Unfelt by those whose task is done!—
There slumber England's dead.

The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
And far by Ganges' banks at night,
Is heard the tiger's roar.

But let the sound roll on!

It hath no tone of dread,

For those that from their toils are gone ;-
There slumber England's dead.

Loud rush the torrent-floods
The western wilds among,

And free, in green Columbia's woods,
The hunter's bow is strung.

But let the floods rush on! Let the arrow's flight be sped! Why should they reck whose task is done?— There slumber England's dead!

The mountain-storms rise high

In the snowy Pyrenees,

And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,

Like rose-leaves on the breeze.

But let the storm rage on!

Let the fresh wreaths be shed!

For the Roncesvalles' field is won,

There slumber England's dead.

On the frozen deep's repose

'Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern night-clouds lower.

But let the ice drift on!

Let the cold-blue desert spread!
Their course with mast and flag is done,—
Even there sleep England's dead.

The warlike of the isles,

The men of field and wave!

Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?

Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.

THE MEETING OF THE BARDS.

WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF WELSH BARDS,

HELD IN LONDON, MAY 22, 1822.

[The Gorseddau, or meetings of the British bards, were anciently ordained to be held in the open air, on some conspicuous situation, whilst the sun was above the horizon; or, according to the expression employed on these occasions, "in the face of the sun, and in the eye of light." The places set apart for this purpose were marked out by a circle of stones, called the circle of

federation. The presiding bard stood on a large stone
(Maen Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly) in the centre.
The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was the cere-
mony which announced the opening of a Gorsedd, or
meeting. The bards always stood in their uni-coloured
robes, with their heads and feet uncovered, within the
circle of federation.-See OWEN's Translation of the
Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen.]

WHERE met our bards of old?—the glorious throng,
They of the mountain and the battle song?
They met-oh! not in kingly hall or bower,
But where wild nature girt herself with power:
They met where streams flash'd bright from rocky

caves,

They met where woods made moan o'er warriors'

graves,

And where the torrent's rainbow spray was cast,
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast,
And, 'midst th' eternal cliffs, whose strength defied
The crested Roman, in his hour of pride;
And where the Carnedd,* on its lonely hill,
Bore silent record of the mighty still;

And where the Druid's ancient Cromlech † frown'd,
And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round.
There throng'd th' inspired of yore !-on plain or
height,

In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light,

And, baring unto heaven each noble head,
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread.

* Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn.

+ Cromlech, a Druidical monument or altar. The word means a stone of covenant.

Well might their lays be lofty !-soaring thought
From Nature's presence tenfold grandeur caught:
Well might bold freedom's soul pervade the strains,
Which startled eagles from their lone domains,
And, like a breeze in chainless triumph, went
Up through the blue resounding firmament.

Whence came the echoes to those numbers high?
'Twas from the battle fields of days gone by,
And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest
With their good swords, upon the mountain's breast;
And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow,
Sever'd by cloud and storm from all below;

*

And the turf-mounds, once girt by ruddy spears, And the rock-altars of departed years.

Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent's roar,
The winds a thousand wild responses bore ;
And the green land, whose every vale and glen
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men,
On all her hills awakening to rejoice,

Sent forth proud answers to her children's voice.
For us, not ours the festival to hold,

'Midst the stone-circles, hallow'd thus of old;
Not where great nature's majesty and might
First broke, all-glorious, on our infant sight;
Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and brave,
Not by the mountain-llyn, † the ocean wave,

* The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their followers from small artificial mounts of turf.-See Pennant. † Llyn, a lake or pool.

In these late days we meet-dark Mona's shore,
Eryri's cliffs resound with harps no more!

*

But, as the stream (though time or art may turn
The current, bursting from its cavern'd urn,
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,
From Alpine glens, or ancient forest bowers)
Alike, in rushing strength, or sunny sleep,
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep;
Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm and
free,

Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee!

To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts belong,
Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song!
Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less,

To the green memory of thy loveliness,

Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal'd from every height,

In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light!

THE VOICE OF SPRING.†

I

COME, I come!

ye have call'd me long,

I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves, opening as I pass.

*

Eryri, Snowdon.

† Originally published in the New Monthly Magazine.