Slight int'rest would the Cavern claim,
Save from traditionary fame;
Yet still such varying charms abound,
In mountains, streams, and groves around,
That oft th' admiring Stranger said
He felt his rambling toils o'erpaid.

Beneath an oak, which stood alone,
And threw its branches o'er a stone,
Forming a pleasant, cool retreat,
They chose a table and a seat.
A scrip well fill'd with simple fare,
Yields a repast they gladly share;
And as the rustic meal they take,
The Guide with musing aspect spake:--

"In early life I had a friend,
Whose roving steps I lov'd to 'tend.
(A Harper and a Bard was he,
Tho' humble was his destiny.)

" 'Twas said our years were most unmeet
To form the tie of friendship sweet,
For he was old, and I was young;--
(With diff'ring wires the harp is strung,
Yet do their varying sounds agree
To form a perfect harmony.)

"He taught me with successful care,
The wily speckled trout to snare,
Or with a nobler prize in view,
The salmon to his haunts pursue:
And oft my vent'rous steps he led
Upon the rocks in Towy's bed:
There, fearfully, yet safely raised,
Enraptur'd, all around I gazed,
Forgetful of the whirlpool nigh,
Heedless of salmon leaping by,
Wrapt in a trance of ecstacy,
'Till Cadwn's voice awakened me!

"And then upon the banks we'd lie
Watching the silv'ry clouds float by,
And I would listen to his lays,
That sweetly spoke of long past days.

"Again the story he'd renew,
(Tho' often told, yet ever new,)
Of Dinas Cave, and Ystradffin,
And all the wonders of the scene!
At length, at my request, he penn'd
Those Tales, I never wish'd to end;
Those Tales, so long, so dearly lov'd,
Old Cadwn's Legacy they prov'd!

"Years pass'd away, ere I could look,
With tearless eye, upon his book;
But Time a healing balm supplied,
And 'tis my pleasure now, and pride;
And oft, when strangers here I lead,
We rest awhile, those tales to read."

He gaz'd! assenting smiles to see,
Drew from his pocket, leisurely;
His little tome of treasur'd lore,
And turn'd the well known pages o'er;
Cough'd, hemm'd, and waited for a sign,
(Perchance his offer to decline;)
Not so! the Stranger seem'd to feel
His garrulous Companion's zeal,
And thankfully his wish exprest
To listen, and awhile to rest.

Pleas'd with the Stranger's ready choice,
The Guide began, with cheerful voice.

PART I. CALANGAUAF.1 1 Calan-gauaf, (pronounced,--ghi-av.) Calan , the first of every month. Gauaf , winter,--the first day of Winter. See Appendix, 12.

OH ! come and hear of former days,
Of rural scenes, and rustic ways,
Of sports and manners long gone by,
And feats of mountain revelry:
Legends of love, or simple tale
Of wassail hours in Towy's Vale.
Come then! and with reverted eye,
Forms , faded long, we may espy;

Smiles , seen no more, we shall review,
And pleasures past, we will renew:
O'erlooking years that intervene,
We'll meet the friends of Ystradffin:
These waited not for costly glare
Of midnight lamps, but lov'd to share
The feast, while yet the sun was shining,
(At early noon, our Sires were dining,)
They deem'd divine the obvious plan,
That day-light hours were meant for man!
Blithely went matron, youth, and maid,
And none a thought of fear betray'd;
Though wild and rugged was the way,
The Ceffyl trod that joyous day,
For Cymry's daughters boldly ride
Through Rhyd, or Cwm, or Rhossan wide,
More dignified, sedate, and slow,
The Sires in social converse go:
But in due order all are seen,
Within the walls of Ystradffin,

Where all alike a welcome find,
Courteous, sincere, and frankly kind.

