Part 11 (2/2)

And, in that triumph's wild'ring hour Of sated vengeance, grappled power, Owain has lost the show of grief, Once more his Cymry's warlike chief, With dauntless mien he proudly stands, The centre of his faithful bands, Who gladly view the haughty brow, Whence care and pain seem banished now, And little reck what deeper lies, All is not joy that wears its guise, And, not, 'mid valour's trophies won, Can he forget his slaughtered son.

Forget! no, time and absence have estranged Those who in sundered paths must tread, We may forget the distant or the changed, But not--oh, not the dead: All other things, that round us come and pa.s.s, Some with'ring chance or change have proved, But they still bear, in mem'ry's magic gla.s.s, The semblance we have loved.

The morning breaks all calm and bright On ruins stern and b.l.o.o.d.y plain, Flinging her rich and growing light O'er many a ghastly heap of slain; And pure and fresh her l.u.s.tre showers On shattered helm and dinted mail, As when her coming wakes the flowers In some peace-hallow'd vale.

But where is she, whose voice had power To rouse the war storm's awful might?

Glad eager footsteps seek her bower, With tidings of the glorious fight; On her loved harp her head is bowed, One slender arm still round it clings, And her dark tresses in a cloud, Are cl.u.s.t'ring o'er the silent strings.

They clasp her hands, they call her name, They bid her strike the harp once more, And sing of victory, and fame, The song she loved in days of yore.

Vain, vain, there comes no breath or sound Those faded lips to sever, The broken heart its rest hath found, The harp is hushed for ever.

PART IV. THE HUMOROUS.

OLD MORGAN AND HIS WIFE.

BY THE REV. EVAN EVANS.

TRANSLATED BY T. W. HARRIS, ESQ., AND ANOTHER.

Hus.--Jane, tell me have you fed the pigs, Their cry is not so fine: And if you have not, don't delay, 'Tis nearly half-past nine.

Wife.--There, now your noisy din begins, Ding, ding, and endless ding, I do believe your scolding voice Me to the grave will bring.

H.--Were you to drop in there to-day, This day would end my sorrow.

W.--But I shall not to please you, Mog, To-day, nor yet to-morrow.

H.--Oh! were you, Jane, to leave this world,

W.--And you to beg and borrow,

H.--Stop, Jane, talk not so silly, Jane,

W.--Not at your bidding, never; I'd talk as long as I thought fit, Were I to live for ever.

H.--Your voice if raised a little more, Would rouse the very dead, A pretty noise, because I ask'd If you the pigs had fed.

W.--I'll raise my voice, Mog, louder still, As sure as you were born, Why should you ask ”How many loaves Came from the peck of corn?”

H.--Should not the master of the house Know every undertaking?

W.--And wear his wife's own crinoline, And try his hand at baking!

H.--The breeches you would like to wear!

W.--What vulgar jests you're making!

H.--Stop Jane, stop Jane, don't speak so loud, Your noise will stun the cattle!

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