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From Southey's Madoc.

It was the evening gale, Which passing o'er the harp of Caradoc, Swept all its chords at once, and blended .'' Their music into one continuous flow. The solitary hard, beside biz harp Leant underneath a tree, whose spreading boughs, With broken shade that shifted to the breeze, Played on the waving waters. Overhead There was a leafy murmur, at his foot The lake's perpetual ripple, and from far, Borne on the modulating gale, was heard The roaring of the mountain cataractA blind man would have loved the lovely spot, Here was Senena by her lady led, Trembling, yet not reluctant. They drew nigh, Their steps unheard upon the elastic moss Till playfully Goervyl, with quick touch, Ran o’er the barp-strings. At the sudden sound He rose-Hath then thy hand, quoth she, Oh bard, Forgot its cunning, that the wind should be Thine harper ?-come! one strain for Britain's sake; And let the theme be woman !- he replied, But if the strain offend, oh lady fair, Blame thou the theme, not me!-then to the harp He sung,~" Three things a wise man will not trust, The wind, the sunshine of an April day, And woman's plighted faith. I have beheld The weathercock upon the steeple point Steady from morn till eve, and I have seen The bees go forth upon an April morn,

Secure the sunshine will not end in showers;
But when was woman true ?"

« False bard!” thereat
With smile of playful anger she exclaim'd,
is False bard! and slanderous song! were such thy

Of woman, when thy youthful lays were heard
In Heilyn's hall ?”—but at that name, his heart
Leap'd, and his cheek with sudden flush was fired.
• In Heilyn's hall,” quoth he, “ I learn’d the song
There was a maid who dwelt among the hills
Of Arvon, and to one of humbler birth
Had pledged her troth; not rashly nor begu ed,-
They had been playmates in their infancy,
And she in all his thoughts had borne a part,
And all his joys. The moon and all the stars
Witness'd their mutual vows; and for her sake
The song was framed; for in the face of day
She broke them.” _“ But her name ?” Goervyl cried.
Quoth he, “ The poet loved her still too well,
To cocple it with shame.”

- Oh fate unjust
Of womankind !” she cried; “our virtues bloom,
Like violets, in shade and solitude,
While evil eyes hunt all our failings out,
For evil tongues to bruit abroad in jest,
And song of obloquy?-I knew a maid,
And she too dwelt in Arvon, and she too
Loved one of lowly birth, who ill repaid
Her spotless faith; for he to ill reports,
And tales of falsehood cunningly devised,
Lent a light ear, and to his rival left
The loathing maid. The wedding day arrived,
l'he harpers and the gleemen far and near,
Came to the wedding-feast; the wedding guests
Vere come, the altar dress'd, the bridemaids met;
'he father, and the bridegroom, and the priest,

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Wait for the bride. But she the while did do ff
Her bridal robes, and clipt her golden locks,
And put on boy's attire, through wood and wild
To seek her own true love ; and over sea,
Forsaking all for him, she followed him,
Nor hoping nor deserving fate so fair :
And at his side she stood, and heard him wrong
Her faith with slanderous tales; and his dull eye,
As it had learnt his heart's forgetfulness,
Knows not the trembling one, who even now
Yearns to forgive him all !”

He turn'd, he knew
The blue-eyed maid, who fell upon his breast.


By John Grubb, M. A.

The following lines from two stanzas of a burlesque poem, in Percy's Reliques of Ancienst English Poetry, entitled,

“St. George for England ;' in which every hero that could be thought of, is introduced and travestied, so as to become a foil to the fabulous champion of England. It is a very diverting ballad poem, written for an anniversary feast held on St. George's day, by a club of Oxford gentlemen, all of whom were of the name of George. Out of the whole, the following lines are the only ones that could bear a relative connexion with this work.


The story of King Arthur old

Is very memorable,
The number of his valiant knights,

And roundness of his table :
The knights around his table in

A circle state, d’ye see,
And altogether made up one

Large hoop of chivalry.

He had a sword both broad and sharp,

Ycleped Caliburn,
Would cut a flint more easily

Than penknife cuts a corn ;
As caseknife does a capon carve,

So would it carve a rock,
And split a man at single slash,

From noddle down to nock.
As Roman Augur’s steel of yore

Dissected Tarquin's riddle,
So this would cut both conjurer

And whetstone through the middle.
He was the cream of Brecknockshire,*

And flower of all the Welsh ;
But George he did the dragon fell,

And gave him a plaguy squelsh. :, George he was for England; St. Dennis was for France,

Sing Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Pendragon like his father Jove,

Was fed with milk of goat;
And like him made a noble shield

Of she-goat's shaggy coat:
On top of burnish'd helmet he

Did wear a crest of leeks,
And onions' heads whose dreadful nod

Drew tears from hostile cheeks.
Itch and Welsh blood did make him hot,

And very prone to ire;
H’ was tinged with brimstone like a match

And would as soon take fire.



The Briton never tergiversed,

But was for adverse drubbing,

* News for the Breconians!

And never turn’d his back to aught,

Except a post for scrubbing.*
His sword would serve for battle, or,

For dinner if you please ;
When it bad slain a Cheshire man

'Twould toast a Cheshire cheese.
He wounded, and in their own blood

Did anabaptize Pagans :
But George he made the dragon an

Example to all dragons.
St. George he was for England, St.Dennis was for France,

Sing Honi soit qui mal y pense.


By Mrs. Hemans.

Inscribed to the Cymmrodorion Society, on her admission

as an honorary member of the Institution.

It is a glorious hour to him

Who stands on Snowdon's monarch brow,
When twilight's lingering star grows dim,

And mists with morn's resplendence glow;
And, rolling swift before the breeze,

Unveil to his enraptured eye,
Girt with green isles, and sparkling seas,

All Cambria's mountain majesty!

* 'This facetious author, in the boundlessness of his courtesy towards Wales and Welshmen, seems to have given us here, somewhat beyond our claim, or the sanction of history: the Harp and the Crwth were the boasts of our ancestors, but Mr. Grubb, (Phæbus, what name !) kind, generous man! to favour our predilection for triads, suppose, has assigned to us a third-the Scotch Fiddle.


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