Dear to the young heart, light and gay,
Was Calangauaf's1 festal day!
Enshrin'd by many a mirthful game,
Which long has lost its wonted fame;
But once was welcom'd with a smile,
(Which smooth'd the brow of care awhile!)
Cheerful as thoughts of youthful glee,
And warm as mountain hospitality.
1 See Appendix, 12.

The social Hall was amply grac'd,
And ev'ry guest in order plac'd;
And well these mountain realms afford
Rich gifts to load the festive board;
Nor were they slighted, nor unpriz'd
The art, each tempting change devis'd;

And brimming cups were duly drain'd,
From wassail bowls the youths refrain'd;
For softest looks from sparkling eyes,
Were giv'n, as maids and matrons rise;
Eager their pleasures to enhance,
With music, rural sports, and dance.

Soon, by light-hearted maids prepar'd,
Uncheck'd by pride, these sports are shar'd;
The dipping Pail,1 the Quintain rude,
The mystic Bowls, by fate embued;
With wond'rous prescient skill to shew
The coming hours of joy or woe;
And matron heads in consultation,
The signs explain, with exultation.
1 See Appendix, 12.

In one, symbolic Ashes lie,
Bespeaking love's dissever'd tie!

A mourning bride, or widow'd mate,
Sad prospects on this bowl await.

A common lot the next discloses,
Life has thorns as well as roses!
And whether Hymen's cup we sip,
Or turn aside the scornful lip,
'Tis but a choice of changing care,
Which sole or social, all must bear.

Essyllt, a gentle, timid maid,
By Blethyn urg'd, her lot essay'd,
But turn'd on him her soft blue eye,
When Ashes told her destiny.

It daunted not that dark hair'd girl,
Approaching with fantastic whirl;
And jeering Meyric, who would fain,
His sprightly Gwervil's hand detain;

That hand soon found the "common lot!"
The merry maiden heeded not!
It could not damp a heart so light,
It could not cloud an eye so bright.

Still was the precious prize ungain'd,
Deep in one untried bowl remain'd
The pure bright fluid, taught to tell
Of joys which with the future dwell;
Of health, and wealth, and peace, and love,
Such as but rarely mortals prove;
And many a maiden sought in vain,
With flut'ring heart that prize to gain.

Gwriad, in cold abstracted mood,
With curved lip, apart had stood,
As if their harmless mirth annoy'd,
(Not thus were heart-sick thoughts employ'd,)
For oft he turn'd an anxious eye,
As the light forms were flitting by;

But when he views Angharad near,
He starts, to whisper in her ear,--
"Oh! come, sweet Rose of Ystradffin,
Bright star of Cymru, grace the scene;
Fortune still smiles on beauty rare,
And thou art 'Fairest of the Fair!' "

The voice of flatt'ry few withstand,
She blushes, smiles, and gives her hand,
The silken kerchief binds her eyes,
Ere yet the doubtful task she tries;
And old and young delighted trace,
Each movement fraught with native grace,
While round with fairy foot she trips,
And in a bowl her soft hand dips;
Which thence returning, seems to view,
Like clust'ring rosebuds gem'd with dew.

'Tis won! 'tis done! the game is ended,
Stifled regrets with joys are blended;

Yet, all , with gratulating mien,
Hail the sweet Maid of Ystradffin;
And Gwriad hastily unties
The band which hides Angharad's eyes,
While loud they shout, "the omen's true
Its promises all rest with you!"

Gwriad, with lighter heart drew near,
And whisper'd softly in her ear,
"Oh! dear Angharad, dare I tell
The hopes which in my bosom swell;
Dare I e'en hint, how blest were he,
The sharer of thy destiny!
Ah, no! ah, no! that look so cold,
Compels fond thoughts to rest untold."

Yet did he deem her down-cast eye,
And blushing cheek, a sweet reply;
He mark'd not then the absent look,
And thoughtful turn her features took;

Or he might well have seen and known
No thought responded to his own!

But, hark! the merry harpstrings sounding,
Recall stray'd thoughts to those surrounding;
She joins the jocund pairs advancing,
And speeds the flying hours with dancing.

