And tells me that forever shall live the lofty tongue,
To which the harp of Mona's woods by Freedom's hand

"Green island of the mighty! I see thine ancient race Forced from their fathers' realm to make the rocks their dwelling place!

I see from Uthyr's kingdom the sceptre pass away, And many a line of bards and chiefs and princely men decay.

IV.

"But long as Arvon's mountains shall lift their sovereign

forms,

And wear the crown to which is given dominion o'er the storms,

So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue, To which the harp of Mona's woods by Freedom's hand was strung!"

LAYS OF ROMANTIC STORY.

Air.-Y Gadlys, The Camp of the Palace. Better known by Of a noble race was Shenkin."

66

By the Rev. G. H. Glasse.

O'ER the chords with rapture sweeping,
Strike the harp to the race of Shenkin;
Bid adieu to sighs and weeping,

Pallid care and anxious thinking;
To the festive powers

Devote your hours,

In song, in mirth, and drinking.

With lays of romantic story

The halls of our sires resounded;
At the call of love or glory,

Oe'r their native hills they bounded;
'Mid war's alarms

They rush'd to arms,

And their country's foes astounded.

Released from martial duty,

They return'd to their peaceful pleasures,
And at the feet of beauty

They wooed in melting measures;

To the wandering poor

Threw wide their door,

And freely dispersed their treasures.

ABERTEIVY.

From Llewelyn Prichard's Land beneath the Sea.

I PASS'D from Aberteivy, and its broad smooth stream
Reflected beauteous tints of gallant morning's beam;
I thought of its meanderings, and deep ravine,
And winning wilds so picturesque but lately seen :
A blessing from my lips and inmost heart there fell,
When I pass'd from Aberteivy, as I said " farewell."

The sons of Aberteivy, they be kind of heart,

And who can from their maidens without sighs depart ?
Who frowns there on the stranger, or the minstrel's claim?
The good, the kind, the hospitable, merit fame!
Yes, the warm and grateful throb did my bosom swell,
When I pass'd from Aberteivy, and I said " farewell."
My thoughts they ran enraptured on the Teivy's stream,
The beauties wild and wondrous on its banks that teem:

Its light and ancient coracles, of wind-like sweep,
Its rapid rush of mightiness o'er plain and steep :
Its haunt of cunning beavers, far-famed, now no more,
And I thought of huge Cilgerran in the days of yore.

We praise thee not for masonry-thy claim is scant;
We praise thee not for riches-yet thou know'st not want,
But nobly flows thy gallant stream, and fair's thy seat,
Purely breathes thy ocean air, thy scenery, oh sweet!
Thy brave and princely spirit I delight to tell,

And I bless thee, Aberteivy-fare thee well, farewell.

THE WAR SONG OF BLEDDYN.
By S. R. Jackson.

SONS of chiefs, whose forms repose
Where the cloud its shadow throws
Over Snowdon's craggy height,
Rise, and nerve ye for the fight!
Hark! his wing the raven flutters,
Ominous the sound he utters,
Sounds of death unto our foes,
Ere another day shall close.

Sons of chiefs, arise, behold
Yonder banner's massy fold,
Ere the morning breeze unfurl it,
To the dust inglorious hurl it.
Down upon their columns sweep,
As the whirlwind on the deep,
When its all-destroying breath
Lays the mighty low in death.

N

.

By the wrongs that ye have felt,
Deeply let the blow be dealt,
That the Saxon host may know

They have met no common foe:

Rising morn shall view the raven

Tear the crest of every craven :

But the brave shall win their right:
Sons of chiefs, advance to fight.

WHERE THE LONG GRASS WAVES.
By S. R. Jackson.

WHERE the long grass waves its head

Are the valiant lying:

There its dew the cloud doth shed,

There the breeze is sighing.
There their noble forms repose,
Who beheld the struggle close
Ending all their country's woes,
Bravely for her dying.

Where the noxious weeds arise,
There the craven sleepeth :
Who for him in secret sighs ?
Who above him weepeth?
Like a cloud his name shall pass,
Like the dew upon the grass,
Whence his race, or what he was,
None remembrance keepeth.

SONG OF THE ABSENT CAMBRIANS.

Intended for the Canorion Society.

Air.-The March of the Men of Harlech.

By J. Jones, of Swansea.

I.

THOUGH far from the mountains of Cambria we dwell, Her melodies still o'er the heart have a spell

And it beats 'gainst the side, like a strange prison'd bird That hears the wild notes which in youth it had heard; Then the bard strikes the harp-like the harp, which, of

yore,

The bard of old Urien so gracefully bore

And the dear native Awen is flowing so strong
From the muse of the soul in the magic of song.

II.

In torrid or frigid, wherever they roam,

No clime can estrange an old Cymro's young home!
And strong is the bent of the mountain-born flock
As the eagle on wing for Eryri's old rock-

And our country shall smile on her children that rove,
As the pelican bends o'er the offspring of love,
When the dear native Awen is flowing so strong
From the muse of the soul in the magic of song.

The fair and the good, and the brave of our days,

Shall blush and shall smile when they hear their own

praise;

And the shades of old heroes shall flit round the board, When they hear their war-notes to valour restored