Speak to me once again, my boy!
Wilt thou not hear my call?

Thou wert so full of life and joy,

I had not dreamt of this-that thou couldst fall!

Thy mother watches from the steep

For thy returning plume;

How shall I tell her that thy sleep

Is of the silent house, th' untimely tomb?

Thou didst not seem as one to die,

With all thy young renown!

-Ye saw his falchion's flash on high,

In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down!

Slow be

your march the field is won!

A dark and evil field!

Lift from the ground my noble son,

And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.

A FRAGMENT.

REST on your battle-fields, ye brave!
Let the pines murmur o'er your grave,
Your dirge be in the moaning wave—
We call you back no more!

Oh! there was mourning when ye fell,
In your own vales a deep-toned knell,
An agony, a wild farewell;-

But that hath long been o'er.

Rest with

your still and solemn fame; The hills keep record of your name,

And never can a touch of shame
Darken the buried brow.

But we on changeful days are cast,

When bright names from their place fall fast;
And ye that with your glory past,
We cannot mourn you now.

ENGLAND'S DEAD.

SON of the ocean isle!

Where sleep your mighty dead? Show me what high and stately pile Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed.

Wave

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

On Egypt's burning plains,

By the pyramid o'ersway'd,

With fearful power the noonday reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade.

But let the angry sun

From heaven look fiercely red,

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?

Wave

Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free the white sail spread!
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 VOL. V.

I

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.