THE

MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH. AIR" Ymdaith Mionge."

Written for Mr GEORGE THOMSON's Welch Melodies.

ETHELRID, or OLFRID, King of Northumberland, having besieged Chester in 613, and BROCKMAEL, a British prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighbouring monastery of Bangor marched in procession, to pray for the success of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their monastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted, is called the Monk's March, and is supposed to have been played at their illomened procession.

WHEN the heathen trumpet's clang

Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,

Veiled nun and friar grey

March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye :

High their holy anthem sounds, Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds, Floating down the sylvan Dee,

O miserere Domine!

On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild

In their peaceful banner smiled;
Who could think such saintly band
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand?

Such was the divine decree,

O miserere Domine !

Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung,

Met the northern bow and bill,

Heard the war-cry wild and shrill :

Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand,

Woe to Ofrid's bloody brand,

Woe to Saxon cruelty,

O miserere Domine!

Weltering amid warriors slain,
Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane,

Slaughter'd down by heathen blade,
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid:
Word of parting rest unspoke,

Mass unsung, and bread unbroke;

For their souls for charity,

Sing O miserere Dominé!

Bangor o'er the murder wail,

Long the ruins told the tale,

Shatter'd towers and broken arch,

Long recall'd the woeful march:

*

On thy shrine no tapers burn,
Never shall thy priests return;
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,
O miserere Domine!

* WILLIAM OF MALMESBURY says, that in his time the extent of the ruins of the monastery bore ample witness to the desolation occasioned by the massacre ;-" tot semiruti parietes ecclesiarum, tot anfractus porticum, tanta turba ruderum quantum vix alibi cernas."

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

ENCHANTRESS, farewell, who so oft has decoy'd me,

At the close of the evening through woodlands to roam, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me

Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild speaking, The language alternate of rapture and woe:

Oh! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are breaking, The pang that I feel at our parting can know.

Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow, Or pale disappointment to darken my way,

What voice was like thine, that could sing of to-morrow,

Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day!