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WELSH MELODIES.

INTRODUCTORY STANZAS.

THE HARP OF WALES.

INSCRIBED TO THE RUTHIN WELSH LITERARY SOCIETY.

HARP of the mountain-land! sound forth again, As when the foaming Hirlas horn was crown'd, 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 seaRing out, thou harp! he could not silence thee.

Thy tones are not to cease!-The Saxon pass'd, His banners floated on Eryri's gales;

But thou wert heard above the trumpet's blast, E'en when his towers rose loftiest o'er the vales! Thine was the voice that cheer'd the brave and free; They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and thee. (233)

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Those were dark years!-They saw the valiant fall, The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain's board, The hearth left lonely in the ruin'd hallYet 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!

1

DRUID CHORUS ON THE LANDING OF THE ROMANS.

By the dread and viewless powers
Whom the storms and seas obey,
From the Dark Isle's1 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 fetter'd prey
Fear ye not the lightning-stroke?
Mark ye not the fiery sky?
Hence!-around our central oak
Gods are gathering-Romans, fly!

Ynys Dywyll, or the Dark Island, an ancient name for Anglesey.

THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN.1

WHERE are they, those green fairy islands, reposing In sunlight and beauty, on ocean's calm breast? What spirit, the things which are hidden disclosing, Shall point the bright way to their dwellings of rest?

Oh! lovely they rose on the dreams of past ages,

The mighty have sought them, undaunted in faith; But the land hath been sad for her warriors and sages, For the guide to those realms of the blessed, is death.

Where are they, the high-minded children of glory, Who steer'd for those distant green spots on the

wave?

To the winds of the ocean they left their wild story, In the fields of their country they found not a grave.

'The Green Islands of Ocean," or "Green Spots of the Floods," called in the Triads "Gwerddonan Llion," (respecting which some remarkable superstitions have been preserved in Wales,) were supposed to be the abodes of the Fair Family, or souls of the virtuous Druids, who could not enter the Christian heaven, but were permitted to enjoy this paradise of their own. Gafran, a distinguished British chieftain of the fifth century, went on a voyage, with his family, to discover these islands; but they were never heard of afterwards. This event, the voyage of Merddin Emrys with his twelve bards, and the expedition of Madog, were called the three losses by disappearance of the island of Britain.. Vide W. O. PUGHE's Cambrian Biography, also Cambro-Briton, vol. i. p. 124.

Perchance they repose where the Summer-breeze gathers,

From the flowers of each vale, immortality's breath; But their steps shall be ne'er on the hills of their fathers

For the guide to those realms of the blessed, is death.

THE SEA-SONG OF GAFRAN.'

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:-

1See note to the "Green Isles of Ocean."

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