Not so with detractors, they ne'er can be easy, Their conscience will smite them at morn, noon, and night; For conscience, they tell us, forever will teaze ye, Though toss'd for a season on life's troubled ocean, You owe to your country, your laws, and your king. For conscience, they tell us, forever will teaze ye, NATURE'S HIGH SOVEREIGNTY. By Mrs. Hemans. Air.-Of Noble Race was Shenkin. CRAMER, the celebrated composer, and incomparable piano-forte player, speaking of this melody, says, "This air is a fine specimen of the Welsh national music; originality and boldness of character are united in the melody." FROM the glowing southern regions, Where the sun-god makes his dwelling, O'er the deep, round Britain swelling; Of a conquerer's march were telling! But his eagle's royal pinion, Our wild seas and mountains hoary: Bear a vanquish'd world the story! THE EXILE OF CAMBRIA. SEE, the night is approaching, the light fades away, And faint and more faint beams the bright orb of day; The winds are all hush'd, and the ocean serene, And calm as the lakes of thy valleys is seen. Oh! this is the hour to fond sympathy dear, When flows to remembrance regret's saddest tear, Yes, this is the hour, when heart-broken, alone, SERENADING used to be very prevalent in Wales formerly. There is still a curious custom on May-day morning, when the young men deck a bough of rosemary with white ribbons &c. &c. and place it at the chamber window of the fair ones whom they admire. But a different present is left at the doors of those with whom they are not on friendly terms-a penglog, i. e. a horse's head ;-which is procured from a tan-yard, and made fast to the latch, to the no small annoyance, and even disgrace, of the nymphs, who are anxiously looking out for the "Garland of Love." VIDE PAREY'S WELSH MELODIES, VOL. ii. p. 39. THE summer's rosy dawn-Ellen dear, As brightly Sol advances-Ellen dear, 'Tis nature's bloom of youth-Ellen dear, Her guileless look of truth-Ellen dear; Young Zephyr now discloses His light wings on sweet roses, Where all night he reposes-Ellen dear. Then bid the slumber fly-Ellen dear, Come, rove yon mountain cheerly, With him that loves thee dearly-Ellen dear. ADIEU TO THE COTTAGE. WRITTEN on leaving a Cottage in Wales, dedicated to the Countess of Dunraven, and sung by Master Parry at various Eisteddvods. Adieu to the village, adieu to the cot; And shall I then never revisit the spot Which clings to remembrance with fondest delay, Yes, yes, I will hope that again I shall hear And yet how I fear to revisit the spot, To steal through the village, to gaze at the cot! THE LAST WELSH MINSTREL. The dreadful strife of death was o'er, Pour'd forth his parting soul in song. FAREWELL, farewell, my father's pride, My heart to feel thee soon must cease, The gladd'ner of my youth wert thou, But o'er thy strings, my loved harp, now, Last of my race, alone I die, With me shall cease the sacred band Dear harp farewell, yet, ere I go, For Freedom's sake!-alas, the sound Our gay grey plains, our mountains high, The stranger's triumph rings aloud. Farewell, life fades, my feeble hand In death's cold trembling quits the strings; Farewell! thou pride of Freedom's bands, Thou loved one of a thousand kings. |