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Won their regard and widen'd his repute ;

And when he'd spoken

Pelagianism's back was quickly broken.
His miracles assisted to confute :
There was a child lay dead-
What mortal could restore the spirit fled ?

St. David said, “ We'll see,
I will not brag, but bring the child to me."

They did; he pray'a,
And on its corse his potent fingers laid.

The child awoke once more,
Better in health than it had been before.

Then, while St. David preach'd of faith and love,

There came a snow-white dove,
And perch'd familiarly on his shoulder,
Surprising each beholder.
All saw at once, enlighten'd by religion,

It was his angel frien

Whom heaven in feather'd form did send, And not a common pigeon.

These wonders, once begun,
Were plainly meant for a continuous run.

The child whom he had rescued from the dead
A spotless napkin spread
Upon the ground 'neath David's sacred feet,

When lo! that ground rose high,
Up! up! as, lifted by volcanic heat,

It meant to reach the sky; Up! up! still up, until The lowly vale became a lofty hill ! A-top of which The Saint continued his sublime discourse, With much augmented force; The solemn accents rolling full and rich, For miles and miles around. The faithful could distinctly hear each sound; 'Twas meet to celebrate A miracle so great, And so they built a church upon that hill, Where it continues still.

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Among the monks invited,
St. Kined said he should have been delighted,
But age had made him weak,

Crippled and crook'd
His form until it look'd

Like a much damaged piece of the antique ;

How could he come ? David his prayer outpourid

Kined was straight restored
And walked upright and firmly on his feet,
Unto that Saintly “meet.”
But when anon he tried
Himself to do the like, it was denied.
St. Kined's prayers went wrong,
His newly strengthen'd limbs no more were strong,
But doubled up again
To lameness and infirmity and pain.

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His fitness soon was proved ;
Deck'd with a Bishop's might and mitred crown,

His station be removed
From Caerleon, the Tennysonian town
Of Arthur's great renown,
To settle in a district more sequester'd,

Some wild monastic glen,
“Far from the hum (and humbug too) of men."

So, emigrating west'ard,
He chose Menevia, a secluded spot,
Tho' picturesque 'twas not,
Stony and barren, void of woods and rivers,

In winter never warm,

Exposed to ocean storm
And cutting winds that gave the monks the shivers.
But to such holy livers
It matter'd not what mundane ills they felt,
Or where on earth they dwelt.

Their rules were very strict ;
Speech was forbidden by an interdict,

And, saving when necessity compell'd,
His peace each brother held.
Dreadful to one who loves his tongue to wag
Must be such moral gag!
And then they had to work.

“To labour is to pray," our Saint maintain'd,

To both they were constrain'd,
Time was divided 'twixt the field and kirk,
"Twixt tilling earth and cultivating heaven.
Sins could not be forgiven
Until the erring one each secret thought
Had to his Abbot brought.
Strict, too, the stipulations for admission ;
Whatever his condition
Ten days the would-be friar had to wait
Outside the Abbey gate,
Bearing hard speech, refusal, irksome task,
And ask, and ask, and ask.
No entrance could he find,
Unless he left, not hope, but wealth behind.
Bread, roots, milk, water form'd the convent feasts ;

David, tho' father and superior there,
The same did share,

And had no farther or superior fare;
And all the monks were clad in skins of beasts.

Not only as a priestly champion strong
Is David famed in song

A warrior, too, was he-on Badon's mount
The British army fought,
Routed the hosts the tyrant Saxons brought.

To follow one account,
King Arthur—others say St. David-led it ;

But all agree

* It was a famous victory," Whosever was the credit.

'Twas then, first worn,

The fragrant leek did David's brow adorn;
Thenceforward it became
As much a part of Cambria's name and fame

As ours the Lion and the Unicorn.

Well, after a long while,
The holy man retired to Bardsey Isle,
And there the common fate
Smote him. I don't exactly know the date
Most writers say five-hundred-forty-four-
His age above four-score.

Among his other claims to be respected,
It should be recollected
That twelve Welsh monasteries he erected.

Alas, how Wales did mourn !
After his death the Saint was borne
To heaven in bliss to reign,
Right in the middle of a seraph train.
St. Kentigern-callid Mungo by the Scotch-
That radiant scene did watch.
Oh, would that I had been by Mungo's side!

(And now my words are serious, not jocular)
I surely would have spied
St. David's heavenward ride

Thro' the clear medium of a strong “ binocular."

St. David's legend-that is, history-closes
With that apotheosis.
A thousand miracles he wrought, 'tis said,
Long after he was dead,
And Glastonbury'd in that famous fane

Where Arthur's dust reposes ;

But, not to be diffuse,
Our wit by brevity we must restrain,

So, reader, please deduce
The moral—plain as on your face your nose is.

St. David's name
In Celtic hearts high place must ever claim;
And Cambria's ancient spirit is not dead,
For often may be read
Accounts of “ Eisteddfodau," festivals
Worthy the warlike halls
Of old Llewellyn. Thither Wales invites
Her sons to see the rites
And hear the songs of Druid, Vate, and Bard,
Antique, but slightly marr'd
By newer customs clashing with the old.
Thus, we are told,
Each Druid wears his robe, and over that
A modern "stove-pipe" hat.
The "ancient Britons," too, of present date,
On David's Day keep state,
And wear or eat the leek; St. James's Hall
(St. David's for the time),
Responsive to the patriotic call,

Its patrons treats with Cambrian air and rhyme

A very pleasant way

Of doing honour to St. David's Day.

I, tho' of other race,

Can feel half Welsh when this is taking place;

"The Men of Harlech " fires me,

"Poor Mary Ann," inspires me ;

I love to mark

The "Rising of the Sun," and "of the Lark;'
My bosom swells

On hearing Aberdovey's fairy "Bells;"

I love "Llwyn On," and hang upon the tones
Of dulcet "Jenny Jones "—

Each brings a recollection

Of how, long since, I heard them to perfection

From native harp in sweet Llangollen's vale.

(For wayward wandering was in youth my habit), To me such melodies can ne'er grow stale; I'd follow anywhere

To hunt an old Welsh air,

Although I never could digest" Welsh rabbit."

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