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,
Unless you act justly, and do what is right.

Though toss'd for a season on life's troubled ocean,
And doom'd to encounter malevolence' sting,
Oh ne'er for a moment forget the devotion

You owe to your country, your laws, and your king.
The wretch who'd betray them could never be easy,
His conscience would smite him at morn, noon, and
night;

For conscience, they tell us, forever will teaze ye,
Unless you act justly, and do what is right.

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,
Came the Romans' crested legions

O'er the deep, round Britain swelling;
The wave grew dazzling as He pass'd,
With light from spear and helmet cast,
And sounds in every rushing blast

Of a conquerer's march were telling!

But his eagle's royal pinion,
Bowing earth beneath his glory,
Could not shadow with dominion

Our wild seas and mountains hoary:
Back from their cloudy realm it flies,
To float in light through softer skies;
Oh chainless winds of heaven, arise!

Bear a vanquish'd world the story!

THE EXILE OF CAMBRIA.
By a Lady.

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,
When the forms we adore flit in shadows around,
And we feel but how closely their spells they have wound.

Yes, this is the hour, when heart-broken, alone,
The exile looks back on the days that are flown;
And fancy views those he may never more see,
And thinks, ah! how fondly, dear Cambria, of thee.
'Tis in vain that for him sweetest flow'rets entwine,
'Tis in vain blooms for him the soft landscape divine,
Their beauties, though brilliant, may nothing avail,
He sighs the more deep for his own native vale.

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,
Doth sweetly gild the lawn-Ellen dear;
The lark's first song enhances
Aurora's gentle glances,

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,
That seals thy bright blue eye-Ellen dear;
To see the sun shine early,

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,
Through the dreams of the night, and the cares of the day.

Yes, yes, I will hope that again I shall hear
The voices of friends to remembrance so dear,
And still do I hope that again I shall see
The smiles that once gave a sweet welcome to me.

And yet how I fear to revisit the spot,

To steal through the village, to gaze at the cot!
For the pleasure and rapture that swell in my heart
Cannot equal the anguish I feel when we part.

THE LAST WELSH MINSTREL.
By S. R. Jsckson.

The dreadful strife of death was o'er,
The cloud of war had roll'd away,
When, faint and welt'ring in his gore,
The best of Cambria's minstrels lay:
With cold and falt'ring hand he swept
His ancient harp's wild strings along,
And as his dark eye o'er it wept,

Pour'd forth his parting soul in song.

FAREWELL, farewell, my father's pride,
Thou harp which I no more shall wake;
The lips grow cold that o'er thee've sigh'd,
My hand must soon thy strings forsake.

My heart to feel thee soon must cease,
My ear to catch thy martial strain,
Thy tender notes of love or peace
Will never soothe my soul again.

The gladd'ner of my youth wert thou,
The solace of my riper years,

But o'er thy strings, my loved harp, now,
My blood runs mingling with my tears.

Last of my race, alone I die,

With me shall cease the sacred band
That woke our mountain minstrelsy,
And laid in dust the spoiler's hand.

Dear harp farewell, yet, ere I go,
One lofty note my hand shall wake,
The strain of war again shall flow,
The loved, the last, for Freedom's sake.

For Freedom's sake!-alas, the sound
In Cambria soon will cease to be,
No more her realm is hallow'd ground,
The sacred dwelling of the free.

Our gay grey plains, our mountains high,
The Norman charger tramples proud,
Instead of Cambria's battle cry,

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.