nd--how can it please?

Nor blame I the damsel who flies,
When winter with threatening gale,
Loudly howls through the dark frozen skies,
And scatters the leaves o'er the vale:
In vain to the thicket I look
For the birds that enchanted the fair,
Or gaze on the wide-spreading oak;
No shelter, no music, is there.

But tempests, with hideous yell,
Chase the mist o'er the brow of the hill,
And grey torrents in every dell
Deform the soft murmuring rill:
And the hail, or the sleet, or the snow,
On winter's hard mandate attends:
To banishment, hence may they go--
Earth's tyrants, and destiny's friend!

But thou, glorious summer, return,
And visit the destitute plains;
Nor suffer thy poet to mourn,
Unheeded, in languishing strains:
O! come on the wings of the breeze,
And open the bloom of the thorn;
Display thy green robe o'er the trees,
And all nature with beauty adorn.

'Midst the bow'rs of the fresh blooming May,
Where the odours of violets float,
Each bird, on his quivering spray,
Will remember his sprightliest note:
Then the golden hair'd lass, with a song,
Will deign to revisit the grove;
Then, too, my harp shall be strung,
To welcome the season of love.

SONG TO ARVON.

BY THE REV. EVAN EVANS.

[The poem from which the following translation is extracted was composed
by the Rev. Evan Evans, a Clergyman of the Church of England, better
known by his bardic name of _Ieuan Glan Geirionydd_. He was born in 1795
at a freehold of his father, situate on the banks of the river
Geirionydd, in Carnarvonshire, and died in 1855. He composed a great
number of poems on different subjects, religious and patriotic, several
of which obtained prizes at Eisteddfodau, and one on the Resurrection
gained the chair or principal prize. This poet's compositions are
distinguished by great elegance, sweetness and pathos, and are much
esteemed in the Principality. Several of them have been set to music.]

Where doth the cuckoo early sing,
In woodland, dell and valley?
Where streamlets deep o'er rocky cliffs
Form cataracts so lofty?
On Snowdon's summits high,
In Arvon's pleasant county.

Flocks of thousand sheep are fed
Upon its mountains rugged,
Her pastures green and meadows fair
With cattle-herds are studded,
Deep are the lakes in Arvon's vales
Where fish in shoals are landed.

The shepherd's soft and mellow voice
Is heard upon her mountain,