With native grace, not void of skill,
Briskly they dance, with right good will;
But lightest foot at length must tire,
And beating hearts some rest require;
So in soft converse, some recline,
Some deeply pledge in gen'rous wine;
Whilst seeking pleasures yet untried,
Some gather near the Harper's side,1
And with fair words of welcome praise,
Claim the sweet sound of Cymru's lays.
1 See Appendix, 13.

Light o'er the chords his fingers flew,
And rich melodious tones he drew;
Solemn and soft the cadence fell,
Whilst feeling hearts responsive swell,
And gentle Essyllt breath'd a sigh!
A tear was in her mild blue eye,
She wish'd these symphonies should prove
The prelude to some lay of love;
But ere she ventur'd the request,
Gwriad, the Harper, thus addres't,--

"Now for some bold, heroic story!
Come! let us hear of Cymru's glory!
Ah! where's the land that dares to boast
A nobler, braver, warrior host;
Come! strike a glorious martial strain,
And wake the slumb'ring fire again!"

"Not mine the pow'r," the Harper cried,
"Though Cymru's glory is my pride;

Slight hints alone can come from me,
Of all our warlike history."

Yet to the task, well pleas'd, he went,
As o'er his triple harp he leant,
With eyes half clos'd, and bended head,
At times he sung, at times he said.

"Dark was the hour when Rodri died,
The great, the good, his Country's pride;
But quick the tide of battle turn'd,
And even female valour burn'd;
Nor did the fire of hatred cease,
Till 'dial Rodri'1 sanction'd peace.
1 Dial, pronounced,--De-al. See Appendix, 14.

"Nor shall the voice of Fame alone
Blazon the warriors of the throne;
Shall He, who bade contentions cease,
And wisely rul'd the realm in peace;
The Father, Judge, and King, in one,
Rever'd in life, bewail'd when gone!
Shall cold oblivion be His lot?
Then, Hoel Dda 1 may be forgot!
1 Howel Dda, Howel the Good.

"Bolder the tale of Carno's fight,
When Tewdwr2 fought for Cynan's right;
Usurping Trahern scorn'd to yield,
Rhywallon's offspring shar'd the field!
And long and deadly was the strife,
The prize, a Crown!--the forfeit, Life!"
2 See Appendix, 15.

The Harper turn'd his head to spy
If gentle Essyllt still was nigh,

Her wish, untold, was shrewdly known,
And taught his harp a softer tone:
"If maidens love to weep and wail,
Young Cynan1 may afford the tale,
Though still a war note we prolong!"
He said, and then renew'd his song.
1 Pronounced,--Kunnan.

"Not Rhys ap Tewdwr's well earn'd fame
Could sheath the sword! th' assassins came!
See! see Glyn-Rhodneu drench'd with blood!
The blood of Tewdwr, brave and good;
And hapless Cynan, scarce with life,
Escapes from out the deadly strife!
Escapes to weep, to watch, to fly,
Escapes--a humbler death to die!
O'er Towy's smiling Vale pursu'd,
Cremlyn's opposing lake he view'd;
One only hope of life remain'd,
(Could the far distant side be gain'd?)

'Oh! heav'n, and, Oh! my Sire,' he cries,
Then plunges! never more to rise!

"His following foe-men tell the tale,
And pitying Maids his fate bewail;
Wreaths of the fairest flowers they take,
And strew them o'er dark Cremlyn's Lake,
That dismal lake, by his fair fame,
Enshrin'd--now owns 'Pwll Cynan's' name.

"Or may a Bard to fame unknown
Echo the requiem of a Throne?
Llewelyn! still we weep for thee!
And all thy struggles to be free;
In vain the wily Farrier's aid,
Whose coward tongue the guile betray'd;
In vain the solitary glen,
It could not hide from treach'rous men;
It could not ward the unknown blow,
It could not staunch the life-blood's flow;

"He fell! but deathless fame shall grace
The bravest of a warrior race.

