Fear ye not the lightning stroke?
Mark ye not the fiery sky?
Hence !-around our central oak
Gods are gath'ring, Romans fly!

THE BEAUTIFUL ISLE.

Air.-The Welsh ground.

By Mrs, Hemans.

SONS of the Fair Isle!* forget not the time
Ere spoilers had breathed the fair air of your clime ;
All that its eagles beheld in their flight

Was yours, from the deep to each storm-mantled height;
Though from your race that proud birth-right be torn,
Unquench'd is the spirit for monarchy borne.

Darkly though clouds may hang o'er us awhile,
The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle.

Ages may roll ere your children regain

The land for which heroes have perish'd in vain;
Yet in the sound of your names shall be power,
Around her still gathering, till glory's full hour!
Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep,
Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep.
Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile,
Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle.

Ynys Prydain was the ancient name of Britain, which signifies the Fair, or Beautiful Isle.

Arranged by E. Jones, accompanied on the Harp and Piano Forte, Vide Relics of the Bards, vol. II. p. 77.

The seer, whom Nature's open page
And meditation render'd sage,
Beneath the oak's wide-spreading shade,
Instruction to the crowd convey'd.

Th' enlighten'd crowd with grateful raptures glow,
And crown his head with sacred missletoe;
With missletoe the leaves of oak they bind,
And hail him druid-friend of human kind!

CHORUS.

Hail! all hail! to the missletoe hail!

THR DEATH OF LLYWELYN.

Air.-The March of the Men of Harlech..

By John Humphreys Parry.

THIS song is extracted from the Report of the proceedings at the Eisteddvod of the Royal Cambrian Institution, 22nd May, 1823. Ir a note appended to it, we are told that Llywelyn's death scene was the banks of the Wye, or Edw. We strongly suspect that the son of Gwynedd know less of South Wales than we do of the North =

was not on the banks of either of those streams that Llywelyn was slain, but near the river Irvon, at a place thence called Cevn y Bedd, near Cwm Llywelyn, between three and four miles westward of the town of Builth, Breconshire.

EDITOR.

WHO is he with eye dark gleaming,
Visage wild, yet noble seeming,
As the fount of life fast streaming,
Rolls its purple tide?

Lo! in anguish lying,

Fleet his soul is flying,

Yet still is seen

His warlike mien,

Like some hero dying,

Cymru, 'tis thy prince expiring,
Bravest of thy race retiring,
Fame no more his bosom firing,

Thy last hope and pride.

Near to where yon torrent rushes,
Great Llewelyn's life-drop gushes,
Ebbing fast, though death scarce crushes
His unconquer'd fire:

Still for Cymru beating,

His heart's pulse is fleeting.
Nor Saxon spear

That rankles near,

E'er can quell its greeting, Foes and foe-like friends despising, Nought but Cymru's freedom prizing, Still for her in hope uprising,

His last sighs expire.

THE BARD'S LAMENT FOR CYNDDYLAN.

By S. R. Jackson.

CYNDDYLAN AB CYNDRWYN lived in the sixth Century, and was prince of a part of Powys. He appears to have been slain in the defence of a town within his territory, called Tren. Llywarch Hên, a contemporary bard, has left us a long elegy on his death; there is also one by Meigant, who lived in the following Century. Both are preserved in the Archaiology of Wales.

EDITOR OF CAMB. BRIT.

I.

Оn mourn for Cynddylan, ye Cambrians mourn,
His sleep is the slumber that wakes not with morn;
The cold hand of death on his eyelids hath press'd,
And his form's on his barrow reclining in rest.

II.

But his soul, on the winds of the land that he sway'd,
Above the dark hills rides, in terror array'd;

His voice was the thunder that lately hath roar'd,
And yon blue flash of light was the gleam of his sword.

He comes to his people, his praises to hear,

Let the strings of the telyn* be wet with a tear,
That the notes of our woe, as they rise on the wind,
May be soft as the "plaint of the dove for its kind.”

IV.

Oh mourn for your hero, oh mourn for your king;
His glance was the glance of the hawk on its wing ;

* The Harp,

His speed was the speed of the iwrch+ on the plain,
Be the tears of your woe as the drops of the rain.

V..

His arm was the bearer of death to his foes,
Let the sons of the Saxons he gave to repose,
Amid their rejoicings be stricken with dread,

For the blood that shall flow for the shade of the dead.

VI.

On high let the banner be placed in the hall,

As high be the shield that shall gleam on the wall:
And oh! let the sword, ever firm in his hand,

Be given to him who shall now rule his band.

VII.

Mourn, mourn, maids of Cambria, your tresses bedew
With tears, for the fallen was gen'rous and true,
His heart was the ring-dove's, when warm'd by your
charms,

But the vulture's, when rushing to battle's alarms.

Thou land of the lovely, the noble, the brave,

Whose soul hailed his birth, and now gives him a grave,
Lament! for the arm of thy strength is laid low,
Thy spear now is broken, unstrung is thy bow.

IX.

Then mourn for Cynddylan, ye Cambrians mourn,
The halls of his mansion are dark and forlorn ;
The death-shaft has wither'd the might of the strong,
The soul of our battles, the theme of our song.

• Roebuck.