III.

She waves her wand, the forms arise
Of mighty men, forgotten long;
Hark! to her harp's wild symphonies
Again she wakes thy beauteous song :
To modern ear and eye she brings

Tales of thy minstrels, deeds of thy stern kings.

IV.

Before her glance the clouds retire,

Whose gloom so long hath on thee lain : See! bright upsprings the dormant fire, Lighting all thy proud domain :

Land of heroes, hail the hour

That tears thy records from oblivion's power.

V.

Genius of Cambria, dry the tear

Thy thoughtless sons have made thee weep; Again thy head in triumph rear,—

Awake thee from thine iron sleep:

Thy long-neglected harp again resume,—
The voice of ages calls thee from the tomb.

VI.

Oh day of joy, when those whose blood
In Saxon veins hath run can glow
To see thy long restrained flood

Of song and science freely flow,

Bearing the ark upon its tide

Whose glorious freight hath storm and time defied

VII.

Well may ye speed, who at the helm
Presiding stand, ye who redeem
The treasures of your ancient realm

From Lethe's dull and silent stream:

To you belong eternal praise,

Who from its darkest depths your country's honors

LONG the Harp of Old Cymru deserted had lain,
By an old faded oak on a wild rugged plain;

Since the hand of the minstrel so soft made it sound,
And the smile of good humour so sweetly beam'd round.
When a wand'rer, whose race from Aneurin had sprung,
Saw the old ruin'd harp, where in silence it hung,—
"In my dreams I have seen it, oh transport divine!
'Tis the Harp of fair Cambria !-'tis mine! it is mine!
Thy brave men shall kindle, when loud from the string
The war notes shall rattle, the welkin shall ring;
And the patriot's good falchion is drawn from the sheath,
As he shouts "For my country, for freedom, or death!"
Nor shall it be silent, when war notes shall cease;
Its tones shall be heard in the bright halls of Peace,
And the smiles of our fairest the minstrel shall move,
When the spirit of melody melts into love.

DAYS OF OLD, AND Deeds of GLORY.
Song. Air.-Ar hyd y nos.

STRIKE the harp to chiefs in story,

Ar hyd y nos ;

This song has been lately published, and dedicated, by special permission, to Her Royal Highness, the duchess of Kent.

Days of old, and deeds of glory,
Ar hyd y nos.

Music's tide of true devotion,

Numbers pour in true emotion:

Swell the strain o'er earth and ocean!
Ar hyd y nos.

Echo swells the votive measure,

Ar hyd y nos ;

Every bosom throbs with pleasure,
Ar byd y nos,

To their harps' responsive ringing,
Native lays the minstrel singing,
Cambria's fame to mem'ry bringing,
Ar hyd y nos.

CAMBRIA'S HOLIDAY.

WRITTEN for the Powys Eisteddvod, by the Rev. R. Mytton, o Garth; the music by John Parry, dedicated by him to lady Lucy Clive, and sung three times at the Welshpool Festival, 1824.

TELL me not that Cambria's lyre
Wakes to rapture now to more ;
Tell me not that, quench'd her fire,
The Awen's day of glory's o'er.
With such eyes of beauty greeting,
With such patriot bosoms beating;
Native genius met to nourish,

Wallia's lyre and muse will flourish.

String the harp, then-minstrels, play!
This is Cambria's holiday.

What though clouds obscured her name,

And veil'd in cold neglect the past,

They served but to embalm her fame,
Her halcyon days are come at last!
Bright the suns that rise to bless her,
Clear the skies that now caress her;
Days of glory, setting never,

May they live and last forever!

String the harp, then-minstrels, play!
This is Cambria's holiday.

BARDS AND MINSTRELS MERRY. By Henry Davies.

1.

THE harp that now is placed on high,
We'll waken from its slumbers,

And votive sons of Harmony

Shall hail with joy the numbers;
Then strike aloud each thrilling wire,
But let no note be dreary,

And list, oh list! to Cymru's lyre,
Ye bards and minstrels merry.

II.

Whene'er in distant lands we roam,
And hear its echoes swelling,
We'll turn our thoughts direct to home,
Where all we love is dwelling;
What like the harp can comfort man,
Or cheer him when he's weary ?—
Or make his life, though but a span,
Pass on both blythe and merry?

III.

This gracious end long may it serve,
Dear Cymru's pride revealing!

And while it thrills each hearted nerve,
'Twill rouse each generous feeling;
'Twill sweeten saddest hours of life,
While o'er the stream we ferry ;
And change contention, war, and strife,
To peace and pleasures merry.

THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS.
Air.-Llwyn On, The Ash Grove.
By Mrs, Hemans.

THERE is a popular tradition, that on the summit of Cader Idris, one of the highest mountains in North Wales, there is an excavation in the rock, resembling a couch, where the mighty giant used to repose, and that whoever should pass a night in that seat would be found in the morning either dead, raving mad, or endowed with supernatural genius.

I LAY on the rock where the storms have their dwelling. The birth-place of phantoms, the home of the cloud; Around it forever deep music is swelling

The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud. 'Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming, Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan, Of dim shrouded stars, at brief intervals gleaming, And I felt, 'midst a world of dread grandeur, alone. I lay there in silence-a spirit came o'er me,

Man's tongue hath no language to speak what I saw ! Things glorious, unearthly, pass'd floating before me, And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe. I view'd the dread beings, around us that hover, Though veil'd by the mists of Mortality's breath; I call'd upon darkness the vision to cover,

For a strife was within me of madness and death!