"Yet, once again, a note of praise
For those who shone in later days,--
He, boasting more than mortal pow'r,
Owen ap Griffith,1 nam'd Glendow'r,
And He,2 who oft that pow'r had tried,
Nor less had foreign foes defied,
On Agincourt's proud tented field,
Untaught by myriad spears to yield;
While with true mountain courage bold,
Thus, of the countless host he told,
'Enough, there are, in this affray,
To die,--to yield,--to run away!'
Nor is our martial ardour fled,
The spirit dies not with the dead;

It liv'd, it lives, though now it slumbers,
And yet shall wake its chosen numbers!"
1 Owen Glendower. See Appendix, 18. 2 Sir David Gam. See Appendix, 19.

Fast poor Gwervil's patience wanes,
Little heeds she Poets' strains,
So beck'ning Meyric with a smile,
She bids the Harper "rest awhile,
And deeply pledge friends near and far
In Cwrw bright as Evening's Star;
But not again the dance delay,
Come let us foot it while we may."

Too soon the parting moment came,
With warning from a thoughtful Dame,
To close the joyous hours of meeting
With friendly care, and farewell greeting.

In social pairs, close side by side,
Along the narrow roadsI they ride,

Where bending branches form a shade,
The brightest moon-beams scarce invade;
Or if a glim'ring light appears,
It but increases wayward fears,
For superstitious fancy sees
That warning light I in stones and trees,
Prophetic shadowing woes to come,
Bright gleam forerunner of the tomb!
I The Roads, even within 30 years, were such as here described; they are now excellent. I See Appendix, 20.

Meyric and Gwervil, nothing fearing,
Gallop'd apace, till out of hearing,
When, if he woed a willing Maid,
He wanted not the moon-beams' aid;
And, truth to tell, no more car'd she,
For uncouth shape of Birchen tree,
Whose old white trunk, and outstretch'd arms,
So oft had giv'n her breast alarms,

For love's sweet talk of bridal day,
Smooth'd the rough path, and cheer'd the way.

But every pair hath Essyllt pass'd,
She is not wont to be the last;
Checking her steed, she moves as slow
As mourners in a fun'ral go;
And oft she turns her anxious eyes,
(Tho' round her form the bleak wind sighs,)
And lingers long, though one and all,
Still as they pass, on Essyllt call;--
But not the voice she longs to hear,--
For him she waits with trembling fear.

Whilst thus to ev'ry sound she listen'd,
A moving light before her glisten'd,
Along Penlan in lucid flow,
She mark'd the meteor form of woe!1
1 See Appendix, 20.

By Gwenlas' stream it pass'd with speed,
But paus'd in Gwyrddol's1 haunted mead;
Then on in wild meanders stray'd,
Till lost beneath the Yew Tree's shade,
Where Cilcwm's white Church Tow'r was peeping,
And Village Sires were silent sleeping.
1 Pronounced,--Goorthol.

She saw no more, for sore dismay'd,
No longer paus'd the timid Maid;
Lover and danger, all forgot,
She gallop'd from the fearful spot,
Nor slacken'd till the jocund train
With joy she heard, and join'd again.

The Ceffyl's2 foot is briskly patting,
And female tongues as nimbly chatting,
Of Eva's bidding,3 soon to be,
And what gay 'Stafell4 they shall see;
2 The Horse. 3 See Appendix, 21. 4 Ibid, 22.

What crowds had Bronwen's bridal grac'd,
Of how the unseenI fun'ral pac'd,
With other matters, strange and true,
Till Cilcwm's Village is in view,
When turning many a devious road,
Each seeks in peace a lov'd abode.
1 See Appendix, 23.

