Fierce as the wave on Talgarth's shore!
But when the bleeding strife is o'er,
Then, as with harps his halls resound,
He sends the mead in horns around,
To tuneful bards and warriors bold
The green-wrought hirlas, tipt with gold;
Curious art the handle twines,
Smooth as the glossy wave it shines.

The dawn appear'd, the shout was given
That to the echoing vault of heaven
Arose, and rock'd, beneath the ground:
The foe stood trembling at the sound.
When on Pimlimon's hoary side
Young Titan beam'd in orient pride,
The chief impell'd his rattling car
Amid the boist'rous waves of war.
Anxious I saw, with sore dismay,
The conflict of the doubtful day,
His shiver'd spear, his batter'd shield,
His wounds in Emlyn's dreadful field:
Courage from high his heart inform'd—
The task of hundreds one perform'd.-
Then 'mid the valleys rich with grain,
No valleys then, but hills of slain,
In the battle's front he stood,
Cover'd o'er with dust and blood.
Him, a thousand harps resound,
As Mochnant's mighty prince renown'd,
Nor shrinking from the deathful blow,
Nor vaunting o'er the vanquish'd foe.

MEVANWY VECHAN.

From the Welsh of Howel ab Einion Lygliw.

THIS poem is taken from the collection of the Rev. Evan Evans. The original was found written on parchment in the castle of Dinas Brân, North Wales. Pennant in his Tour says, "In 1390 this castle (Dinas Brân) was inhabited by a celebrated beauty, descended from the house of Tudor Trevor, and whose father probably held the castle under the earls of Arundel. She made a conquest of Howel ab Einion Lygliw, a celebrated bard, who composed the following ode, addressed to her, which an ingenious friend was pleased to favor me with in an English dress."

SORROWING I strike the plaintive string;
Deign, cruel maid, to hear me sing ;
And let my song thy pride controul,
Divine enchantress of my soul;

Sure Creirwy's charms must yield to thine,
And Garwy's* sufferings to mine.

Far from Mevanwy's marble towers,
I pass my solitary hours.

Oh thou that shinest like the sky,
Behold thy faithful Howel die !
In golden verse, in flowery lays,
Sweetly I sang Mevanwy's praise;
Still the disdainful haughty fair
Laughs at my pain, and my despair,

THIS knight and lady seem to have been the same with Sir Gareth and Damoysell Lynet, celebrated in the 7th book of the Storye of the most worthy kynge Arthur. Sir Gareth loved and was beloved by the fair Lyones, sister to Lynet. Their passion exceeded the bounds of discretion; but Lynet, to save their honours, by en chantment prevents their loves, till they are joined together in holy matrimony,

What though thine eyes as black as sloes,
Vie with the arches of thy brows;
Must thy desponding lover die,
Slain by the glances of thine eye?

Pensive as Trystan,* did I speed
To Brân, upon a stately steed:
Fondly I gaze, but hard's my doom,
Oh fairer than the cherry's bloom;
Thus at a distance to behold
Whom my soft arms would fain enfold.
How swift on Alban + steed I flew,
Thy dazzling countenance to view !
Though hard the steep ascent to gain,
Thy smiles were harder to obtain.
Thy peerless beauties to declare
Was still thy zealous lover's care.
Oh fairer thou, and colder too,
Than new-fall'n snow on Aran's‡ brow!
Oh lovely flower of Trevor's race,
Let not a cruel heart disgrace
The beauties of that heavenly face!
Thou art my daily thought; each night
Presents Mevanwy to my sight;
And death alone can draw the dart,
Which love has fixed in my heart.
Ah! canst thou with ungentle eye,
Behold thy faithful Howel die ?
For thee my verse shall ever run,
Bright rival of the mid-day sun!
Shouldst thou demand thy lover's eyes,
Gladly to thee I'd sacrifice

Trystan was another famous knight. His sorrow seems to have arose from his having been deserted by a lady, who, as the history relates, forsook him for Sir Bleoberys.

A Scotch horse.

Two lofty mountains in Merionethshire

My useless sight, that only shews
The cruel author of its woes,
Refulgent in her golden bower,
As morning in her eastern tower.

Thy name the echoing valleys round, Thy name a thousand hills resound; Mevanwy Vechan, maid divine! No name so musical as thine; And every bard with rapture hung On the soft music of my song. For thee I languish, pine, and rave White as Dwrdwy's curling wave. Alas! no words can speak my pain, While thus I love, but love in vain! Wisdom and reason, what are they? What all the charms of poesy, Against the fury of thy darts, Thou vanquisher of human hearts? When first I saw thee, princely maid, In scarlet robes of state array'd, Thy beauties set my soul on fire, And every motion fann'd desire ; The more on thy sweet form I gazed, The more my frantic passion blazed. Not half so fine the spider's thread That glitters in the dewy mead, As the bright ringlets of thy hair, Thou beauteous object of my care! But ah! my sighs, my tears are vain! The cruel maid insults my pain!

And canst thou without pity, see The victim of thy cruelty; Pale with despair, and robb'd of sleep, Whose only business is to weep?— Behold thy bard, thy poet, lanquish, Oh! ease thy bard's, thy poet's anguish;

And for heaven's sake some pity shew,
Ere to the shades of night I go.

Oh! fairer than the flowers adorning
The hawthorn in a summer's morning!
While life remains, I still will sing

Thy praise, and make the mountains ring
With fair Mevanwy's tuneful name!
And from misfortune purchase fame:
Not e'en to die shall I repine,
So Howel's name may live with thine.

R. W.

LLEWELYN'S TRIUMPH.

From the Welsh of Griffith Llygad Gwr.
By Richard Llwyd.

GRIFFITH LLYGAD GWR, bard to prince Llewelyn ab Griffith, was an eminent poet, who flourished between 1220 and 1270. Some of his compositions are in the Welsh Archaiology.

GOD! to whom my voice I raise,
Grant my tongue the power to praise,
To praise as princely deeds require,
For such demand the poet's lyre;
Arvon's strength, and Mona's tower,
E'en proud Deganwy* owns his power.
Where are they that dare invade
The chief that spurns a stranger's aid ? +
He nor waits th' impending blow,
Nor checks, at home, th' invading foe,

A castle, now in ruins, over against the town of Conway.
This ode, it will be perceived, was written in the prosperous days

of the ultimately unfortunate Llewelyn.