Part 15 (1/2)

THE ROSE OF THE GLEN.

Although I've no money or treasure to give, No palace or cottage wherein I may live, Altho' I can't boast of high blood or degree, Than all these my sweet Rose is dearer to me.

The lambs on the mountain are frisky and gay, The birds in the forest are restless with play, The maidens rejoice at the advent of spring, Yet my fair Rose to me more enjoyment can bring.

THE MOUNTAIN GALLOWAY.

BY MADOC MERVYN.

My tried and trusty mountain steed, Of Aberteivi's hardy breed, Elate of spirit, low of flesh, That sham'st thy kind of vallies fresh; And three score miles and twelve a day Hast sped, my gallant galloway.

Like a sea-boat, firm and tight, Dancing on the ocean, light, That the spirit of the wind Actuates to heart and mind Elastic, buoyant, proud, and gay, Art thou, my mountain galloway.

Thou'st borne me, like a billow's sweep, O'er mountains high and vallies deep, Oft drank at lake and waterfall, Pa.s.s'd sunless gulfs whose glooms appall, And shudder'd oft at ocean's spray, Where breakers roar'd, destruction lay.

And thou hast snuff'd sulphureous fumes 'Mid rural nature's charnel tombs; Thou hast sped with eye unscar'd Where Merthyr's fields of fire flar'd; And thou wert dauntless on thy way, My faithful mountain galloway.

There is a vale, 'tis far away, But we must reach that vale to-day; There is a mansion in that vale, Its white walls well the eye regale!

And there's a hand more white they say, Shall pat my gallant galloway.

And she is young, and she is fair, The lovely one who sojourns there; Oh, truly dear is she to me!

As thou art mine, she'll welcome thee: Then off we go, at break of day, On, on! my gallant galloway.

GLAN GEIRIONYDD.

FROM THE REV. EVAN EVANS.

One time upon a summer day I saunter'd on the sh.o.r.e Of swift Geirionydd's waters blue, Where oft I walked before In youth's bright season gone, And spent life's happiest morn In drawing from its crystal waves The trout beneath the thorn, When every thought within my breast Was light as solar ray, Enjoying every pastime dear Throughout the livelong day.

The breeze would soften on the lake, Unruffled be its deep, And all surrounding nature be As calm as silent sleep, Except the raven's dismal shriek Upon the lofty spray, And bleat of sheep beside the bush Where light their lambkins play, And noise made by the busy mill Upon the river sh.o.r.e, With cuckoo's song perch'd in the ash To show that winter's o'er.

The impressive scene would rather tend To nurse reflection deep, Than cast the gay and sprightly fly Beneath the rocky steep; 'Twould fill my spirit now subdued With sober earnest thought, Of other days, and other things, My youthful hands had wrought; The tears would spring into my eyes, My heart with heaving fill, To think of all that I had been, And all that I am still.

The sober stillness would beget Thoughts of departed friends, Who not long since companions were Upon the river's bends; And soon will come the sombre day When I shall meet their doom, And 'stead of fis.h.i.+ng by the lake, I shall be in the tomb.

Some brother bard may chance to stray And ask for Ieuan E'an?-- ”Geirionydd lake is still the same, But here no Ieuan's seen.”

THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD AFTER ITS FATHER'S DEATH.

BY THE REV. DANIEL EVANS, B.D.

My gentle child, thou dost not know Why still on thee I am gazing so, And trace in meditation deep Thy features fair in silent sleep.