But now, unlike his wonted mood,
Our Guide in pensive silence stood,
With head declin'd, and half clos'd eye,
Seem'd meditating inwardly:
There was a sadness in his look,
Which more than common feelings spoke,

And seem'd the soften'd grief to shew,
Which tells the tale of long past woe,
The early, or unlook'd for end
Of some too dearly valued friend,
Or mus'd upon the blighting check
To flat'ring hopes, in fortune's wreck;--
Whate'er it was, his looks alone
The deep'ning gloom of thought made known.

But lives there one who never feels
What sympathy a glance reveals?
Nor owns that cordial can impart
A balmy influence to the heart?
Again he takes his Book and reads,
And thus the wassail tale proceeds.

PART II. LLYN-YR-HEN-BONT.

     1 WHO has not felt that strange relief
    Of mourning hearts, that "joy of grief,"
    Which mem'ry gives past hours exploring,
    And all their treasur'd sweets restoring;
    Yet, Oh! restoring but to shew
    We ne'er again those smiles can know!
Those joys we never, never more may share,
Remembrance loves to trace, and holds them doubly dear!
1 These introductory lines have already appeared in print, under the Title of Extract from an unfinished Poem, being always intended for the place they now occupy.

    E'en when we sorrow o'er the grave
    Of all we lov'd, yet could not save!
    When Time has soften'd deepest woe,
    And tears in gentler currents flow;
    How sweet is then that "joy of grief,"
    Which says our sorrows must be brief;
'Tis but a few short hours, to Virtue's trial giv'n,
Ere we may hope to meet the dearly lov'd in heav'n!

    But let no chilling marble tomb
    Strike the sad heart with deeper gloom!
    The green grass sod, with osiers bound,
    Shrubs, herbs, and flow'rets blushing round,
    The rose, mynth , lavender, and all,
    Whose perfum'd breath survives their fall,
For weeping Love is sooth'd, to mark their sweets arise,
Emblems of mental worth, "translated to the skies."

Why talk of tears and fun'ral gloom,
When love and hope are in their bloom?
Fitter the bridal wreath preparing,
With youthful hearts the transport sharing,
From chilling care the bright hour snatching,
And rainbow tints of pleasure catching;
With rays of joy, their path to strew
As fair, alas! as fleeting too!
Seek not untimely thoughts of sorrow
Too like to pierce the heart tomorrow!

Recall we, hours of merriment
In mountain Mansion cheerly spent;
Recall we, steps through moonlight glade,
And smiles and vows of mountain maid;
What time approaching winter's sway,
Curtail'd the labours of the day,
And gave to chase the livelong night,
The social moments of delight.

Did Gwervil in those hours of cheer
Disdain a gladsome tale to hear?
That ere that crescent orb should wane,
For her should meet the bridal train;
The Swains in holiday array
With true-love knots of ribbon gay;
Should with the joyous Bridegroom ride
To force away the willing Bride,1
While she, with all the female train,
Fearlessly gallops o'er the plain,
Mounted behind a valiant friend,
Intent the Maiden to defend.
1 See Appendix, 24.

Now for the race! the swift, the strong,
To press the flying steed along,
To snatch the lovely prize away,
Vent'rous achievement! rash essay!
On his own courser plac'd,--'tis done;
Off! off to Church! the Bride is won!

Record we thus in simple rhymes,
The rude remains of ruder times.
Yet may we talk of fun'ral gloom,
Life's but a passage to the tomb,
Where for a while we all shall rest,
Nor griefs intrude, nor foes molest,
Where all shall sleep--whence all shall rise
To live the life that never dies.

Recall we Essyllt and her fears,
Too soon exchang'd for sorrow's tears,--
Though quickly join'd the jocund train,
Her Love she never join'd again!

Blethyn, by Gwriad still delay'd,
(Though fretting for his much lov'd Maid,)
In silence hears the sad complaint
Of passions which defy restraint.

