Part 10 (1/2)
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 n.o.bles. .h.i.ther crowd, Her daughters fair, her chieftains proud, Like gems around they s.h.i.+ne!
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 Merioneths.h.i.+re, 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 G.o.d. {92}
Cynddylan's s.h.i.+eld, Cynddylan's pride, The wandering snows are shading, One palace pillar stands to guide The woodbine's verdant braiding; And I am left, from all apart, The minstrel of the broken heart!
THE LAMENT OP LLYWARCH HEN.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom; But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing, The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb!
Oh! why should I live to hear music resounding, Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave?
Why smile the waste flow'rs, my sad footsteps surrounding?
My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave!
Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing, As on to the fields of your glory you trod!
Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing, Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod!
I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding, Which rouses ye not, oh, my lovely, my brave!
When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding, I turn from heav'n's light, for it smiles on your grave!
THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for the grave has extinguished its light; The beam of its lamp from the summit is o'er, The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more!