II

But see, my love, where far below

Our lingering wheels are moving slow,
The whiles, up-gazing still,

Our menials eye our steepy way,

Marvelling perchance what whim can stay
Our steps when eve is sinking gray
On this gigantic hill.

So think the vulgar — Life and time

Ring all their joys in one dull chime
Of luxury and ease;

And O, beside these simple knaves,
How many better born are slaves
To such coarse joys as these,
Dead to the nobler sense that glows
When nature's grander scenes unclose!

But, Lucy, we will love them yet,
The mountain's misty coronet,

The greenwood and the wold;

And love the more that of their maze
Adventure high of other days
By ancient bards is told,

Bringing perchance, like my poor tale,

Some moral truth in fiction's veil:

Nor love them less that o'er the hill

The evening breeze as now comes chill;My love shall wrap her warm,

And, fearless of the slippery way

While safe she trips the heathy brae,

Shall hang on Arthur's arm.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

THE DYING BARD

AIR-Daffydz Gangwen

1806

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.

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.

In spring and in autumn thy glories of shade
Unhonoured shall flourish, unhonoured shall fade;
For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue
That viewed them with rapture, with rapture that sung.

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?

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

eye,