"Oh! be my friend, dear Blethyn, try,
Persuasion on your lips, may lie,

I cannot bend as others do,
I cannot learn the way to woo;
Yet years, long years, I've fondly lov'd,
And still her scorn or hatred prov'd;
Tell her, no cunning low born Hind
Now aims a mutual faith to bind,
No wand'ring Stripling, seeking wealth,
And living still by fraud or stealth.
My fertile lands, spread far and wide,
My Ancestry, their Country's pride;
And though I equal not their fame,
There is no blot upon my name.

" 'Tis said! but when did gossip folly fail
To spread each day her idle tale?
'Tis whisper'd, that Freebooter's seen,
Sculking oft-times round Ystradffin!
Nay more, the braggart dar'd to say,
He soon should bear the prize away!

Thinks he to reign without controul,
Because the milk-white OxI he stole?
Ere long I bid his vauntings quail,
And teach his tongue a humbler tale.
But speak, my friend! Blethyn, you know
What pain your silence must bestow."

Yet Blethyn's friendship could not move
The rankling barb of slighted love;
Nor could his words a hope awake,
Though still in soothing strain he spake,--
He told of Woman's wonted wiles
In well feign'd anger, hiding smiles,
And oft (a lover's zeal to prove,)
Coldest to seem, where best they love.
I See Appendix, 25.

No balm herein could Gwriad find,
It met no echo in his mind,--

He wav'd his hand,--"go, Blethyn, go!
Too well my hopelessness you know;
All friendship bids, in vain you've tried
To soothe the wounds of love and pride.
Farewell, farewell, kind hearted friend,
A better fate your love attend."

And Blethyn gladly turn'd to go,
Though griev'd at Gwriad's look of woe;
Yet more distress'd, that thus delay'd,
His promise fail'd his gentle Maid:
Oft had his courser pranc'd around,
And shook his reins, and paw'd the ground;
And scarce had Blethyn said "good night,"
Ere man and horse were out of sight!

Through Rhyd-y-Moch, up steep Penlan,
A wild unsparing race he ran;
By Abergwenlas swiftly flew,
Then near to haunted Gwyrddol drew;

Here loud he shouted Essyllt's name,
Echo alone responsive came,

The Moon, which erst had brightly shone,
Behind a thick'ning cloud was gone,
The wind veer'd round, the rain fell fast,
The forest groan'd beneath the blast,
While Towy through its rocks rebounds,
And dashing, foaming, hoarsely sounds,
Heard awful through the gloom of night,
Though still far distant from the sight.

Heedless alike, of chill or gloom,
Was Blethyn, when he reach'd Cilcwm,
For all was hush'd! the party gone!
But the sweet hope which led him on,
(Faint as it was,) had still the pow'r
To lure him through the weary hour.

And soon the pelting storm was o'er,
The Moon shone brightly as before;
And when he reach'd the darksome road,
Where Towy o'er its wild rocks flow'd,
By Erryd Grove, (whose ancient pride
Flung o'er the path their branches wide,)
The flick'ring moonbeams seem'd to play,
With passing shadows in the way,
Whilst oft th' irruptive waters rush
Through many a breach of bank and bush,
Behov'd it here to move with care,
E'en to the heart which knew not fear.

As far from fear, as now from joy,
He reach'd the end of deep Cwm Coy;
When sudden, like the light'ning's gleam,
A Form! but what! 'twere vain to dream,
(Perchance a Ceffyl, or stray sheep,)
Rush'd headlong, bounding from the steep,
And pass'd him with a single leap!

His startled courser snorting, rear'd,
Nor more his master's voice he fear'd,
But panting, trembling with dismay,
No pow'r his backward course can stay;
And scarce had Blethyn time for fear,
Towy's wild wave was in the rear;
One step! one awful step! no more!
'Tis pass'd! the water rushes o'er
Both man and beast, and still rolls on
As if no fearful work was done.

He rose! again! again he rose!
But conquering still the torrent flows,
And hurried helpless by its force,
Poor Blethyn floats a lifeless corpse!

