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o forth, my sons! for what is instant death To souls secure perennial joys to find ? For scenes there are, unknown to war or pain, Where drops the balm that heals a tyrant's wound; here patriots bless’d with boundless freedom, reign; With misletoe's mysterious garlands crown'd. Such are the names that grace your mystic songs, Your solemn woods resound their martial fire; you, my sons, the ritual meed belongs, If in the cause you vanquish or expire. Hark! from the sacred oak that crowns the grove, What awful voice my raptur’d bosom warms; is is the favour'd moment heaven approves, sound the shrill trump, this iostant sound to arms. Theirs was the science of a martial race, to shape the lance, or decorate the shield; en the fair virgin stain'd her native grace, To give new horrors to the tented field.”
ou noblest monument of Albion's isle !
Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line ,
Studious to trace thy wondrous origin,
THE CAMBRIAN CHIEFTAIN.
The following spirited descriptive poem is transcribed from "NORTH WALES GAZETTE," in which it appeared with the init W. and the date “ Pwllheli 13th May 1826," attached to it. “T vwlch the Tall,” the name here assigned by the poet to his hero, a real character, and one of the chieftains of Aneurin's Gododin.
His spirits were light as the breath of his bowers,
His maxims of justice were free as his bills; His sons and his daughters were fair as the flowers
Which bloom'd on the sides of his crystaline rills. His words were as artless as feasts of old nature,
His song was as sweet as his heart-cheering mead; His eagle-eyed brow, his bright dignified feature,
Bespoke the dread warrior of terrible deed. The whirl of his arm was the tempest's forerunner,
His voice of command was the thunder's loud roar How low'ring his visage, how de ps’rate his manner,
When Wallia's deep valleys he deluged with gore. How true his great heart beat to liberty's measures!
How willing he drew his blue sword in her cause! To her cause he devoted his blood, and his treasures,
Her name was his watchword, her dictates his lawi sh Saxon, forbear! approach not his bleak mountain ; Cread not on his borders--thou’lt never depart;rbear-or his steel in thy life's crimson fountain Will revel- the raven will feed on thy heart. e proud one drives on-tempts his fate-and perdition Is ready its long-destin'd prey to receive; vuld he live and survive his mad scheme of ambition, The Saxon for ever and ever will grieve.-e shrill horn he blows-'tis the knell of his minions, The barbarous hordes are alive to his call; e echo resounds through the ancient dominions, The hills and the valleys of Tudvwlch the Tall.sponsive the trumpets of Cymru are sounding, The shouts of her heroes are heard from afar;
the heights of Vendotia the courser is bounding, Of many a chieftain renown'd in the war. dst thou see, as it fell, the swoll'n cataract foaming, And sweeping the forester's dwelling amain ? the hosts of the hills, when the Saxons were coming, Descended to meet them, and rush'd on the plain. e torrent o'erwhelm'd all the sons of ambition, No more did they see the return of sweet morn; e dirge of their chief, ʼmid the wild desolation, Was the scream of a raven-a raven his urn. it alas, Fate ordain’d that the Cambrian must perish! Ah why must the brave and the virtuous fall ? is ordain'd-and no mortal the frail hope can cherish, That Fate her eternal decrees shall recal. t for her decrces, oh thou chieftain illustrious! So treacherous foe would have compass'd thy fall ; d Fate must herself have been truly industrious To reach the high laurels of Tudvwlch the Tall.
Stonehenge: a Prize Poem.
By Thomas Stokes Salmon.
Recited in the Theatre, Oxford, June 12, 1823.
WRAPT in the veil of time's unbroken gloom,
Yet think not here with classic eye to trace
Here oft, when Evening sheds her twilight ray, And gilds with fainter beam departing day, With breathless gaze, and cheek with terror pale, The lingering shepherd startles at the tale, How, at deep midnight, by the moon's chill glance, Unearthly forms prolong the viewless dance; While, on each whisp’ring breeze that murmurs by, His busied fancy hears the hollow sigh.
Rise, from thy haunt, dread genius of the clime, Rise, magic spirit of forgotten time ! 'Tis thine to burst the mantling clouds of age, And fling new radiance on Tradition's page : See! at thy call, from Fable’s varied store, In shadowy train the mingled visions pour; Here the wild Briton, mid his wilder reign, Spurns the proud yoke, and scorns the oppressor's chain
Here wizard Merlin, where the mighty fell, *
'Tis gone! e'en now the mystic horrors fade
This celebrated British heroine, called by the Romans both Boa. dicea and Cartismandua; in the annals of her own nation is known only by the name of Aregwydd Voeddig. She was the daughter of Avarwg, a chieftain of the Brigantes Britons, and flourished between the years 52 and 60, when she fell in battle. The manner in which
. On this spot it is said that the British Nobles were slaughtered by Hengist.
Taliesin, President of the Bards, flourished in the sixth Century.