While the genius of Cymru shall flee with delight,
From her Idris, to thank the sweet harp-string to-night;
As her dear native Awen is flowing so strong
From the muse of the soul in the magic of song.

THE HEROES OF CAMBRIA. Air.--Meillionen, (the Trefoil) or, Sir Watkin Williams Wynn's

Delight.

By J. H. Parry.

1.

In early times how how bright the fame
Of Cymru's old and honor'd name,
When burning with the sacred flame
That patriot bosoms know,

Her sons to battle crowding came,
To snatch a wreath from Saxon shame,
As glory shot her kindling ray
Through vict'ry's full meridian day,
And matchless heroes led the way
To crush their country's foe!

But though brave Arthur lives no more,
And famed Llewelyn's reign is o'er

Yet glows their spirit as of yore,
In Cymru's noble race;

Still gallant as their sires before,

Her sons to Fame's high temple soar,
Where he who erst with promptest zeal
His banner rear'd for Erin's weal,

Sir Watkin Williams Wynn.

And drew on Gallic shore the steel,
Shall fill an honor'd place.

III.

But long the battle fiend hath fled,
And Peace in triumph rear'd the head,
Her gladd'ning beams around to shed,
And wake her halcyon reign:

And warriors, erst by glory fed,
By gentler passions now are led-
They haste to throng the magic ground,
Where music's charms and song abound,
And beauty spreads her smiles around
To cheer the social train.

THE GREEN ISLES OF THE OCEAN.
Air.-All ye Cambrian Youth.

By Mrs. Hemans.

THE Green Isles of the Ocean, or Green spots of the floods, respecting which some remarkable superstitions have been preserved in Wales, were supposed to be the abode of the Fair Family, or souls of the virtuous Druids. Gavran, a distinguished British chieftain of the fifth Century, went on a voyage, with his family, to discover these islands, but they were never heard of afterwards.

WHERE are they, those Green Fairy Islands, reposing
In sunlight and beauty on Ocean's calm breast?
What spirit, the things that are hidden disclosing,
Shall point the bright way to their dwelling of rest?
Oh! lovely they rose on the dreams of past ages,
The mighty have sought them, undaunted in faith,

But the land hath been sad for her warriors and sages, For the guide to those realms of the blessed-is death!

Where are they, the high-minded children of glory,
Who steer'd for those distant green spots on the wave
To the winds of the ocean they left their wild story,
In the fields of their country they found not a grave;
Perchance they repose where the summer-breeze gathers,
From the flowers of each vale, immortality's breath,
But their steps shall be ne'er on the hills of their fathers,
For the guide to those realms of the blessed-is death.

THE DAUGHTER OF MEGAN.

Air.-Merch Megan.

By John F. M. Dovaston.

THE daughter of Megan, so lovely and blooming,
I met in Glanavon's gay glittering hall;

And high rose my heart, ambition assuming,

To dance with the damsel, the bloom of the ball, Oh daughter of Megan, look not so alluring

On a youth that his hope with thy hand must resign, That now the sad pang of despair is enduring,

For the splendour thou lov'st—can never be mine.

Go, daughter of Megan, to circles of splendour,

Each eye that beholds thee thy presence shall bless; And the delicate mind feel a passion more tender, On thy beauties to gaze, than another's possess. But, daughter of Megan, to-morrow I'm going, On ocean to sail where the rude billows roar, And I feel my full heart with affliction o'erflowing, For perhaps I may gaze on thy beauties no more.

THE MARCH OE THE MONKS OF BANGOR.

By Sir Walter Scott.

ETHELFRID, king of Northumberland, having besieged Chester in 613, and Brochmael, a British prince, advancing to relieve it, the monks of the neighbouring monastery of Bangor marched in procession, to pray for the success of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their monastery. The air to which these verses are adapted, is called Ymdaith Miongc, the Monks' March, and is supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession.

WHEN the heathen trumpet's clang

Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar grey

March'd from Bangor's fair abbaye:
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the sylvan Dee,
O miserere Domine !

On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled;
Who could think such saintly band
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand?
Such was the divine decree,

O miserere Domine !

Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung,

7

Met the northern bow and bill,
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill :
Woe to Brochmael's feeble hand,
Woe to Olfrid's* bloody brand,
Woe to Saxon cruelty,

O miserere Domine !

Weltering amid warriors slain,
Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane,
Slaughter'd down by heathen blade,
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid:
Word of parting rest unspoke,
Mass unsung, and bread uuhroke,
For their souls for charity,

Sing O miserere Domine!

Bangor! o'er the murder wail,
Long the ruins told the tale;
Shatter'd towers and broken arch,
Long recall'd the woeful march: +
On thy shrine no tapers burn,
Never shall thy priests return;
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,
O miserere Dumine!

*Ethelfrid.

WILLIAM OF MALMESBURY says, that in his time the extent of the ruins of the monastery bore ample witness to the desolation occasioned by the massacre ;-"tot semiruti parietes ecclesiarum, tot anfractus porticum, tanta turba ruderum quantum vix alibi cernas "