PRINCE MADOC'S FAREWELL.

Air.-Lady Owen's Delight.

By Mrs. Hemans.

MADOC, the son of Owen Gwynedd, it is stated in the bardic Triads, went to sea with 300 men, in ten ships, to avoid the dissentions of his brothers respecting the throne of Gwynedd, or North Wales. No tidings were ever heard of this expedition; but a multitude of evidence has been collected by Dr. Pughe, E. Williams (the bard of Glamorgan), and others, to prove that Madoc must have reached the American Continent, (300 years before the time of Columbus,) for the descendants of him and his followers exist there as a nation to this day; and the present position of which is on the southern banks of the Missouri river, under the appellation of Padoucas, or white and civilized Indians.

WHY lingers my gaze, where the last hues of day
On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep?
Too fair is the sight for a wanderer whose way
Lies far o'er the measureless worlds of the deep;
Fall, shadows of twilight, and veil the green shore,
That the heart of the mighty may waver no more.

Why rise on my thoughts, ye free songs of the land,
Where the harp's lofty soul on each wild wind is borne ?
Be hush'd, be forgotten! for ne'er shall the hand

Of the minstrel with melody greet my return.
No! no! let your echoes still float on the breeze,
And my heart shall be strong for the conquest of seas.

'Tis not for the land of my sires to give birth
Unto bosoms to shrink when their trial is nigh.
Away! we will bear over ocean and earth
A name and a spirit that never shall die;

My course to the winds, to the stars I resign,
But my soul's quenchless fire, oh! my country, is thine.

THE DEATH OUR FATHERS FOUND.

By S. R. Jackson.

BE ours the death our fathers found,

In the field of glory falling,

When the Saxon spearmen hemm'd them round,
To all but them appalling;

Rather than live a tyrant's slave,

And foreign feelings cherish,
Let us to battle with the brave,
And like our fathers perish.

Base is the heart that tamely bears
A foeman's vile abuse,

Dead is the man to fame, who wears
A steel he dare not use.

Dark years of woe has Cambria seen,
'Tis fit they now were o'er;

The stains that on her shield have been,
We'll cleanse in Saxon gore.

SONS OF THE MIGHTY.

By S. R. Jackson.

WHY should the noble spirit droop
Beneath the cloud of ill?

Why should the sons of freemen stoop

To do a tyrant's will?

Rather let death free us,

Than our children see us,
Slaves to him, whose iron hand,
Desolates our native land.

Sons of the mighty! rise and tear
The bloody bonds away;
The war-sword of your fathers bare,
Well known in battle's day.

'Tis Freedom's voice that calleth,
He, who nobly falleth,

With his bosom's blood shall seal
For evermore his country's weal.

THE WORTHIES OF WALES.

By T. J. Llewelyn Prichard.

ALL hail to the bright ones of ages gone by,
The wise, and the brave, and the holy, and high !
The patriot of Cymru eternally hails

The lights of past eras-the Worthies of Wales.

To Tydain Tâd Awen, the sire of song,
The lay of renown in its energy strong,
To Nevidd nav Neivion, the lord of the sea,
With glorious Hu Gadarn, be harpings of glee!
All hail to, &c.

Hail Arthur, the father of Chivalry's fights,
His heroes and bards, and his round-table knights;
Not wrong were the legends, or prophecy's strain,
Which told that king Arthur should yet rise again.
All hail to, &c.

While Britain exults in the pride of her fame,
Prince Prydain shall live-for the isle bears his name ;
Caradoc the mighty, and Catwg the wise,
With Howel the Good, in our song shall arise.

All hail to, &c.

Oh high will old Cymru unceasingly hold
The young Taliesin, and Llywarch the old,
And he, the sweet bard and the warrior of might,
Who fought at, and sung of Gododin's dread fight.
All hail to, &c.

A lay now to Gwyddno, surnamed Garanhîr,
Fair Cantrev-y-Gwaelod's sad monarch-severe.
The rush of the waters that cover'd his land,
And reft him of subjects, domains, and command.
All hail to, &c.

Hail David the pious, our tutelar saint;
Llewelyns and Owens-in battle ne'er faint-
Each hero renown'd for high bravery's feat,
From Edwal the Roebuck to Rodrick the Great.

All hail to, &c.

Oh what son of song but with kindness regards
Great Ivor the gen'rous, the patron of bards!
And Davydd ab Gwilym, his bright protege,
Our Ovid, the lord of the amorous lay.

All hail to, &c.

Madoc th' advent'rous, whose laurels are worn

By gallant Columbus-Americus-torn

From thy self-exiled head—let it pass-thou shalt live— Thy right still we claim, and thy wrongs still we grieve. All hail to, &c.

Oh struck with wild horror was Cymru, aghast,
The hour that she lost thee-Llewelyn, the last!
Such, when reign and right too, he sought to restore,
The "mighty magician," dread Owen Glendow'r.
All hail to, &c.

Hail! ladies of Cymru, with loveliness bless'd,
Senena the faithful, the beautiful Nest,

Young Tydvil the martyr, who died for her faith,
And gallant Gwenllian who battled till death.
All hail to, &c.

Dinas Brân, thine own beauty comes in for her share, Mevanwy the merry, the witty, and fair!

Like the sensitive, fond, and sincere,

And well-known Cordelia, the daughter of Lear!

All hail to, &c.

CARNO HILLS.

By S. R. Jackson.

ON Carno's hills with nimble feet
The deer were wont to bound,
But Carno's hills no more repeat
The baying of the hound;

The noble youths who chaced the deer,
In battle have been slain;

And never to the morning's ear

Those sounds shall come again.

In Carno's groves 'tis dark and still;
The harp the minstrels shun,