III. She waves her wand, the forms arise 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,— VI. Oh day of joy, when those whose blood 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 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, Since the hand of the minstrel so soft made it sound, DAYS OF OLD, AND Deeds of GLORY. 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, Music's tide of true devotion, Numbers pour in true emotion: Swell the strain o'er earth and ocean! Echo swells the votive measure, Ar hyd y nos ; Every bosom throbs with pleasure, To their harps' responsive ringing, 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 Wallia's lyre and muse will flourish. String the harp, then-minstrels, play! What though clouds obscured her name, And veil'd in cold neglect the past, They served but to embalm her fame, May they live and last forever! String the harp, then-minstrels, play! BARDS AND MINSTRELS MERRY. By Henry Davies. 1. THE harp that now is placed on high, And votive sons of Harmony Shall hail with joy the numbers; And list, oh list! to Cymru's lyre, II. Whene'er in distant lands we roam, III. This gracious end long may it serve, And while it thrills each hearted nerve, THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS. 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! |