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 instant 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!
Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore
To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore,
ge frame of giant hands, the mighty pile,
entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile;
Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore,
Taught 'mid thy massy maze their mystic lore:
Danish chiefs, enrich'd with savage spoil,
To victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine,
ar'd the rude heap: or in thy hallow'd round
Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line, Or here those kings in solemn state were crown'd: Studious to trace thy wondrous origin, We muse on many an ancient tale renown'd.
THE following spirited descriptive poem is transcribed from "NORTH WALES GAZETTE," in which it appeared with the ini 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 hills;
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 deps'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 law
sh Saxon, forbear! approach not his bleak mountain; fread 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;
ould 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.
he torrent o'erwhelm'd all the sons of ambition,
No more did they see the return of sweet morn;
e dirge of their chief, 'mid 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.
st for her decrees, oh thou chieftain illustrious! No treacherous foe would have compass'd thy fall; d Fate must herself have been truly industrious To reach the high laurels of Tudvwich 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,
Obscure as death, and silent as the tomb,
Where cold Oblivion holds her dusky reign,
Frowns the dark pile on Sarum's lonely plain.
Yet think not here with classic eye to trace
Corinthian beauty, or Ionian grace
No pillar'd lines with sculptured foliage crown'd,
No fluted remnants deck the hallow'd ground;
Firm, as implanted by some Titan's might,
Each rugged stone uprears its giant height,
Whence the poised fragment tottering seems to throw
A trembling shadow on the plain below.
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 chai
Here wizard Merlin, where the mighty fell,*
Waves the dark wand, and chaunts the thrilling spell.
Hark! 'tis the Bardic-lyre, whose harrowing strain
Wakes the rude echoes of the slumbering plain;
Lo! 'tis the Druid pomp, whose lengthening line
In lowest homage bends before the shrine.
He comes-the priest-amid the sullen blaze
His snow-white robe in spectral lustre plays;
Dim gleam the torches thro' the circling night,
Dark curl the vapours round the altar's light,
O'er the black scene of death, each conscious star,
In lurid glory, rolls its silent car.
'Tis gone! e'en now the mystic horrors fade From Sarum's loneliness, and Mona's glade; Hush'd is each note of Taliesin's+ lyre,
Sheath'd the fell blade, and quench'd the fatal fire.
On wings of light Hope's angel form appears,
Smiles on the past, and points to happier years;
Points, with uplifted hand, and raptur'd eye,
To yon pure dawn that floods the opening sky;
And views, at length, the Sun of Judah pour
One cloudless noon o'er Albion's rescued shore.
" THIS celebrated British heroine, called by the Romans both Boadicea 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.
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