And Essyllt on that fearful night,
Strangely disturb'd, awoke with fright,
And anxious wish'd for coming day,
Then doz'd--to terrors still a prey;

For when short slumbers close her eyes,
Visions like these before her rise.

She climb'd the rocks with vent'rous feet,
Where Towy and Doitheia meet,
There seated where the waves rush'd round,
She watch'd the sportive salmon bound;
A noble one, like silver shone,
As light it vaulted o'er the stone;
She look'd with pleasure and amaze,
But there were other eyes to gaze;
Behind a rock a MinerI lay,
Intent to seize the scaly prey;
His uprais'd dart well pois'd he keeps
To strike the salmon as it leaps,
With skill unerring, soon he threw,
And pierc'd the beauteous creature through;

She saw its struggles, in her sleep,
And woke to tremble and to weep!
I The Miners, during their intervals of rest, frequently employ themselves in this manner.

Again, on Towy's banks she stood,
And sought to cross its rapid flood,
But bridge, nor boat, nor Rhyd was near,
She shouted--there was none to hear!
At length, emerging from the trees,
A light rib'd coracle she sees,--
In jump'd a Form, agile and tall,
And now again she tries to call,
But by some unknown pow'r oppos'd,
No sound escapes;--her lips are clos'd!
It comes! It comes! it passes near,
A graceful Youth sits smiling there;
Nearer and nearer to the side
The coracle does smoothly glide.

But here a sudden squall arose,
And off the tiny vessel goes

Along the stream with furious pace,
Scarce can her eye its wild course trace;
By Carreg Towy now it veers,
Oh! place of danger,--full of fears,
She wrings her hands!--still rushing on,
'Tis dash'd against that rugged stone,
And shatter'd? No, it does rebound,
And near that EddyI whirls around,--
"Oh! save him, Heav'n,"--she hides her eyes
Again light o'er the stream it flies,
But it is empty! --with a scream
She wakes--"and is it then a dream?"
1 Pwll Aber-Doitheia Avon, a pool at the junction of the Doitheia and the Avon (Towy). Avon is the Welsh word for a River.

The morrow came, and with it, brought
Its heavy tidings, all unsought,--
Safe had return'd that matchless horse,
Never again rose Blethyn's corpse!

Still, still, th' unwearied search they press,
But Llyn-yr-hen-bont's fathomless;
No flowers upon his tomb shall wave,
That deep dark pool is Blethyn's grave!

Here paus'd our Guide, and clos'd his book,
And when the Stranger turn'd to look,
Wherefore that voice no more he hears,
He sees those cheeks bedew'd with tears,
And anxiously he sought to know
The source of such apparent woe;
"Thy own sad tale it scarce can be,
For past is many a century;
Yet may awaken'd feelings tell
A fate like this some friend befell! "

"Too truly guess'd," thus spake the Guide,
"Just so, my Friend, old Cadwn died,
Too brave his heart to dream of fear,
The ford was deep, the night was drear,
And he alone!--nor would he stay,
Though often urg'd, till dawning day;
For him, alas! that day ne'er rose,
O'er him the waves for ever close!
And though long past, yea, many a year,
Still oft at night his screams I hear,
In dreams, his struggling form I see,
Vainly imploring help from me;
I grasp his hand, and reach the shore,
Then wake,--poor Cadwn to deplore!"

The Stranger sigh'd, then mus'd awhile,
At length he spoke with courteous smile,--
"Some simple mountain sports you've shewn,
And tales of ancient times made known,

Some fearful fetters of the mind,
Enchain'd by Superstition blind;
But sounds unknown have met mine ear,
Of Bidding, 'Stafell, Omens drear;
Their import, pray, explain, and tell
What more these Wassaillers befell;
Still have we time to hear the rest,
Ere yon bright orb illumes the west."

