Billeder på siden

And sooth they vow'd—the trampled green
Shew'd where hot Neville's charge had been :
In every sable hoof-tramp stood
A Norman horseman's curdling blood !


Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil,
That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil ;
Their orphans long the art may rue,
For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe.
No more the stamp of armed steed
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead;
Nor trace be there, in early spring,
Save of the Fairies' emerald ring.



AIR—Daffydz Gangwen.

The Welsh tradition bears, thut a Bard, on his death-bed, de

manded his harp, and played the air to which these verses are adapted ; requesting, that it might be performed at his funeral.


Dinas Emlinn, lament; for the moment is nigh,
When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die ;
No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall rave,
And mix his wild notes with the wild-dashing wave.


In spring and in autumn, thy glories of shade
Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd shall fade ;

For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue, That view'd them with rapture, with rapture that



Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride, And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's side ; But where is the harp shall give life to their name? And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame?


And oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters so fair, Who heave the white bosom, and wave the dark hair

; What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their eye,

When half of their charms with Cadwallon shall die?


Then adieu, silver Teivi ! I quit thy loved scene, To join the dim choir of the bards who have been ; With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin the Old, And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold.


And adieu, Dinas Emlinn! still green be thy shades, Unconquer'd thy warriors, and matchless thy maids ! And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell, Farewell, my loved Harp! my last treasure, farewell !



O, low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro,

And weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood, All as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow,

Sorely sigh’d to the breezes, and wept to the flood.
0, saints ! from the mansions of bliss lowly bending ;

Sweet Virgin! who hearest the suppliant's cry;
Now grant my petition, in anguish ascending,

My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die !"

[ocr errors]

All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle,

With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail, Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dread rattle,

And the chace's wild clamour, came loading the gale.

« ForrigeFortsæt »