ans_, (_Ieuan Prydydd Hir_,) _by the Rev.
R. Williams_, (_Companion to Mr. Pennant in his Welsh tours_.)

On Snowdon's haughty brow I stood,
And view'd afar old Menai's flood;
Carnarvon Castle, eagle crowned
And all the beauteous prospect round;
But soon each gay idea fled,
For Snowdon's favourite bard was dead.
Poor bard accept one genuine tear,
And read thy true eulogium here;
Here in my heart, that rues the day,
Which stole Eryri's pride away.
But, lo, where seen by Fancy's eye
His visionary form glides by,
Pale, ghastly pale, that hollow cheek,
That frantic look does more than speak,
And tells a tale so full of woe,
My bosom swells, my eyes o'erflow.
On Snowdon's rocks, unhomed, unfed,
The tempest howling round his head;
Far from the haunts of men, alone,
Unheard, unpitied, and unknown,
To want and to despair a prey,
He pined and sighed his soul away.
Ungrateful countrymen, your pride,
Your glory, wanted bread, and died!
Whilst ignorance and vice are fed,
Shall wit and genius droop their head?
Shall fawning sycophants be paid,
For flattering fools? while thou art laid
On thy sick bed, the mountain heath,
Waiting the slow approach of death,
Beneath inhospitable skies,
Without a friend to close thine eyes.
Thus shall the chief of bards expire,
The master of the British lyre;
And shall thy hapless reliques rot,
Unwept, unhallowed, and forgot?
No! while one grateful muse remains,
And Pity dwells on Cambria's plains,
Thy mournful story shall be told,
And wept, till time itself grows old.

* * * * *

SELECTIONS
FROM THE
POETICAL WORKS & CORRESPONDENCE
OF THE
REV. EVAN EVANS, (IEUAN PRYDYDD HIR.)

A PARAPHRASE OF THE 137TH PSALM.

_Alluding to the captivity and treatment of the Welsh Bards by King
Edward I._

Sad near the willowy Thames we stood,
And curs'd the inhospitable flood;
Tears such as patients weep, 'gan flow,
The silent eloquence of woe,
When Cambria rushed into our mind,
And pity with just vengeance joined;
Vengeance to injured Cambria due,
And pity, O ye Bards, to you.
Silent, neglected, and unstrung,
Our harps upon the willows hung,
That, softly sweet in Cambrian measures,
Used to sooth our souls to pleasures,
When, lo, the insulting foe appears,
And bid us dry our useless tea