peareth,
Which glittering like a radiant eye,
Through dawn's shy lashes peereth.

IEUAN GLAN GEIRIONYDD.

Evan Evans was born at Trefriw in 1795, his father being, or having been,
a shipwright. He, like Alun, was of Nonconformist parentage, and like
him, attracted attention by his successes at this or that Eisteddfod. He
went to S. Bees, and was ordained in 1826. He died January 21, 1855,
without having obtained preferment in his own country, until within a few
months of his death. His poetical works were published under the title
of "Geirionydd" (Isaac Clarke, Ruthin). As is too often the case with
books published in Wales, the title page bears no date.

The Strand of Rhuddlan.

I.

Low sinks the sun to rest
Over the lofty crest
Of dim Eryri;
Now over moor and dale
Night spreads her darkening veil,
While from the rustling trees
Softly the evening breeze
Dieth and fleeteth;
Fainter upon mine ear
Falls from the ocean near,
Its murmur weary;
Only within my breast,
Tossing in strange unrest,
Loud my heart beateth;
Beateth with rage and pain,
Beateth as once again
I muse and ponder
On that accursed hour,
When 'neath the Saxon power,
Welshmen who freedom sought,
Fell as they bravely fought,
On Rhuddlan yonder.

II.

See, through the gathering gloom
Dimly there seems to loom
The sheen of targes;
Hark, with a swift rebound,
Loudly the weapons sound
Upon them falling;
While from each rattling string
Death-dealing arrows ring,
Hissing and sighing;
Trembles the bloodstained plain,
Trembles and rings again,
Beneath the charges;
But through the deafening roar,
And moans of those who sore
Wounded are lying,
Rises Caradog's cry,
Rises to heaven on high,
His warriors calling--
"Welshmen! we ne'er will sell
Country we love so well!
Turn we the foe to flight,
Or let the moon this night
Find all our warriors bold
On Rhuddlan stark and cold,
For Cymru dying."

III.

Hearing his high behest,
Swells every Briton's breast,
Red as their lance in rest
Their faces glowing;
See, through the Saxon band,
Many a strong right hand
Once and again strikes home,
As in their might they come,
A broad lane mowing.
Britons from far and near
Loud raise their voice in prayer,
"In this our hour of need
To Thee, O God, we plead,
Send help from heaven!
Guard now our fatherland,
Strengthen each Briton's hand,
And now on Rhuddlan's strand
B