THE HOME OF TALIESSIN.

203

THE HOME OF TALIESSIN.

The remains, consisting of little more than the foundation-stones, of the dwelling of the celebrated Welsh bard Taliessin, are still pointed out in a romantic gorge of the mountains near Llanrwyst, at no great distance from the Druid waves of Llynn Geirionedd. The view which is commanded from this spot is one of the most picturesque that can be imagined.

I STOOD on the spot where the famed TALIESSIN,

"The Prince of the Bards," had his dwelling of old; Sad thoughts on my memory, unbidden, were pressing, Of hopes wildly thwarted, and friendships grown cold!

Eve was yielding to twilight; yet still richly glowing,
The deep skies reflected the sun that had fled;
And below me, in musical murmurs, were flowing
The bright purple waters of Llynn Geirionedd.

I looked on the mighty hills gathered around it,—

Like Titans they stood, with their cloud-girded brows: And I thought of the minstrel whose genius had crowned it, As I gazed on their summits of shadows and snows.

I called on his name who had roused from her slumbers
Sweet Echo, how oft, in her deep-hidden lair;

I asked, where, and oh where, breathes he now his wild numbers?

And the mountains around answered, where, and oh where?

Years have fleeted since then;-but in sickness and sadness,

As I muse on the hopes that once promised so fair,

I ask, where, and oh where, are those visions of gladness? And my bosom's deep cell echoes, where, and oh where?

I WILL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE!

I WILL never love thee more,

Though I loved thee once so well;
Why, a prodigal, the store

Of my bosom's inmost cell,

Should I waste on one who ne'er
Won a truthful heart before;
Let who will thy favours share,
I will never love thee more!

I will never love thee more!
Wherefore to an idol bow,
Why a deity adore,

Heartless, hollow, cold as thou!
Fools the facile smiles may win,
That 't was mine to win of yore;
Worship misapplied, is sin;

I will never love thee more!

I will never love thee more,

Though I loved thee once so well :

Love's illusion now is o'er,

Take, then, take my last farewell!

A LAMENT FOR THE FAIRIES.

Should thy practised wiles again

Touch some truthful bosom's core,
Be the thought not stirred in vain,
Why I ne'er can love thee more!

205

A LAMENT FOR THE FAIRIES.

"O, ye have lost,

Mountains and moors, and meads, the radiant throng

That peopled your green solitudes and filled
The air, the fields, with beauty and with joy
Intense; with a rich mystery that awed
The mind, and flung around a thousand hearths
Divinest tales, that through the enchanted year
Found passionate listeners!"

CARRINGTON.

BEAUTIFUL fictions of our trusting youth,

(Visions we sigh that we have only dreamed!) When Fancy mocked the searching gaze of Truth, And the whole earth with bright enchantments teemed;

How have we loved to forest glades to flee;

By haunted streams (in thought) to take our stand; To watch you circling round the greenwood tree, Or trace your gambols on the moonlit strand!

Or, when in gorgeous panoply arrayed,
To grace some pageant of the Elfin Queen,
You pricked along, a gallant cavalcade,

Painting the verdant turf a livelier green!

Nor less we loved you, when, with pitying air,
And hand beneficent, around you showered

Gifts, might the world's and nature's spite repair,
And leave the homeliest maiden doubly dowered!

But the bright realm of Fairyland is gone;
Its Iris-tinted train hath passed away;
And Ariel, Mab, Titania, Oberon,

But grace the painter's scene, or poet's lay!

Even Puck, dear imp of mischief and of mirth,

"O'er hill and dale," at length hath ceased to range; Though long-eared Bottoms cumber still the earth, Whose "asses' nowls" he is not here to change!

The "Sword of Sharpness" is no longer keen;
The "Seven League Boots" we distance, now, at will;
Our sole surviving "Giant" is the Spleen ;
Which we, like David, with a stone can kill!*

No more, no more, upon the velvet mead,

On mushroom tables, are your banquets spread; No more, with flying feet, the dance you speed, 'Till dimming glow-worms hint 'tis time for bed!

No "fairy favours" now reward the fair;

Nor pearls nor diamonds from her lips are told;
No elfin matron makes her bliss her care,
With purse exhaustless, filled with fairy gold!

Your aid unseen, like angel-help, in vain,

The toil-worn hind may, in his strait, implore; The "shadowy flail," to ease his task, will rain Its stalwart blows in his behoof no more!

*Fling but a stone the Giant dies!-GREEN'S SPLEEN.

A LAMENT FOR THE FAIRIES.

207

Virtue no longer, in her sorest needs,

By fairy hands is rescued from her thrall;
And rampant Vice, how dark soe'er his deeds,
Your well-earned frowns may now no more appal!

The superstitions sweet that charmed our youth;
The large belief that bade us still dream on;
The dear illusions we mistook for truth;

The shaping power that gave them grace;-are flown!

With grosser forms this nether earth is rife ;

Even Fancy, now, must walk in Reason's guise;

And, in a world of real care and strife,

We grow, alas, far sadder if more wise!

There is no love in this material age,

For shapes impalpable, we cannot clutch; Knowledge hath spread so wide her ample page, That, for our bliss, we often learn too much!

The broad, fierce glare of her pervading light,
Is too intense for forms all fancy-born;
That owe mysterious beauty to the night,

But melt beneath the earliest rays of morn;

Yet these fair fictions of our youthful day,

We have but changed for guides less kind and bland; The glittering cheats that lead us now astray,

Are falser far than those of Fairyland!

Love, Friendship, Hope, Ambition, Glory, Pride,

All, ignis-fatuus-like, by turns, invite;

But when we follow, make a circuit wide,

Where fields are dank, and there withdraw their light.