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake,

At the dread voice of other years—
“ When targets clashed, and bugles rung,
And blades round warriors' heads were fung,
The foremost of the band were we,
And hymned the joys of Liberty!"

TO A LADY.
WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL.
Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1808.
TAKE these flowers, which, purple waving,

On the ruined rampart grew,
Where, the sons of freedom braving,

Rome's imperial standards flew.

Warriors from the breach of danger

Pluck no longer laurels there:
They but yield the passing stranger

Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair.

THE VIOLET. Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1808. Tue violet in her green-wood bower,

Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. Though fair her gems of azure hue,

Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining; I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through watery lustre shining. The summer sun that dew shall dry,

Ere yet the day be passed its morrow; Nor longer in my false love's eye

Remained the tear of parting sorrow.

HUNTING SONG.
Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1808.

WAKEN lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they,
“Waken lords and ladies gay.”
Waken lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming ;
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
“Waken lords and ladies gay.'
Waken lords and ladies gay,
To the green-wood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size ;
Vie can show the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed :
You shall see him brought to bay,--
“Waken lords and ladies gay.”
I nder, louder chant the lay,
".'en lords and ladies gay!

Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we;
Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk;
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.

THE RESOLVE.
IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM.
Published in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1808.
My wayward fate I needs must plain,

Though bootless be the theme;
I loved, and was beloved again,

Yet all was but a dream:
For, as her love was quickly got,

So it was quickly gone;
No more I'll bask in flame so hot,

But coldly dwell alone.
Not maid more bright than maid was c'er

My fancy shall beguile,
By flattering word, or feigned tear,

By gesture, look, or smile:
No more I'll call the shaft fair shot,

Till it has fairly flown,
Nor scorch me at a flame so hot;-

I'll rather freeze alone.
Each ainbushed Cupid I'll defy,

In cheek, or chin, or brow,
And deem the glance of woman's eye

As weak as woman's vow:
I'll lightly hold the lady's heart,

That is but lightly won;
I'll steel my breast to beauty's art,

And learn to live alone.
The flaunting torch soon blazes out,

The diamond's ray abides,
The flame its glory hurls about,

The gem its lustre hides ;
Such gem I fondly deemed was mine,

And glowed a diamond stone,
But, since each eye may see it shine,

I'll darkling dwell alone.
No waking dream shall tinge my thought

With dyes so bright and vain,
No silken net, so slightly wrought,

Shall tangle me again :
No more l'il pay so dear for wit,

I'll live upon mine own,
Nor shall wild passion trouble it,-

I'll rather dwell alone.

And thus I'll hush my heart to rest,

"Thy loving labour's lost;
Thou shalt no more be wildly blessed,

To be so strangely crossed :
The widowed turtles mateless die,

The phoenix is but one;
They seek no loves—no more will I-

I'll rather dwell alone.”

THE DYING BARD. THE Welsh tradition bears, that a Bard, on his death-bed, demanded his harp, and played the air to which these verses are adapted ; requesting that it might be performed at his funeral.

AIR-DAFFYDZ GANGWEN.
I. DINAS EMLINN, lament; for the moment is nigh,

When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die:
No more by sweet Teivi CADWALLON shall rave,

And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing wave. 2. In spring and in autumn, thy glories of shade

Unhonoured shall flourish, unhonoured shall fade ;
For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue

That viewed them with rapture, with rapture that sung. 3. Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride,

And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's side ;
But where is the harp shall give life to their name?

And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame? 4. And oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters so fair,

Who heave the white bosom, and wave the dark hair ;
What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their eye,

When half of their charms with CADWALLON shall die? 5. Then adieu, silver Teivi! I quit thy loved scene,

To join the diin choir of the bards who have been;
With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin the Old,

And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold.
6. And adieu, Dinas Emlinn ! still green be thy shades,

Unconquered thy warriors, and matchless thy maids!
And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell,
Farewell, my loved Harp! my last treasure, farewell !

THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE. The Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, were usually unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occasionally, however, they were successful in repelling the invaders ; and the following verses celebrate a supposed defeat of Clare, Earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of Neville, Baron of Chepstow, Lords-Marchers of Monmouthshire. Rymny is a stream which divides the counties of Monmouth and Glamorgan: Caerphili, the scene of the supposed battle, is a

of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient castle.

AIR-THE WAR-SONG OF THE MEN OF GLAMORGAN. 1. RED glows the forge in Striguil's bounds,

And hammers din, and anvil sounds,

And armourers, with iron toil,
Barb many a steed for battle's broil.
Foul fall the hand which bends the steel
Around the courser's thundering heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound

On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground !
2. From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn,

Was heard afar the bugle-horn ;
And forth, in banded pomp and pride,
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride.
They swore, their banners broad should gleam,
In crimson light, on Rymny's stream ;
They vowed, Caerphili's sod should feel

The Norman charger's spurning heel.
3. And sooth they swore—the sun arose,

And Rymny's wave with crimson glows;
For Clare's red banner, floating wide,
Rolled down the stream to Severn's tide!
And sooth they vowed,—the trampled green
Showed where hot Neville's charge had been;
In every sable hoof-tramp stood

A Norman horseman's curdling blood !
4. Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil,

That armed stout Clare for Cambrian broil;
Their orphans long the art may rue,
For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe.
No more the stamp of armed steed
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead;
Nor trace be there, in early spring,
Save of the Fairies' emerald ring.

THE POACHER.
This and the following piece were published under the title of Fragments,"

in the Edinburgh Annual Register of 1809.
WELCOME, grave stranger, to our green retreats,
Where health with exercise and freedom meets!
Thrice welcome, sage, whose philosophic plan
By Nature's limits metes the rights of man;
Generous as he, who now for freedom bawls,
Now gives full value for true Indian shawls;
O'er court and customhouse his shoe who flings,
Now bilks excisemen, and now bullies kings!
Like his, I ween, thy comprehensive mind
Holds laws as mouse-traps baited for mankind;
Thine eye, applausive, each sly vermin sees,
That balks the snare, yet battens on the cheese;
Thine ear has heard, with scorn instead of awe,
Our buckskinned justices expound the law,
Wire-draw the acts that fix for wires the pain,
And for the netted partridge noose the swain;

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