When I think of their purpose so pure,
The tear must fast trickle from me,
Their hearts did Providence allure
To their country, and her did they free;
We now live beneath a meek power,
And feel the full blessings of peace,
While on us abundantly shower,
The mercies of Heaven with increase.
THE EISTEDDFOD,
By Mrs. Cornwell Baron Wilson. [{91}]
Strike the harp: awake the lay!
Let Cambria’s voice be heard this day
In music’s witching strain!
Wide let her ancient “soul of song,”
The echo of its notes prolong,
O’er valley, hill, and plain!
Minstrels! awake your harps aloud,
Bid Cambria’s nobles hither crowd,
Her daughters fair, her chieftains proud,
Nor shall the call be vain!
Let gen’rous wine around be pour’d!
To many a chief in mem’ry stored,
Of Cambria’s ancient day!
Sons of the mountain and the flood,
Who shed for her their dearest blood,
Nor own’d a conqueror’s sway!
Be they extolled in music’s strain,
Remembered, when the cup we drain,
And let their deeds revive again
In ev’ry minstrel’s lay!
’Tis now the feast of soul and song!
As roll the festive hours along,
Here wealth and pow’r combine
With beauty’s smiles, (a rich reward,)
To cheer the rugged mountain bard,
And honour Cambria’s line!
Then, minstrels! wake your harps aloud,
Behold her nobles hither crowd,
Her daughters fair, her chieftains proud,
Like gems around they shine!
LLYWARCH HEN’S LAMENT ON CYNDDYLAN.
[Llywarch Hen, warrior and poet, was the contemporary of Aneurin and Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the battle of Cattraeth, where he witnessed the fall of three of his sons, and in the endless wars of that period. He had twenty four sons, all of whom were slain in battle in the bard’s lifetime. He retired for refuge to the Court of Cynddylan, then Prince of Powys, at Pengwern, now Shrewsbury. The Saxons at length drove Cynddylan from Pengwern, and the bard retired to Llanfor, near Bala, in Merionethshire, where he died at the long age of 150 years. Hence the appellation hen, or the aged. Twelve poems of this bard remain, but all are imbued with the melancholy of the poet’s life.]
Cynddylan’s hearth is dark to-night,
Cynddylan’s halls are lone;
War’s fire has revell’d o’er their might,
And still’d their minstrel’s tone;
And I am left to chant apart
One murmur of a broken heart!
Pengwern’s blue spears are gleamless now,
Her revelry is still;
The sword has blanched his chieftain’s brow,
Her fearless sons are chill:
And pagan feet to dust have trod
The blue-robed messengers of God. [{92}]