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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,
My spirit all wrapt in the past as a dream!
Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer,
Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight's glad beam.
Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping!
O grave! why refuse to the aged thy bed,
When valour's high heart on thy bosom is sleeping,

When youth's glorious flower is gone down to the dead!

THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN

237

Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing,
As on to the fields of your glory ye trode !
Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing,
Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod ! 5
I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding,
Which rouses ye not, O my lovely! my brave!
When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are
bounding,

I turn from heaven's light, for it smiles on your grave.6

THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN 7

WHERE are they, those green fairy islands, reposing In sunlight and beauty on ocean's calm breast? What spirit, the things which are hidden disclosing, Shall point the bright way to their dwellings of rest?

Oh lovely they rose on the dreams of past ages:
The mighty have sought them, undaunted in faith;
But the land hath been sad for her warriors and sages,
For the guide to those realms of the blessed is death.

Where are they, the high-minded children of glory,
Who steered for those distant green spots on the wave?
To the winds of the ocean they left their wild story,
In the fields of their country they found not a grave.

Perchance they repose where the summer-breeze gathers From the flowers of each vale immortality's breath; But their steps shall be ne'er on the hills of their fathers, For the guide to those realms of the blessed is death.

GRUFYDD'S FEAST

["GRUFYDD AB RHYS AB TEWDWR, having resisted the English successfully in the time of Stephen, and at last obtained from them an honourable peace, made a great feast at his palace in Ystrad Tywi to celebrate this event. To this feast, which was continued for forty days, he invited all who would come in peace from Gwynedd, Powys, the Deheubarth, Glamorgan, and the marches. Against the appointed time he prepared all kinds of delicious viands and liquors, with every entertainment of vocal and instrumental song; thus patronising the poets and musicians. He encouraged, too, all sorts of representations and manly games, and afterwards sent away all those who had excelled in them with honourable gifts."— Cambrian Biography.]

LET the yellow mead shine for the sons of the brave,
By the bright festal torches around us that wave !
Set open the gates of the prince's wide hall,
And hang up the chief's ruddy spear on the wall!
There is peace in the land we have battled to save:
Then spread ye the feast, bid the wine-cup foam high,
That those may rejoice who have feared not to die!

Let the horn whose loud blast gave the signal for fight,
With the bees' sunny nectar now sparkle in light ;*
Let the rich draught it offers with gladness be crowned,
For the strong hearts in combat that leaped at its sound!
Like the billows' dark swell was the path of their might,
Red, red as their blood, fill the wine-cup on high,
That those may rejoice who have feared not to die!

* The horn was used for two purposes-to sound the alarm in war, and drink the mead at feasts.

THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA

239

And wake ye the children of song from their dreams,
On Maelor's wild hills and by Dyfed's* fair streams.
Bid them haste with those strains of the lofty and free,
Which shall flow down the waves of long ages to be.
Sheath the sword which hath given them unperishing

themes,

And pour the bright mead: let the wine-cup foam high, That those may rejoice who have feared not to die!

THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA.

WHEN the last flush of eve is dying

On boundless lakes afar that shine;
When winds amidst the palms are sighing,
And fragrance breathes from every pine : +
When stars through cypress-boughs are gleaming,
And fire-flies wander bright and free,

Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming,
My thoughts, wild Cambria ! dwell with thee!

Alone o'er green savannahs roving,

Where some broad stream in silence flows,
Or through the eternal forests moving,
One only home my spirit knows!

Sweet land, whence memory ne'er hath parted!
To thee on sleep's light wing I fly;
But happier could the weary-hearted
Look on his own blue hills and die!

*Pembrokeshire.

The aromatic odour of the pine has

frequently been mentioned by travellers.

TALIESIN'S PROPHECY

[A PROPHECY of Taliesin relating to the ancient Britons is still extant, and has been strikingly verified. It is to the following effect:

"Their God they shall worship,
Their language they shall retain,
Their land they shall lose,

Except wild Wales."]

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 traced upon my soul,
The clouds which mantle things unseen away before me

roll,

A light the depths revealing hath o'er my spirit

passed,

A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful in 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! * I see thine ancient race Driven from their fathers' realm to make the rocks their

dwelling-place!

I see from Uthyr's + kingdom the sceptre pass away, And many a line of bards and chiefs and princely men

decay.

* Ynys y Cedeirn, or Isle of the Mighty-an ancient name given to Britain.

Uthyr Pendragon, King of Britain, supposed to have been the father of Arthur.

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