l dwelling is the dust,
Thy faith but folly, nothingness thy trust?

The Saxon feasted high that night,
In Wyddgrug's fortress proud,
Where countless torches lent their light,
And the song of mirth was loud;
And ruby juice of Southern vine
Sparkled in cups of golden shine.

Sudden there rose a fearful cry,
That drowned the voice of revelry,
And then a glare so fiercely bright,
It paled the torches' waning light,
And as its blaze more redly glowed,
Leaving no niche or grey stone darkling,
A deep and deadly current flowed
To mingle with the wine-cup's sparkling.

And, in that triumph's wild'ring hour
Of sated vengeance, grappled power,
Owain has lost the show of grief,
Once more his Cymry's warlike chief,
With dauntless mien he proudly stands,
The centre of his faithful bands,
Who gladly view the haughty brow,
Whence care and pain seem banished now,
And little reck what deeper lies,
All is not joy that wears its guise,
And, not, 'mid valour's trophies won,
Can he forget his slaughtered son.

Forget! no, time and absence have estranged
Those who in sundered paths must tread,
We may forget the distant or the changed,
But not--oh, not the dead:
All other things, that round us come and pass,
Some with'ring chance or change have proved,
But they still bear, in mem'ry's magic glass,
The semblance we have loved.

The morning breaks all calm and bright
On ruins stern and bloody plain,
Flinging her rich and growing light
O'er many a ghastly heap of slain;
And pure and fresh her lustre showers
On shattered helm and dinted mail,
As when her coming wakes the flowers
In some peace-hallow'd vale.

But where is she, whose voice had power
To rouse the war storm's awful might?
Glad eager footsteps seek her bower,
With tidings of the glorious fight;
On her loved harp her head is bowed,
One slender arm still round it clings,
And her dark tresses in a cloud,
Are clust'ring o'er the silent strings.
They clasp her hands, they call her name,
They bid her strike the harp once more,
And sing of victory, and fame,
The song she loved in days of yore.
Vain, vain, there comes no breath or sound
Those faded lips to sever,
The broken heart its rest hath found,
The harp is hushed for ever.

PART IV. THE HUMOROUS.

OLD MORGAN AND HIS WIFE.

BY THE REV. EVAN EVANS.

TRANSLATED BY T. W. HARRIS, ESQ., AND ANOTHER.

Hus.--Jane, tell me have you fed th