Let Cambria's voice be heard this day
In music's witching strain!
Wide let her ancient "soul of song,"
The echo of its notes prolong,
O'er valley, hill, and plain!
Minstrels! awake your harps aloud,
Bid Cambria's nobles hither crowd,
Her daughters fair, her chieftains proud,
Nor shall the call be vain!

Let gen'rous wine around be pour'd!
To many a chief in mem'ry stored,
Of Cambria's ancient day!
Sons of the mountain and the flood,
Who shed for her their dearest blood,
Nor own'd a conqueror's sway!
Be they extolled in music's strain,
Remembered, when the cup we drain,
And let their deeds revive again
In ev'ry minstrel's lay!

'Tis now the feast of soul and song!
As roll the festive hours along,
Here wealth and pow'r combine
With beauty's smiles, (a rich reward,)
To cheer the rugged mountain bard,
And honour Cambria's line!
Then, minstrels! wake your harps aloud,
Behold her nobles hither crowd,
Her daughters fair, her chieftains proud,
Like gems around they shine!

LLYWARCH HEN'S LAMENT ON CYNDDYLAN.

[Llywarch Hen, warrior and poet, was the contemporary of Aneurin and
Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the battle of
Cattraeth, where he witnessed the fall of three of his sons, and in the
endless wars of that period. He had twenty four sons, all of whom were
slain in battle in the bard's lifetime. He retired for refuge to the
Court of Cynddylan, then Prince of Powys, at Pengwern, now Shrewsbury.
The Saxons at length drove Cynddylan from Pengwern, and the bard retired
to Llanfor, near Bala, in Merionethshire, where he died at the long age
of 150 years. Hence the appellation _hen_, or the aged. Twelve poems of
this bard remain, but all are imbued with the melancholy of the poet's
life.]

Cynddylan's hearth is dark to-night,
Cynddylan's halls are lone;
War's fire has revell'd o'er their might,
And still'd their minstrel's tone;
And I am left to chant apart
One murmur of a broken heart!

Pengwern's blue spears are gleamless now,
Her revelry is still;
The sword has blanched his chieftain's brow,
Her fearless sons are chill:
And pagan feet to dust have trod
The blue-robed messengers of God. {92}

Cynddylan's shield, Cynddylan's pride,
The wandering snows are shading,
One palace pillar stands to guide
The woodbine's verdant braiding;
And I am left, from all apart,
The minstrel of the broken heart!

THE LAMENT OP LLYWARCH HE