The Poetry of Wales Part 9

But lo, the daring hosts engage!

Dauntless hearts and flaming rage; And, ere the direful morn is o'er, Mangled limbs and reeking gore, And crimson torrents whelm the ground, Wild destruction stalking round; Fainting warriors gasp for breath, Or struggle in the toils of death.

Where the embattled fortress rose, (Gwenystrad's bulwark from the foes,) Fierce conflicting heroes meet-- Groans the earth beneath their feet.

I mark, amidst the rolling flood, Where hardy warriors stain'd with blood Drop their blunt arms, and join the dead, Grey billows curling o'er their head: Mangled with wounds, and vainly brave, At once they sink beneath the wave.

Lull'd to everlasting rest, With folded arms and gory breast-- Cold in death, and ghastly pale, Chieftains press the reeky vale, Who late, amidst their kindred throng, Prepar'd the feast, and join'd the song; Or like the sudden tempest rose, And hurl'd destruction on the foes.

Warriors I saw who led the fray, Stern desolation strew'd their way; Aloft the glitt'ring blade they bore, Their garments hung with clotted gore.

The furious thrust, the clanging shield, Confound the long-disputed field.

But when Rheged's chief pursues, His way through iron ranks he hews; Hills pil'd on hills, the strangers bleed: Amaz'd I view his daring deed!

Destruction frowning on his brow, Close he urg'd the panting foe, 'Till hemm'd around, they met the shock, Before Galysten's h.o.a.ry rock.

Death and torment strew'd his path; His dreadful blade obey'd his wrath: Beneath their shields the strangers lay, Shrinking from the fatal day.

Thus in victorious armour bright, Thou brave Euronwy, pant for fight: With such examples in thine eyes, Haste to grasp the hero's prize.

And till old age has left me dumb-- Till death has call'd me to the tomb-- May cheerful joys ne'er crown my days, Unless I sing of Urien's praise!

TALIESIN'S PROPHECY. {86}

BY MRS. HEMANS.

A voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among, O Cambria! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin sung, The path of unborn ages is trac'd upon my soul, The clouds, which mantle things unseen, away before me roll.

A light, the depths revealing, hath o'er my spirit pa.s.sed; A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful on the blast, And tells me that for ever shall live the lofty tongue, To which the harp of Mona's woods by Freedom's hand was strung.

Green island of the mighty! {87a} I see thine ancient race Driv'n from their fathers' realm, to make the rocks their dwelling place!

I see from Uthyr's {87b} kingdom the sceptre pa.s.s away, And many a line of bards and chiefs, and princely men decay.

But long as Arvon's mountains shall lift their sovereign forms, And wear the crown to which is giv'n dominion o'er the storms, So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue, To which the harp of Mona's woods by Freedom's hand was strung.

THE MONARCHY OF BRITAIN. {87c}

BY MRS. HEMANS.

Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time, Ere spoilers had breath'd the free air of your clime!

All that its eagles beheld in their flight Was yours from the deep to each storm-mantled height!

Though from your race that proud birthright be torn, Unquench'd is the spirit for monarchy born.

Darkly though clouds may hang o'er us awhile, The crown shall not pa.s.s from the Beautiful Isle! {88} Ages may roll ere your children regain The land for which heroes have perish'd in vain.

Yet in the sound of your names shall be pow'r, Around her still gath'ring, till glory's full hour.

Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep, Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep.

Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile, Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle!

FAREWELL TO WALES.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear; Farewell; and a blessing be with thee, Greenland; In thy halls, thy hearths, in thy pure mountain air, On the strings of the harp and the minstrel's free hand; From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed, Whilst I leave thee, O land of my home and my dead.

I bless thee; yet not for the beauty which dwells In the heart of thy hills, in the waves of thy sh.o.r.e; And not for the memory set deep in thy dells Of the bard and the warrior, the mighty of yore; And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled, Greenland, Poetland of my home and my dead.

I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat, Where e'er a low hamlet smiles, under thy skies, For thy peasant hearths burping the stranger to greet, For the soul that looks forth from thy children's bright eyes, May the blessing, like sunshine, around thee be spread, Greenland of my childhood, my home and my dead.

THE CASTLES OF WALES.

BY REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.

Ye fortresses grey and gigantic I see on the hills of my land, To my mind ye appear terrific, When I muse on your ruins so grand; Your walls were a shelter the strongest From the enemies' countless array, When they spilt with the blood of the bravest, Your sides in our ancestors' day.

Around you the war-horse was neighing, And pranced his rich trappings to feel, While through you were frightfully gleaming Bright lances and spears of steel; The fruits of the rich-laden harvest, Were ruthlessly trod by the foe, And the thunder of battle was loudest, To herald its message of woe.

While viewing your dilapidation, My memory kindles with joy, To think that the foes of our nation, No longer these valleys destroy; By sowing his fields in the winter, In hope of a rich harvest-home, The husbandman now feels no terror Of war with its havoc to come.

When I look at the sheep as they shelter In safety beneath your rude walls, Where erst the dread agents of slaughter Fell'd thousands, nor heeded their calls; The hillock where crossed the sharp spears Now shadows the ewe and its lamb, While seeing the peace of these years, My heart is with grat.i.tude warm.

Ye towers that saw the wild ravens, And the eagles with hunger impell'd, Exultingly gorge 'mid your ruins.

On corpses of men which they held; How sweet for you now 'tis to hear The shepherd, so peaceful and meek, Tune his reed with a melody clear, While his flock in you shelter do seek.

Upon your battlements sitting, To view the bright landscape below, My heart becomes sad when remembering That silent in death is the foe, And the friends who bravely did combat, And raised your grey towers so steep, Declaring their life-blood should stagnate, Ere ever in chains they would weep.

When I think of their purpose so pure, The tear must fast trickle from me, Their hearts did Providence allure To their country, and her did they free; We now live beneath a meek power, And feel the full blessings of peace, While on us abundantly shower, The mercies of Heaven with increase.

THE EISTEDDFOD,

BY MRS. CORNWELL BARON WILSON. {91}

Strike the harp: awake the lay!

Let Cambria's voice be heard this day In music's witching strain!

Wide let her ancient "soul of song,"

The echo of its notes prolong, O'er valley, hill, and plain!

Minstrels! awake your harps aloud, Bid Cambria's n.o.bles. .h.i.ther crowd, Her daughters fair, her chieftains proud, Nor shall the call be vain!

Let gen'rous wine around be pour'd!