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 hall— Yet 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!

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DRUID CHORUS ON THE LANDING OF THE ROMANS.

By the dread and viewless powers
Whom the storms and seas obey,
From the Dark Isle's' 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!

1 Ynys Dywyll, or the Dark Island, an ancient name for

Anglesey.

THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN.'

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."

Save to us, our night-watch keeping,
Storm-winds to brave,

While the very sea-bird sleeping,
Rests in its cave!

Think of us when hearths are beaming,
Think of us when mead is streaming,
Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming
On the dark wave!

THE HIRLAS HORN.

FILL high the blue hirlas,' that shines like the wave2
When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the sea;
And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the brave,
The dragons of battle, the sons of the free!
To those from whose spears, in the shock of the fight,
A beam, like heaven's lightning, flash'd over the

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field; To those who came rushing as storms in their might, Who have shiver'd the helmet, and cloven the shield; The sound of whose strife was like ocean's afar, When lances were red from the harvest of war.

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1 Hirlas, from hir, long, and glas, blue or azure.

2" Fetch the horn, that we may drink together, whose gloss is like the waves of the sea; whose green handles show the skill of the artist, and are tipped with gold.”. From the Hirlas of OWAIN CYFEILIOG.

"Heard ye in Maelor the noise of war, the horrid din of arms, their furious onset, loud as in the battle of Bangor, where fire flashed out of their spears.".

From the same.

Fill high the blue hirlas! O cup-bearer, fill

For the lords of the field, in their festival's hour, And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill, That bursts o'er the rock in the pride of its power: Praise, praise to the mighty, fill high the smooth horn Of honour and mirth,' for the conflict is o'er; And round let the golden-tipp'd hirlas be borne, To the lion-defenders of Gwynedd's fair shore, Who rush'd to the field where the glory was won, As eagles that soar from their cliffs to the sun.

Fill higher the hirlas! forgetting not those

Who shared its bright draught in the days which are fled!

Though cold on their mountain the valiant repose,

Their lot shall be lovely-renown to the dead! While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung, While regal Eryri with snow shall be crown'dSo long by the bards shall their battles be sung, And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound. The free winds of Maelor2 shall swell with their

name,

And Owain's rich hirlas be fill'd to their fame.

"Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn-badge of honour and mirth.". -From the same.

* Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint, according to the modern division.