Save to us, our night-watch keeping,
Storm-winds to brave,

While the very sea-bird sleeping,
Rests in its cave!

Think of us when hearths are beaming,
Think of us when mead is streaming,
Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming
On the dark wave!

THE HIRLAS HORN.

FILL high the blue hirlas,' that shines like the wave"
When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the sea;
And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the brave,
The dragons of battle, the sons of the free!
To those from whose spears, in the shock of the fight,
A beam, like heaven's lightning,3 flash'd over the

field;

To those who came rushing as storms in their might, Who have shiver'd the helmet, and cloven the shield; The sound of whose strife was like ocean's afar, When lances were red from the harvest of war.

1 Hirlas, from hir, long, and glas, blue or azure.

"Fetch the horn, that we may drink together, whose gloss is like the waves of the sea; whose green handles show the skill of the artist, and are tipped with gold.". From the Hirlas of OWAIN CYFEILIOG.

"Heard ye in Maelor the noise of war, the horrid din of arms, their furious onset, loud as in the battle of Bangor, where fire flashed out of their spears.".

From the same.

Fill high the blue hirlas! O cup-bearer, fill

For the lords of the field, in their festival's hour, And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill,

That bursts o'er the rock in the pride of its power: Praise, praise to the mighty, fill high the smooth horn Of honour and mirth,' for the conflict is o'er; And round let the golden-tipp'd hirlas be borne,

To the lion-defenders of Gwynedd's fair shore, Who rush'd to the field where the glory was won, As eagles that soar from their cliffs to the sun.

Fill higher the hirlas! forgetting not those

Who shared its bright draught in the days which are fled!

Though cold on their mountain the valiant repose,

Their lot shall be lovely-renown to the dead! While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung,

While regal Eryri with snow shall be crown'd— So long by the bards shall their battles be sung, And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound. The free winds of Maelor2 shall swell with their

name,

And Owain's rich hirlas be fill'd to their fame.

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1" Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn-badge of honour and mirth.". From the same.

'Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint, according to the modern division.

THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN.

THE Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night;'
I weep, for the grave has extinguish'd its light;
The beam of the lamp from its summit is o'er,
The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more!

The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still,
The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill!
Be silent for ever, thou desolate scene,

Nor let e'en an echo recall what hath been!

The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare,
No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there!

"The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night, Without fire, without bed

I must weep awhile, and then be silent.

The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,
Without fire, without being lighted-

Be thou encircled with spreading silence!

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The Hall of Cynddylan is without love this night,

Since he that own'd it is no more

Ah Death! it will be but a short time he will leave me.

The Hall of Cynddylan it is not easy this night,

On the top of the rock of Hydwyth,

Without its lord, without company, without the circling feasts!"

See OWEN'S "Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen."

Oh! where are the warriors who circled its board? -The grass will soon wave where the mead-cup was pour'd!

The Hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night,
Since he is departed whose smiles made it bright!
I mourn; but the sigh of my soul shall be brief,
The pathway is short to the grave of my chief!

THE LAMENT OF LLYWARCH HEN.

Llywarch Hen, or Llywarch the Aged, a celebrated bard and chief of the times of Arthur, was prince of Argoed, supposed to be a part of the present Cumberland. Having sustained the loss of his patrimony, and witnessed the fall of most of his sons, in the unequal contest maintained by the North Britons against the growing power of the Saxons, Llywarch was compelled to fly from his country, and seek refuge in Wales. He there found an asylum for some time in the residence of Cynddylan, Prince of Powys, whose fall he pathetically laments in one of his poems. These are still extant, and his elegy on old age and the loss of his sons, is remarkable for its simplicity and beauty.—See Cambrian Biography, and OWEN's Heroic Elegies and other poems of Llywarch Hen.

THE bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom; But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing, The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb ! Oh! why should I live to hear music resounding, Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave?

Why smile the waste flowers, my sad footsteps sur

rounding?

-My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave!

Alone on the rocks of the stranger I linger,
My spirit all wrapt in the past as a dream!
Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer,'
Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight's glad beam;
Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping!
-Oh grave! why refuse to the aged thy bed,

When valour's high heart on thy bosom is sleeping, When youth's glorious flower is gone down to the dead!

Fair were ye, my sons! and all-kingly your bearing,
As on to the fields of your glory ye trode!
Each prince of my race the bright golden chain
wearing,

Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod!2
I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding,
Which rouses ye not! O, my lovely! my brave!

1

1 What I loved when I was a youth is hateful to me now.”

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2 "Four and twenty sons to me have been,

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Wearing the golden chain, and leading princes."

Elegies of Llywarch Hen.

The golden chain, as a badge of honour, worn by heroes, is frequently alluded to in the works of the ancient British bards.

VOL. IV.-21