THE

DYING BARD.

AIR-Daffydz Gangwen.

The Welsh tradition bears, that a Bard, on his death-bed, demanded his harp, and played the air to which these verses are adapted; requesting, that it might be performed at his funeral.

I.

DINAS EMLINN, lament; for the moment is nigh,
When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die ;
No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall rave,
And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing wave.

II.

In spring and in autumn, thy glories of shade

Unhonoured shall flourish, unhonoured shall fade ;

For soon shall be lifeless the and the tongue,

eye

That view'd them with rapture, with rapture that

sung.

III.

Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride, And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's side; But where is the harp shall give life to their name? And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame?

IV.

;

And oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters so fair, Who heave the white bosom, and wave the dark hair What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their eye, When half of their charms with Cadwallon shall die?

V.

Then adieu, silver Teivi! I quit thy loved scene, To join the dim choir of the bards who have been; With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin the Old, And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold.

VI.

And adieu, Dinas Emlinn! still green be thy shades, Unconquered thy warriors, and matchless thy maids! And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell

Farewell, myloved Harp! my last treasure, farewell!

THE

MAID OF TORO.

O, Low Shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro,

And weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood,

All as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow,

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Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to the flood.

O, saints! from the mansions of bliss lowly bending ;
Sweet Virgin! who hearest the suppliant's cry ;

Now grant my petition, in anguish ascending,
My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die !"

All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle,
With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail,
Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dread rattle,

And the chace's wild clamour, came loading the gale.

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Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary;

Slowly approaching a warrior was seen;

Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so weary,
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his mien.

O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying! O, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low! Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave Henry is lying; And fast through the woodland approaches the foe.”Scarce could he faulter the tidings of sorrow,

And scarce could she hear them, benumbed with

despair:

And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro,

Forever he set to the Brave, and the Fair.