Why rise on my thoughts, ye free songs of the land Where the harp's lofty soul on each wild wind is

borne ?

Be hush'd, be forgotten! for ne'er shall the hand Of minstrel with melody greet my return.

-No! no!-let your echoes still float on the breeze, And my heart shall be strong for the conquest of

seas!

'Tis not for the land of my sires, to give birth Unto bosoms that shrink when their trial is nigh; Away! we will bear over ocean and earth

A name and a spirit that never shall die. My course to the winds, to the stars, I resign; But my soul's quenchless fire, O my country! is thine.

CASWALLON'S TRIUMPH.

[Caswallon (or Cassivelaunus) was elected to the supreme command of the Britons, (as recorded in the Triads,) for the purpose of opposing Cæsar, under the title of Elected Chief of Battle. Whatever impression the disciplined legions of Rome might have made on the Britons in the first instance, the subsequent departure of Cæsar they considered as a cause of triumph; and it is stated that Caswallon proclaimed an assembly of the various states of the island, for the purpose of celebrating that event by feasting and public rejoicing. See the Cambrian Biography.]

FROM the glowing southern regions,

Where the sun-god makes his dwelling,

Came the Roman's crested legions,

O'er the deep, round Britain swelling;

The wave grew dazzling as he pass'd,
With light from spear and helmet cast,
And sounds in every rushing blast

Of a conqueror's march were telling.

But his eagle's royal pinion,

Bowing earth beneath its glory, Could not shadow with dominion

Our wild seas and mountains hoary! Back from their cloudy realm it flies, To float in light through softer skies; Oh! chainless winds of heaven arise!

Bear a vanquish'd world the story!

Lords of earth! to Rome returning,
Tell, how Britain combat wages,
How CASWALLON's soul is burning
When the storm of battle rages!
And that shrine high deeds in song,
ye

O holy and immortal throng!

The brightness of his name prolong,
As a torch to stream through ages!

HOWEL'S SONG.

[HOWEL ab Einion Llygliw was a distinguished bard of the fourteenth century, A beautiful poem, addressed by him to Myfanwy Vychan, a celebrated beauty of those times, is still preserved amongst the remains of the Welsh bards. The ruins of Myfanwy's residence,

Castle Dinas Brân, may yet be traced on a high hill
near Llangollen.]

PRESS on, my steed! I hear the swell*
Of Valle Crucis' vesper-bell,,

Sweet floating from the holy dell

O'er woods and waters round.
Perchance the maid I love, e'en now,
From Dinas Brán's majestic brow,
Looks o'er the fairy world below,
And listens to the sound!

I feel her presence on the scene!
The summer air is more serene,
The deep woods wave in richer

green,
The wave more gently flows!
O fair as Ocean's curling foam!†
Lo! with the balmy hour I come,
The hour that brings the wand'rer home,
The weary to repose!

Haste! on each mountain's dark'ning crest,
The glow hath died, the shadows rest,

"I have rode hard, mounted on a fine high-bred steed, upon thy account, O thou with the countenance of cherryflower bloom. The speed was with eagerness, and the strong long-hamm'd steed of Alban reached the summit of the high land of Brân."

"My loving heart sinks with grief without thy support, O thou that hast the whiteness of the curling waves! * **** I know that this pain will avail me nothing towards obtaining thy love, O thou whose countenance is bright as the flowers of the hawthorn!"-HOWEL'S Ode to Myfanwy

The twilight-star on Deva's breast,
Gleams tremulously bright;

Speed for Myfanwy's bower on high!
Though scorn may wound me from her eye,
Oh! better by the sun to die,

Than live in rayless night!

THE MOUNTAIN-FIRES.

["The custom retained in Wales of lighting fires (Coelcerthi) on November eve, is said to be a traditional memorial of the massacre of the British chiefs by Hengist, on Salisbury plain. The practice is, however, of older date, and had reference originally to the Alban Elved, or new year."-See the Cambro-Briton.

When these fires are kindled on the mountains, and seen through the darkness of a stormy night, casting a red and fitful glare over heath and rock, their effect is strikingly picturesque.]

LIGHT the hills! till heaven is glowing
As with some red meteor's rays!
Winds of night, though rudely glowing,
Shall but fan the beacon-blaze.

Light the hills till flames are streaming,

*

From Yr Wyddfa's sovereign steep,
To the waves round Mona gleaming,

Where the Roman track'd the deep!

* Yr Wyddfa, the Welsh name of Snowdon, said to mean the conspicuous place, or object.

Be the mountain watch-fires heighten'd,
Pile them to the stormy sky!

Till each torrent-wave is brighten'd,
Kindling as it rushes by.

Now each rock, the mist's high dwelling,
Towers in reddening light sublime;
Heap the flames! around them telling
Tales of Cambria's elder time.

Thus our sires, the fearless-hearted,
Many a solemn vigil kept,
When, in ages long departed,

O'er the noble dead they wept.

In the winds we hear their voices,

"Sons! though yours a brighter lot,

When the mountain-land rejoices,
Be her mighty unforgot!"

ERYRI WEN.

["SNOWDON was held as sacred by the ancient Britons as Parnassus was by the Greeks, and Ida by the Cretans. It is still said, that whosoever slept upon Snowdon would wake inspired, as much as if he had taken a nap on the hill of Apollo. The Welsh had always the strongest attachment to the tract of Snowdon. Our princes had, in addition to their title, that of Lord of Snowdon."]—Pennant.

THEIRS was no dream, O Monarch-hill,
With heaven's own azure crown'd!

Who call'd thee-what thou shalt be still,
White Snowdon!-holy ground.