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Hear ye not their loud alarms ?
Hark! they shout:-to arms! to arms !
Thus were Garthen's plains defended,
Maelor fight began and ended.

There two princes fought; and there
Was Morach Vorvran's feast exchanged for rout and fear.

Fill the horn! 'tis my delight,
When my friends return from fight,
Champions of their country's glory,
To record each gallant story ;
To Ynyr's comely offspring fill,
Foremost in the battle still ;
Two blooming youths, in counsel sage,
As heroes of maturer age ;
In peace and war alike renown'd,
Be their brows with garlands crown'd;

Deck'd with glory let them shine,
The ornament and pride of Ynyr's ancient line!

To Selyv fill, of eagle heart,
Skill'd to hurl the fatal dart;
With the wolf's impetuous force
He urgeth on his headlong course.
To Tudor next, great Madoc's son,
They the race of honor run
Together in the tented field,
And both alike disdain to yield.
Like a lion in the fray,
Tudor darts upon his prey ;
Rivals in the feats of war,
Where danger call’d they rush'd from far;
Till, shatter'd by some hostile stroke,
With horrid clang their shields were broke;

Loud as the foaming billows' roar, Or fierce contending winds on Talgarth's stormy shore.


Fill the born with rosy wine,

Brave Moreiddig claims it now;
Chieftain of an ancient line,

Dauntless heart, and open brow :
To the warrior it belongs,
Prince of battles, theme of songs
Pride of Powys, Mochnant's boast !
Guardian of his native coast !
But ah, his short-lived triumph's o’er,
Brave Moreiddig is no more!
To bis pensive ghost we'll give
Due remembrance while we live ;
And in fairy fiction dress’d,
Flowing hair and sable vest,

The tragic muse shall grace our songs,
While brave Moreiddig's name the mournful strain



Pour out the horn, (though he desire it not)

And heave a sigh on Morgan's early grave; Doom'd in his clay-cold tenement to rot,

While we revere the memory of the brave.

Fill again the Hirlas Horn;
On that ever-glorious morn,
The Britons and their foes between,
What prodigies of might were seen!
On Gwestyn's plain the fight began,
There Grynwy sure was more than man!
Him to resist on Gwestyn's plain,
A hundred Saxons fought in vain;

To set the noble Meyric free,
And change his bonds to liberty,
The warriors vow'd. The god of day
Scarce darted bis meridian ray,

When he beheld the conquerers, steep'd io gore, And Gwestyn's bloody fight ere highest noon was o'er.

Now a due libation pour

To the spirits of the dead,
Who, that memorable hour,

Made the hostile plain their bed.
There the glittering steel was seen,

There the twanging bow was heard ;
There the mighty press’d the green,

Recorded by their faithful bard.
Madoc there, and Meilir brave,
Sent many a Saxon to his grave ;
Their drink was mead, their hearts were true,
And to the head their shafts they drew;

But Owen's guard, in terrible array, Resistless march along, and make the world give way.

Pour the sweet transparent mead,
(The spear is red in time of need,)
And give to each departed spirit,
The honor and reward of merit.
What cares surroud the regal state,
What anxious thoughts molest the great ;

None but a prince himself can know,
And heaven that ruleth kings, and lays the mighty low.


For Daniel fill the horn so green,
Of haughty brow and angry mien ;
While the less'ning tapers shine,
Fill it up with gen'rous wine :

He no quarter takes or gives,
But by spoil and rapine lives.
Comely is the youth, and brave,
But obdurate as the grave.
Hadst thou seen in Maelor fight,
How we put the foe to flight!
Hadst thou seen the chiefs in arms,
When the foe rush'd on in swarms!
Round about their prince they stood,
And stain'd their swords with hostile blood.
Glorious bulwarks! to their praise
Their prince devotes his latest lays.
Now, my boy, thy task is o’er;
Thou shalt fill the horn no more.
Long may the King of kings protect
And crown with bliss my friends elect;
Where Liberty and Truth reside,
And Virtue, Truth's immortal bride!

There may we altogether meet,
And former times renew, in heavenly converse sweet.


From the Welsh of Davydd ab Gwilym, a celebrated amatory

Poet, who flourished about 1355.

By Iolo Morganwg.


One day to the grove with my Morvid I walk'd,
We feasted on kisses, and tenderly talk’d;
The cuckoo sang cheerful, sweet warbled the thrush,
Whilst I, with my dear girl, sat under the bush:
Though long, for the fair one, I joyless had mourn’d,
Yet her looks now confess'd my warm passion return'd;


I sang of her charms, and rewarding my lay,
She wreathed for my brows the green trophies of May.


Alas! whilst these amorous moments of joy,
With sweetest excess did our feelings employ,
A loud clap of thunder, with terrible sound,
Affrighted the vales and the mountains around;
The rain, in a deluge, came down from the skies ;
The lightning's rude gleam fiercely flash'd on our eyes
How trembled my charmer! and, wild with dismay,
She left the green wood, and ran, frighten'd, away.


Thou fierce fiery dragon, thus roaring aloud,
With rumble tremendous aloft in the cloud,
Like a bull in wild anger assailing the rocks,
And striking proud mountains with terrible shocks ;
At thy trump's mighty clangor ma elements jar,
And, full of thy furies, quick rush to the war;
Thy wild hissing flames with huge waters contend :
My Morvid, alas ! thought the world at an end.


Struck dumb with deep terror, she hurried her pace,
Like thy lightning she flew from her lover's embrace;
I cursed thy stern grumble with anger profound,
When drumm'd through the welkin thy bug-bears aroun
I thought, for one evening, to fly from all care,
To this blooming arbour with Morvid my fair;
Now pour, in full torrents, thy wrath on my head,
For, scared by thy rattle, my charmer is filed.

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