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Am not I better, Elphin, say,
Than thousands of the scaly prey ?*

IV.

ELPRIN ! fair as roseate morn,
Cease, O lovely yonth, to mourn.
Weak on my leathern couch I lie,
Yet heav'nly lore I can descry ;
Gifts divine my tongue inspire,
My bosom glows celestial fire:
Mark! how it mounts! my lips disclose
The certain fate of Elphin's foes.
Fix thy hopes on Him alone,
Who is th' eternal Three in One;
There thy ardent vows be given,
Prayer acceptance meets from heaven ;
Then thou shalt adverse fate defy,
And, Elphin, glorious live and die.

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THE HALLS OF CYNDDYLAN.

From the Welsh of Llywarch Hên.

ly the Rer. John Walters, Master of Ruthin School, late Fellow of

Jesus College, Oxford.

In the original, this is a long and very pathetic elegy. lywarch Hên, or Llywarch the aged, was one of those bo signalized themselves in an age remarkable, in the history

Britain, for terrible war and devastation. He was the connporary of king Arthnr, and reigned over the Britons of Cumber. od; a brave prince, and an eminent bard, of the sixth century. iven from his dominions, he outlived all his sons, friends, and

* In the original, Salmons.

protectors; and being reduced to extreme misery, he retired to solitary hut at Abercuawg, in Montgomeryshire, from whence removed to Llan vor, near Bala, where there is still a seclude place called Pabell Llywarch Hên, or the cot of old Llywarek It is supposed he died there about the year 646, at the age of 18 years, and was buried in the church of Llanyor.

Come forth and see, ye Cambrian dames,
Fair Pengwern'st royal roofs in flames !
The foe the fatal dart hath fung,
(The foe that speaks a barbarous tongue)
Apd pierced Cynddylan's princely head,
And stretch'd your champion with the dead.
His heart, which late with martial fire,
Bade his loved country's foes expire,
(Such fire as wastes the forest hill)
Now like the winter's ice is chill.
O'er the pale corse, with boding cries
Sad Argoed'sť cruel eagle flies ;
He flies, exulting, o'er the plain,
And scents the blood of heroes slain.
Dire bird, this night my frighted ear
Thy loud, ill-omen’d voice shall hear :
I know thy cry, that screams for food,
And thirsts to drink Cynddylan's blood.

old age.

* Dr. William Owen Pughe, in his account of this venerabl prince, says:-" It may be inferred that Llywarch composed mo of the pieces now extant, after his retreat into Wales, to sooth mind borne down with calamities, and the infirmities of an uncommg

Cold must be that breast, that can be unmoved persuing his artless complaint, that death lingered, after he b been bereft of four-and-twenty sons, wearing the golden chain, high-prized badge of honor of a British warrior.” He is honorab recorded in the Triads, and among other distinctions ranked as a of "the three disinterested princes of the isle of Britain.”

# Pengwern, (the brow of Alders) the Welsh name of Shrew bury, then the chief residence of the princes of Powys.

The ancient name of Powys.

No more the mansion of delight,
Cynddylan's hall is dark to-night;
No more the midnight hour prolongs
With fires, and lamps, and festive songs.
Its trembling bards afflicted shun
The ball bereaved of Cyndrwyn's son,
Its joyous visitants are fled;
Its hospitable fires are dead :
No longer, ranged on either hand
Its dormitory, couches stand:
But all above, around, below,
Dread sights, dire sounds, and shrieks of woe.
Awhile I'll weep Cynddylan slain,
And pour the weak desponding strain ;
Awhile I'll sooth my troubled breast,
Then, in eternal silence rest.

THE HEROES OF THE GODODIN.

rom a new version, (unpublished,) of Aneurin's Gododin.

By T. J. Llewelyn Prichard.

Å NEURIN was a Briton of Manau-Gododin, a country which luded the sea coast of Northumberland, and extended as far as east Lothian. Thirteen hundred years have nearly rolled away e he tuned his country's lyre, and sung the famed Gododin. Te are several hints given in the poem to prove that Cattraeth I a British town, and apparently one of consequence; and Mr. bert is of opinion that it stood in the district of the Ottadini, and the term Gododin, derived thence, was given to the poem in conlence of the battle having been fought there. The Gododin brates, what is very strange, the defeat of the bard's country

by the Saxons, from having too confidently rushed into the i of battle while in a state of intoxication. It consists, with very • detail, of elegies in lyric and heroic measures, on the deaths of Farious chieftains that perished in that disastrous action. Mr.

Sharon Turner in his History of the Anglo-Saxons, and Mr. Probert in an introduction to his literal translation of the Gododin, have very ably proved the genuineness of this ancient bard's poems.

THE SON OF MARCO.
Or years though brief, the youthful chief

Was nerved and arm’d for manly deed ;
And for the field, his broad light shield

Hung on his slender, thick-maned steed;
Oh! he was graceful to behold,
With bright blue sword, and

spurs

of gold,
A princely, gay, and ermin'd garb,
An ashen spear with point and barb.
'Tis not for me to envy thee,

A kinder, nobler part be mine!
To sing thy praise--(for brief thy days)

Soon closed that bright career of thine :
Ah sooner comes thy bloody bier,
Than nuptial day or festal cheer ;
On thee, on thee, shall ravens feed,
Ere thou achieve the hero's deed -
Brave Owen’s dear and gallant friend !
The fierce prey-birds thy steed shall rend;
His bones alone remain to tell
What spot the son of Marco fell.

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Caeog, foremost in the battle's van,
Of wolf-like aspect, a terrific man,
Though majesty adorn’d the hero's mind,
And amber wreaths around his brows were twined
That costly amber, and the feast of wine,
To him were fatal: he abhorr'd to shine
The foe of noteless, or of feeble men ;
Their wrath he treated with subdued disdain,

When once from Gwyneth to the north* he came
To share the counsel of a youth of name-
Ysgaron's son, his fellow in the field,
A hapless hero of imperfect shield.
Caeog-mighty one! thy day is o’er,
So long the hero, midst the flowing gore :-
Thy skill a path before the army made,
Five bands of yeomen fell beneath thy blade ;
Of Deira and Bernicia's chiefs of fame
Two thousand in one hour fell with shame.

Great hapless chieftain ! sooner will there be
A feast for wolves, than nuptial feast for thee,-
Ere yet the altar, after battle's storm,
Thou seek'st, in piety, thy manly form-
Thy mangled corse upon the bloody bier
Voracious ravens as their prey shall tear.
Such, such the penalty for lack of heed
And wild indulgence in the madd’ning mead :
But thou shalt live-among the brave enroll'd-
Shalt greatly live, lamented, and extoll'd!
While breathes a minstrel of melodious art,
Oh thou shalt live, loved hero of the heart.

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THE MARCH TO GODODIN. to Gododin march'd the mighty force, lat moved a laughing and tumultuous course ; efore them suddenly dart down the foes, hose awful war-cry as they charged them rose :ley slew with sword-blades in the grasp of strength, ad all is voiceless as the grave, at length le living column of heroic men, iw like the cold clod of the mountain glen. I to Cattraeth march'd the warriors each as loud, vociferous, and free of speech,

# From North Wales to the North of England.

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