No med'cine, mix'd with Esculapian art,

Can raise my spirits or assuage my pain;

For life's warm tide scarce issues from my heart, And slowly creeps along each circling vein.

Where'er by chance these weary eyeballs stray,
O'er yon fair mirror, to its office true,
My wasted form I shudder to survey,
And almost doubt if 'tis myself I view.

Dim are these eyes which once refulgent shone,
And faint the throbbings of this aching breast,
My faltering voice has lost its wonted tone,
And all my sorrows are by sighs express'd.

Few are the transports I can hope to share,
Whilst here a lingering victim I remain,
Anticipation heightens my despair,

And retrospection sharpens every pain.

The sports of youth, in which I once partook, Alas! no more th' approving smile can wake; On every scene I cast a heedless look,

Nor know but that may be the last I take.

Alike regardless of my friends and foes,

I wait the coming of that awful hour, Which to affliction brings a welcome close, And lifts the soul above misfortune's pow'r.

Then, when exempt from each terrestrial eye,
My trembling spirit wings the field of space,
Congenial souls may quit their native sky,
And, smiling, bear me to the throne of grace.

THE LAMENTATION OF LLWARCH-HEN THE BARD,

UPON THE DEATH OF GWLAITH, A WELSH CHIEF.

Give me some music ;

Now good Cesario; but that piece of song,
That old and antique song we heard last night;
Méthought it did relieve my passion much
More than light airs, and recollected terms
Of these most brisk and giddy-pated times.-

SHAKSPEARE.

Son of Beli Mawr, alas! the beams of thy glory are set; thy wide extended hall shall no more give shelter to heroes that quaff the sparkling mead who gladdened at thy presence. A silence that is only introduced by death, there spreads her contagion. To us the days of sorrow are at hand; thy cup-bearer freads not with alacrity.-The trembling strings of the harp' forget to vibrate: no longer

the note of victory, at the waving of the hand of thy bard, awakens the soul from her mansion with enchantment. The foot of time, which we hear not, has trodden upon thy shield red and moist with blood; already has it defiled with rust thy corslet; over thy war-worm helm the spider begins to scatter the thin web of Oblivion:-let this be thy solace; the journeying stranger shall not pass by the spot of thy rest without recollecting (as the hollow blast moves the herb that trembles at its comfortless breath) the force of thy arm, and the heart-shaking thunder of thy footsteps; the tale that fame has told of thee, shall lead him far from his path, and delay him at thy grave. The blue-ey'd damsel of his bed, at each returning day, shall view the sun with aversion, and cast a look over the hills for his return.-The Eagle of battle (to which thou wert like,) mangling her prey on thy grave, shall oft mark with her princely foot where thou liest, thou that wert her feeder, and shall flap her firm-set wing as she hears the neighbouring torrent rushing near thy corse.-Oft at eve does thy father say, my son, my son," and bids thy younger brother hearken as he tells of thee: thy brother's blood, like that of the lion's whelp, kindles for the contest, and longs to succeed thee.-As wandering to pay thee my tribute of grief, I distinguish the slow and tremulous accents of thy sire (for he yet lives,) the fall of Orwan by the prowess of thy spear, th' ensanguined waters of Tarwarth (from memory) oft seem to sparkle in his deep-sunk eye; my heart is weighed down at the painful pleasure of his sigh, and the deepened luxury of his mourning.-Thy white steed that of old snuff'd the breeze in the vale, I meet lonely straying near thy grave, cropping the long tall grass that quivers over thee.-Where is now the noise of his hoofs, his flowing mane, the joy of the field, and

66

the lightning of his eye at the downfal of enemies? Many are they whom fate has overtaken, whom memory shall never recal, whom no future bard shall awaken from silence, when the hirlas-horn shall open the hearts of posterity, and of the yet unborn; the evening and the morning sun shall gild their grave with its rays, and the winter's wind shall rudely salute their wasting limbs, as it passes in its course to shake the turrets of Aberffraw, and agitate the sullen waters of Thee Danger oft has met in the tented field, and fled dismayed. Snowden and our mother Mona have resounded the clash of thy deeds; the cottager on their heavy-hanging brows, at midnight, has started at the sound by the sinking blue taper-whilst his trembling consort lull'd her affrighted babes to their broken slumber. Still visible are the prints of thy steeds upon Deudraeth; the hours of life are past, and death only has been thy conqueror."