When proud usurping Bolingbroke,*

Sad Britain's yoke

renewing;

Which Cymru's son the brave Glendower,

With frowns of power

viewing:-
:-

Now from the fealty oath unbound,
And Henry crown'd, all firing,
High hearted Owen claim'd aloud
His soul's avowed desiring,

The Cymry's crown, his right of birth,
And valiant worth aspiring.

III.

Forth rush'd the chief of sky-crown'd lands,
With battling bands of thunder,
Wild as the foaming cat'ract's roar,
That mountains tore asunder :
His bearing was so princely bright
Men mark'd his might with wonder.

IV.

Let not the sons of Saxons plume,
Nor dare presume to boast it,
That Owen fought for high renown,
And Britain's crown, and lost it;
The first he gain'd-his race the last,+
Though Fortune's blast long cross'd it.

V.

He greatly dared, he greatly did,

Until fate chid his daring,

Both great in life, and great in death,

Not while he'd breath despairing,

But like an eagle shot in flight,

While main and might uprearing.

Richard II.

+ Henry IV.

EINION LONYDD; OR, EINION THE SOOTHER.

From the Welsh.

BY RICHARD LLWYD.

And dedicated in the following words ;-To Mr. John
Parry, the ingenious composer, as a lover of

his country and its melodies.

THE beautiful allegory, of which the following lines are a translation, is supposed to be of Druidical origin.-Cwsg was the SOMNUS of ancient Britain, and Einion Lonydd, one of his many priests or agents, whose province it was to enter every dwelling where there were children, early in the evening, leaving his sandals at the entrance; then softly approaching, and at the same time beholding the child with a soothing beneficent smile, to have sung as follows, in Pianissimo, while at each repetion of the words "one, two, three," (un, dau, ri,) he gently drew his hand down the infant's forehead, to close. The original British was commonly sung to the air Ton y Vamnaeth, the Nurse's Melody, but I have adapted the translation to Ar hyd y nos, as a strain more generally known.

Look at me my little dear one!
One, two, three;

Let me whisper in thine ear,

One, two, three;

Bid thy playmates all retire,

Sit thee down, and draw thee nigher;
See the bright inviting fire!

One, two, three.

Supper o'er, my heart rejoices, One, &c.
When praise* is sung by infant voices! One, &c.

The Moliant i Dduw, or Thanks be to God, so delightful it is to ten to the lisping of gratitude.

M

On lap maternal now undressing,
Brothers, sisters,-all caressing,
Bend the knee, and beg a blessing,*
One, two three.

From toil the world itself reposes! One, &c.
Around him night her curtain closes! One, &c.
Lo sleep thy tranquil bed's adorning,
Playful dreams, and plans are forming!
Rest till heaven restores the morning,
One, two, three.

And to hearts oppress'd with sorrow,
Forced the mask of joy to borrow,
Comfort is there till the morrow,

Ar hyd y nos.

II.

Yes! I heard the wood-bird mourning,

Ar hyd y nos,

And echo fond each note returning,

Ar hyd y nos ;

* In some parts of Wales, it is still customary, even for grow persons of both sexes, to fall on one knee, before each parent, whe ever they meet them on their return from any distance, and alwa for the new married couple, on coming home after the ceremony.

I caught the strain, I chose the hour,
Then hied me to my secret bower,
There to my harp my grief to pour,
Ar hyd y nos.

THE BARD'S LAST LAY.

Air.-Davydd y Garreg Wen.

A TRADITION prevails in Merionethshire, that a bard of this name called for his harp, when dying, and played this beautiful air, requesting that it might be played over his grave by his brethren, on their harps-which was accordingly done.

I.

SWEET solace of my dying hour,
Ere yet my arm forget its power,
Give to my fault'ring hand my shell,
One strain to bid the world farewell.

H.

Life's last faint spark will soon expire,
But ah! when silent, thou my lyre,
When deaf my ear and cold my tongue,
Ages shall tell how David sung.

THE TUDOR REIGN.

A Glee for three Voices.

Air.-Rhyfelgyrch Cadpen Morgan.

RECITATIVE.

O'ER Cambria's russet hills and verdant dales,
No more the bard's celestial strain prevails;

Their harps by discord's jarring hand unstrung, On blasted oaks despondingly were hung.

MARCH-instrumental. Chorus.

But now a prince* ascends the throne,
Who makes the bardic cause his own:
A thousand harps in concert join,
And Tudor's name salutes the skies.

Hail Tudor, heaven-descended king,
Who wak'st the harp's long silent string,
The bards thy glory shall prolong,
And praise thee in immortal song.

THE DARK ISLE'S MYSTIC POWER.

Glee and Chorus.

Air.-Capt. Morgan's March.

By Mrs. Hemans.

-

By the dread and viewless powers,
Whom the storms and seas obey;
From the dark isle's mystic bowers,
Romans, o'er the deep, away!
Think ye 'tis but Nature's gloom

O'er our shad'wy coast that broods?

By the altar and the tomb,

Shun these haunted solitudes !

Know ye Mona's awful spells?
She the rolling orbs can stay;
She the mighty grove compels
Back to yield its fetter'd prey;

Henry VII. grandson of Owen Tudor.