, murmuring,
Oh that I were like the rill!

Mountain ling, whose flower and fragrance
Sorest longing to me bring
To be ever on the mountains--
Oh that I were like the ling!

Mountain bird, whose joyous singing
On the wholesome breeze is heard,
Flitting hither, flitting thither--
Oh that I were like the bird!

Mountain child am I, and lonely
Far from home my song I sing;
But my heart is on the mountain
With the birds amid the ling.

Llewelyn's Grave.

The earth has sunk low on the grave of Llewelyn,
The rainpools lie o'er it unruffled and still;
The moon at her rising, the sun at his setting,
Blush red as they look o'er the slope of the hill.
O Cymru, my land, dost know of this ill?
And where is the patriot hiding his face?
The tears of the cloudwrack know well where he lieth,
The birds of the mountain can tell of the place.

By chance comes a Welshman and carelessly gazes,
Where fell the last hero who fought for his sake;
The breezes are moaning, the earth is complaining,
That the heart of old Cymru is feeble and weak.
'Tis aliens only their pilgrimage make
Where low lies our prince by the side of his glaive.
Thank God for the tears which are falling from heaven,
And the grass that grows green by the edge of the grave.

The Strand of Rhuddlan.

Frowned the dark heavens on the cause of the righteous,
Bondage has swept our free warriors away,
Vain were our prayers as our dreams had been baseless,
Sword of the foeman has carried the day.
Hid be thy strand 'neath the snows everlasting,
Frozen the waters that over thee break!
Come to defend, O thou God of all mercies,
Cause of the righteous and home of the weak.

Slain is our leader, and he who has slain him,
Prince of the foemen, will reign in his stead.
Fallen our harp with the fall of Caradoc,
Ay! let it fall as he fell and lay dead!
Yet can I look on the field of the slaughter,
God was not mocked, nor was freedom denied.
Better than that 'twas to die--there on Rhuddlan
Better to sink in the free flowing tide.

The Steed of Dapple Grey.

Caradoc calls his warriors,
And loud the bugles blow;
On rushed the brave Silurians,
And fell beneath the foe.
Back shrank his men retreating,
But on her steed of dapple grey
There rides the stately queen that way
Her spouse, Caradoc, meeting.

There's tumult in the dingle,
As sinks the sun o'erhead;
And