Or mightie bagges of silver stuffed throwe,
And no one man dare touch your treasure now;
Which shewes some grace doth rule and guyde them ther
That doth to God and man such conscience beare.
Behold besides a further thing to note,
The best cheape cheare, when each man pais his groat If all alike the reckoning runneth round;
Sure, satisfaction will to each abound.
There market good, and victuals nothing deare,
Each place is fill'de with plenty all the yeare:
The ground manured, the graine doth so increase,
That thousands live in wealth and blessed peace.
Bnt come again unto their courteous shoe,
That wins the hearts of all that markes the same;
The like whereof through all the world doe goe,
And scarce ye shall finde people in such frame :
For meeke as dove in lookes and speech they are,
Not rough and rude, (as spiteful tongues declare,)
No, sure, they seem no sooner out of shell,
But nature shews they knowe good manners well.
How can this be, that weaklings nurst so harde,
(Who barely goes, both barefoote and uncled)
In gifts of mynd should have so greate regarde,
Except within, from birth some grace were bred;
It must be so; doe wit not me deceave;
What nature gives the world cannot bereave,
In this remaines a secret work divine,
Which shew they rise from auncient race and line,
In authors old you shall that plainly read,
Geraldus one, and learned Geoffrey two,
The third, for troth, is venerable Beade,
That many grave and worthie works did doe;
That needes this proofe or genalogies here,
Their noble blood doth by their lives appeare :
Their stately townes and castles every where,
Of their renowne doth daily witness beare.
From Thomas Churchyard's Worthines of Wales.
me Nature drew these mountaynes in such sort,
though the one should yeeld the other grace;
as each bill itself were such a fort,
ey scorn'd to stoope to give the cannon place.
all were plainne and smoothe like garden ground,
here should hye woods and goodly groves be found?
e eye's delight that lookes on every coast,
ith pleasures great and fayre prospect were lost.
hill we vewe farre off both field and flood,
ele heate or cold and so sucke up sweet ayre;
hold beneath, great worth and worldly good,
e walled townes, and looke on countries fayre.
nd whoso sits or stands on mountayne hye,
th half a worlde in compass of his eye;
platform made, of nature for the nonce,
here man may looke on all the earth at once.
ese ragged rocks brings plainest people foorth, mountayne wyld, the hardest horse is bred; ough grasse thereon be grosse and little worth, weet is the foode, where hunger so is fed.
rootes and hearbes our fathers long did feede, id neere the skye growes sweetest fruit indeede; moorish meers and watrie mossie ground,
e rotten weedes and rubbish, drosse, unsound.
e fogges and mists that rise from vale belowe, reason makes that highest hills are best;
In the original the author has headed this poem, "A discourse Mountaynes."
And when such fogges doth orc the mountayne goe,
In foulest daies, fayre weather may be gest.
As bitter blasts on mountaynes bigge doth blowe,
So noysome smells and savours breede belowe:
The hille stands cleare, and cleane from filthie smell,
They find not so that do in valley dwell.
The mountayne men, live longer many a yeere,
Then those in vale, in plaine or marrish soyle;
A lustie hart, a cleene complexion cleere,
They have on hill, that for hard living toyle;
With ewe and lambe, with goats and kinds they play,
In greatest toyles to rub out wearie day:
And when to house and home good fellowes drawe,
The lads can laugh at turning of a strawe.
No ayre so pure and wholesome as the hill,
Both man and beast delight to be thereon;
In heate and cold, it keeps one nature still,
Trim, neate, and drye, and gay to goe upon.
A place most fit for pastime and good sport,
To which soyle stagge and bucke doth still resort;
To crye of hounds the mountayns ecco yields
A grace to vale, a beautie to the feelds.
THE MOUNTAIN LAND.
By T. J. Llewelyn Prichard.
From the Battle of Bryn Glas, a Poem in MS.
The eagles shriek, the billows roar,
My soul is with the days of yore—
When groan'd the land, with war convulsed,
And Cymru's sons the foe repulsed;
While plumed and harness'd chiefs command,
And conquer or die for the Mountain Land.
Freedom, amid a cloudy clime,
Erects her mountain throne sublime;
While natives of the sunny plains
Are gall'd with yokes and slavish chains;Then shrink we ne'er, unnerved, as bann'd the cloudy clime of the Mountain Land.
Turban'd in her folds of mist,
Our mountain land the sky hath kiss'd,
While on her brow the native wreath
Of yellow furze, and purple heath;
The rural reign her vales command,
id the freemen's swords of the Mountain Land.
Nobly, amid her land of lakes,
Stark Cadair Idris proudly breaks;
Pimlimon, father of the floods,
Divested of his native woods,
Frowns sternly yet; but still more grand
reat Snowdon, supreme of the Mountain Land.
Oh who hath stood on Snowdon's side,
And glanced o'er Mona's virgin pride;
And gazed on fatal Moel-y-don,
But thought of these once there undone ?
When Saxons and their foreign band
ere crush'd by the sons of the Mountain Land.
Nor less illustrious, facing us,
Yon hill, where fought Caractacus,
Inspired by his nation's wrong,
Opposing Cæsar's legions strong;
But at yon dyke by Mercians plann'd,
ud laughed the sons of the Mountain Land.
Our mountain land is bleak and bare,
But Freedom's sons inherit there;
Loud and piercing is the storm,
And yet it nerves the gallant form;
The rugged billows scourge the strand, So their foes lash the sons of the Mountain Land.
Our mountain land is high in air,
Exalted in its greatness rare ;
And there be vales and streams between
The hills of brown and forests green;
While a gay and cheerful happy band
Are the hardy sons of the Mountain Land.
And who shall charge us void of wealth?
On hill and vale the goddess Health,
By rosy nymphs attended well,
Reigns, and breathes the wholesome spell ;
O'er Cymry's train she waves her wand,
And blesses the sons of the Mountain Land.
Oh dear to them the harp and song,
As vengeance for a burning wrong ;--
Oh dear to them is friendship's greet.
And woman's love, of rapture sweet:
Dearer still to the gallant band
Is the land of their fathers-the Mountain Land.
But is all prowess in the grave?
No! there be hearts the land to save;
Who deem us weak oh much they err,
to shallow Mortimer!
Glyndwr stands 'gainst Bolingbroke,
Burst and dash'd to the earth be the Cymry's yoke.
The hîrlas still is foaming found,
The corn-buelin hath a sound,
Old Cymru's telyn still hath strings,
And many a patriot bard that sings;
Sons to obey and sires to command,
And Glyndwr's the chief of the Mountain Land.
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