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I hear with mingled rage and pain,
Thy threats, thy terms of high disdain ;
I see thy dark ungenerous art,
And wrath enflames my swelling heart.
Poet of the lofty strain,
Strike the sounding lyre again.”

“Yes, warlike prince from heaven descend
The numbers of thy loyal friend.
Mean is my garb, yet on my tongue
Dwells the immortal gift of song.
Chief of the golden border'd shield,
Forsake not Glory's martial field-
Terror of land, and sea, and skies,
Dark eagle of the north, arise!
In peace, thy Cambria's guiding star,
Her anchor in the storm of war.
Each doubt of Ellen's faith remove,
For jealousy's the bane of love.
Watch'd by heaven's unsleeping eye,
Her charms the power of lust defy.
Thine be the prize, those peerless charms
Oh snatch her from the tyrant's arms !
See, Edward-trembling on thy throne,
The march of Mona's dragon son,
Whose dread return shall soon destroy
Thy carols of triumphant joy.
Brave warriors wait his wide command,
And death still issues from his hand :
Confusion and despair inclose
Llewelyn's fierce perfidious foes;
Before his face they fied away
Like spectres at the glimpse of day.
Where, champions, may ye now be found?
Pierced deep with many a grizly wound,
Bleaching ye lie, and ghastly pale,
In bleak December's frosty gale.

Adorn'd once more with warlike mail,
Llewelyn, princely hero, hail !
The Saxon host thy sword shall quell,
Thy power prophetic bards foretell:
All Britain shall again be ours !
. And in the fair Brigantian towers
To Ellen, then no longer coy,
Thy partner of imperial joy,
And Cambria's maids, for beauty sung,
The harp of Cambria shall be strung.
Bend, lion heart, thy shining bow,
And fire the castles of the foe.
See, thy steed's exulting prance,
Lift aloft thy lightning lance,
Pierce the squadrons, break the bands,
And with thy red victorious hands
Tear the trappings, strip the car,
And all the ornaments of war,
The banners won with bleeding toils,
And deck thy palace with the spoils.
Enraptured bards with cheerful songs
Shall hail thee in a hundred tongues ;
And when the lord of Arvon's shore
Is hail'd with songs and harps no more--
Know, prince of Cambria, in the grave
Golden slumbers wait the brave;
When time's great period shall arrive
As bards the lore of druids give,
And yawning elements unfold
The hoary depths of ocean old,
They from the wreck of worlds shall rise
Serene, and dwell among the skies."

The caves of Arvon o'er the main
Answer'd the inspiring strain.
With great delight and scorn of fate
The lord of Mona list'ning sat :


In each new strain new rapture came,
And kindled high the struggling flame;
To grasp his weapon's hilt he tried,
But swordless was the hero's side ;
Then had he rush'd to seek the foe,
But list! he hears a sound of woe.
“Stay, generous chief, Llewelyn, stay!
Thy Grono wakes the plaintive lay ;
God too hath pour'd upon my tongue
The deep and wondrous gift of song.
Ah! think, the wounds thou dealest, all
On Ellen's captive charms must fall.
If thou revenge, shall Ellen live?
Or Edward thy success forgive ?
Bright as the bursting wave was she
Who cross’d the bursting wave for thee.
Fair flower of France, a captive's doom,
Is hers, to blight her virgin bloom.
From rich Montargis' holy walls
She comes-for her Llewelyn calls-
Loud the storm, and rough the wave,
Thee she implores, thy love to save.
Ah cruel were the bleak winds shrill,
But still more cruel Edward's will,
But thou, of all, most cruel far,
If ruthless, thou resolve on war:
For in the hour thy armies rise,
Prince ! in that hour thy Ellen dies.”
When in Llewelyn's wounded ear
All woful thrill'd a name so dear,
Ah, then arose the sudden sigh,
The tear stood trembling in his eye;
Gorono waked with softest art
The deep affections of his heart.
6s Oh bards !" the tortur'd chief returns,
• My breast with varying passion burns,

Fond hope the ties of duty rends,
The lover with the prince contends,
For ah, my Ellen! sweetest maid
That ever was by truth betray’d,
Ah, from thy lover, absent long
Thy loss is like the funeral song.
Poet of the mournful strain,
Touch the trembling lyre again.




The Rev. Evan Evans, editor of the Specimens of Welsh Poetry, 0, affirmed that the story of the Boy and the Mantle is taken from bat is related in some of the old Welsh MSS. of Tegan Earfron, e of king Arthur's mistresses. She is said to have possessed a intle that would not fit any immodest, or incontinent woman ; this, hich the old writers say, was reckoned among the curiosities of ritain, is frequently alluded to by the oid Welsh bards. Warton agines the tale to be taken from an old French piece, intitled, Le urt Mantel.

“But,” adds Bishop Percy, (from whose Reliques Ancient English Poetry this tale is copied,) “after all, it is most ely that all the old stories concerning king Arthur are originally

British growth, and that what the French and other southern tions have of this kind, were at first exported from this island.” le worthy Prelate's conjecture respecting the British origin of this le, as well as Mr. Evans's just remark, seems to receive confirmation om what is strangely overlooked by both—the name of the hero of

story, Cradocke, Anglofied from Caradoc, decidedly a Welsh per name


In Caerleon* dwelt king Arthur,

A prince of passing might;

In Bishop Percy's work, Carleile is written; but as he oh. ves, Caerleon, an ancient British city, on the river Uske, in nmouthshire, was one of the places of Arthur's chief residence, a

And there maintain'd his table round,

Beset with many a knight.
And there he kept his christmas

With mirth and princely cheere,
When lo! a strange and cunning boy

Before him did appeare.
A kirtle and a mantle

This boy had him upon,
With brooches, rings, and owches,

Full daintilie bedone.

He had a sarke of silk too,

About his middle meet;
And thus with seemly curtesy,

He did king Arthur greet.
* God speed thee, brave king Arthur,

Thus feasting in thy bowre;
And Gwenever thy goodlie queen,

That fair and peerlesse flowre.
“Ye gallant lords and lordings,

I wish you all take heed,
Lest, what ye deem a blooming rose,

Should prove a cankred weed.”
Then straitway from his bosome

A little wand he drew;
And with it eke a mantle,

Of wondrous shape and hue.
“Now have thou here king Arthur,

Now have thou this of mee,
And give unto thy comely queen,

All-shapen as you see.

Welshman may feel justified on the score of historical propriety, restoring “Caerleon”, although the northern author of this balls may have written “Carleile.”

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