HARP of the Mountain-land! sound forth again
As when the foaming Hirlas* horn was crowned,
And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain,
And the bright mead at Owain's feast went round.
Wake with the spirit and the power of yore!
Harp of the ancient hills! be heard once more.
Thy tones are not to cease! The Roman came
O'er the blue waters with his thousand oars:
Through Mona's oaks he sent the wasting flame;
The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores:
All gave their ashes to the wind and sea-
Ring out, thou Harp! he could not silence thee.
*Hirlas, from hir, long, and glas, blue or azure.
Thy tones are not to cease! The Saxon passed,
His banners floated on Eryri's* gales;
But thou wert heard above the trumpet's blast,
Even when his towers rose loftiest o'er the vales ! Thine was the voice that cheered the brave and free; They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and thee.
Those were dark years !-They saw the valiant fall,
The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain's board,
The hearth left lonely in the ruined hall—
Yet power was thine-a gift in every chord !
Call back that spirit to the days of peace,
Thou noble Harp! thy tones are not to cease!
DRUID CHORUS ON THE LANDING OF THE ROMANS
By the dread and viewless powers
Whom the storms and seas obey,
From the Dark Isle's + mystic bowers,
Romans! o'er the deep away!
Think ye, 'tis but nature's gloom
O'er our shadowy coast which broods?
By the altar and the tomb,
Shun these haunted solitudes !
Know ye Mona's awful spells?
She the rolling orbs can stay;
She the mighty grave compels
Back to yield its fettered prey!
*The Snowdon mountains. † An ancient name for Anglesey.
Fear ye not the lightning stroke?
Mark ye not the fiery sky?
Hence !-around our central oak
Gods are gathering-Romans fly!
FILL high the blue hirlas that shines like the wave
When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the sea;
And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the brave,
The dragons of battle, the sons of the free!
To those from whose spears in the shock of the fight,
A beam, like heaven's lightning,2 flashed over the field;
To those who came rushing as storms in their might,
Who have shivered the helmet, and cloven the shield;
The sound of whose strife was like oceans afar,
When lances were red from the harvest of war.
Fill high the blue hirlas! O cup-bearer, fill
For the lords of the field in their festival's hour;
And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill
That bursts o'er the rock in the pride of its power.
Praise, praise to the mighty! fill high the smooth horn
Of honour and mirth,3 for the conflict is o'er;
And round let the golden-tipped hirlas be borne
To the lion-defenders of Gwynedd's fair shore,
Who rushed to the field where the glory was won,
As eagles that soar from their cliffs to the sun.
Fill higher the hirlas! forgetting not those
Who shared its bright draught in the days which are fled!
Though cold on their mountains the valiant repose,
Their lot shall be lovely-renown to the dead!
While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung,
While regal Eryri with snow shall be crowned-
So long by the bards shall their battles be sung,
And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound.
The free winds of Maelor* shall swell with their name,
And Owain's rich hirlas be filled to their fame.
THE Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night;4
I weep, for the grave has extinguished its light;
The beam of the lamp from its summit is o'er,
The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more!
The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still,
The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill !
Be silent for ever, thou desolate scene!
Nor let even an echo recall what hath been.
The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare,
No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there!
Oh! where are the warriors who circled its board!
The grass will soon wave where the mead-cup was poured!
The Hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night,
Since he is departed whose smile made it bright!
I mourn; but the sigh of my soul shall be brief,
The pathway is short to the grave of my chief!
*Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint.
WATCH ye well! The moon is shrouded
On her bright throne;
Storms are gathering, stars are clouded,
Waves make wild moan.
'Tis no night of hearth-fires glowing,
And gay songs and wine-cups flowing;
But of winds in darkness blowing
O'er seas unknown!
In the dwellings of our fathers,
Round the glad blaze,
Now the festive circle gathers
With harps and lays;
Now the rush-strewn halls are ringing,
Steps are bounding, bards are singing,
-Ay! the hour to all is bringing
Peace, joy, or praise.
Save to us, our night-watch keeping,
Storm-winds to brave,
While the very sea-bird sleeping
Rests in its cave!
Think of us when hearts are beaming,
Think of us when mead is streaming,
Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming
On the dark wave!
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