Part 17 (1/2)

Once it flourished in deep verdure, Bright its aspect in the arbour, Beside myriad of companions, Once it danc'd in gay rotations.

Now its bloom is gone for ever, 'Neath the morning dew doth totter, Sun or moon, or breezes balmy Can't restore its verdant beauty.

Short its glory! soon it faded, One day's joy, and then it ended; Heaven declared its task was over, It then fell, and that for ever.

SAD DIED THE MAIDEN.

Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish she felt in expiring, The moonbeams were weeping the evening dew When the life of the Maiden was sinking.

Sad died the Maiden! beside the fast door, With her head resting low on the flagging, And the raindrops froze as they fell in store On a bosom that lately was bleeding.

She died on the sill of her father's dear home, From which he had forc'd her to wander, While her clear white hands were trying to roam In search of the latch and warm shelter.

She died! and her end will for ever reveal A father devoid of affection, While her green grave will always testify well To the strength of love and devotion.

THE WORLD AND THE SEA: A COMPARISON.

Like the world and its dread changes Is the ocean when it rages, Sometimes full and sometimes shallow, Sometimes green and sometimes yellow.

Salt the sea to all who drink it, Bitter is the world in spirit, Deep the sea to all who fathom, Deep the world and without bottom.

Unsupporting in his danger Is the sea unto the sailor, Less sustaining to the traveller Is the world through which he'll wander.

Full the sea of rocky places, Shoals and quicksands in its mazes, Full the world of sore temptation Charged with sorrow and destruction.

THE POOR MAN'S GRAVE.

BY THE REV. J. EMLYM JONES, M.A., LL.D.

'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound its verdant head, As if to receive the riches Which the dew of heaven doth spread; Many a foot doth inconsiderate Tread upon the humble pile, And doth crush the turf so ornate:-- That's the Poor Man's Grave the while.

The paid servants of the Union Followed mute his last remains, Piling the earth in fast confusion, Without sigh, or tear or pains; After anguish and privation, Here at last his troubles cease, Quiet refuge from oppression Is the Poor Man's Grave of peace.

The tombstone rude with two initials, Carved upon its smoother side, By a helpmate of his trials, Is now split and sunder'd wide; And when comes the Easter Sunday, There is neither friend nor kin To bestow green leaves or nosegay On the Poor Man's Grave within.

Nor doth the muse above his ashes Sing a dirge or mourn his end, And ere long time's wasting gashes Will the mound in furrows rend: Level with the earth all traces, Hide him in oblivion deep; Yet, for this, G.o.d's angel watches, O'er the Poor Man's Grave doth weep.

THE BARD'S LONG-TRIED AFFECTION FOR MORFYDD.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, ”golden mien!”

I have loved beyond belief, Many a day to love and grief For her sake have been a prey, Who has on the moon's array!

Pledged my truth from youth will now To the girl of glossy brow.

Oh, the light her features wear, Like the tortured torrent's glare!

Oft by love bewildered quite, Have my aching feet all night Stag-like tracked the forest shade For the foam-complexioned maid, Whom with pa.s.sion firm and gay I adored 'mid leaves of May!