"Briefly, dear Sir, my artless strain
Shall all these puzzling terms explain;
As relics of the olden days,
Which still, perchance, may merit praise;
By these our early Sires essay'd
To strengthen ties which wisdom made,
While yet Society was new,
Together distant friends they drew,
Taught them each others joys to share,
Each others burthens taught to bear,

"Whence mountain hospitality
Prov'd friendship's firm reality.

"Say, does a Youthful Couple share
The mutual wish, the mutual care?
Soon the Gwahoddwr blithely goes
The purpos'd union to disclose!
Or tells the place, and names the day,
The Bride her 'Stafell will display!
From mountain cot, and mansion fair,
He calls the Bidding Feast to share;
Nor does the proudest fear to show
A kindly int'rest with the low,--
While every hand some off'ring bears
To meet the coming household cares.

"Or does the mountain mansion mourn,
A Father pass'd the fated bourn?
No need to call a mourning train,
Since ev'ry Neighbour meets again,

"Eager a last respect to shew,
Anxious to share the mourners' woe!
No chill reserve the balm delays,
Social in all their words and ways;
And marvel not, Sir, though you hear
Some tales of Superstition's gear,
Not to my native land confin'd,
But found in each ill cultur'd mind;
Nor can the wisest oft efface
Those lines which nurs'ry fables trace.

"But since you ask, I haste to tell
What more our Wassaillers befell."

PART III. CWRT-Y-CADNO.

"THE tide of time hath long ago
Engulph'd alike both joy and woe,
And hearts which swell'd, and eyes which wept
In undisturb'd repose have slept,
Yet Essyllt's grief, and Gwyrvil's smile
Shall live, by mem'ry's aid, awhile;
Wak'd by the Muse's powerful voice,
Again they weep, again rejoice,
And all, of sympathizing vein,
With them shall weep or smile again.

"And we will meet that gentle Fair,
Deem'd loveliest of the lovely there,

"Meet her by meadow stream and hill,
And all her destiny fulfil."

So said our Guide, and thus proceeds,
The wassail tale, from which he reads,--

Those days of smiles and tears are gone,
And Calangauaf's sports are flown;
Each sloping bank, each tangled Cwm,
Are prodigal of fragrant bloom,
And ev'ry copse, and ev'ry grove,
Lend to the gale a note of love;
The bleating flocks in snowy pride,
Browse on the mountain's purple side,
With native freedom blest again,
They frolic o'er their wide domain,
Crop the wild thyme, or short sweet grass,
And chase the sunbeams as they pass.

Again the cattle fill the fields,
Where ev'ry herb fresh sweetness yields,
Close pent up through chill Winter's night,
They breathe the air with new delight,
They frisk about in uncouth dance,
Or rest in ruminating trance,
Or fetlock deep in Towy stand,
By cool refreshing breezes fann'd,
Mindless of her who wanders there,
Though like the season, passing fair.

In pensive thought, her footsteps stray
To Bwlch-y-Ffin,1 her oft-trod way,
List'ning, while many a mingled sound
Spreads a sweet charm on all around,
The crystal streamlet gurgling by,
The hive's brisk inmates humming nigh;
1 A Farm House, about a mile above Ystradffin. Bwlch, means narrow pass in the mountains.

The caw of rooks in distant trees,
Borne softly on the swelling breeze;
The minor tribes of melody
Carolling hymns of liberty;
The cottage prattlers at their play
As blithesome and as free as they;
While from the cot the busy din
Of whizzling wheel is heard within;
Near to their garden's shelter'd side
A new fall'n tree a seat supplied,
And here Angharad waits to see
The clust'ring young-ones' sportive glee,
Whilst many a mirthful rosy face
Its joy attests with artless grace;
One quickly to the cottage goes,
The welcome visit to disclose.

Shanni , a little rosy Maid,
Anxious to speak, yet half afraid,

Encourag'd by a smile, began,
And thus her artless prattle ran:--

"To-morrow's Llanymddyfri Fair,
And Twm Sion Catti will be there;
I saw him when the Moon shone bright,
And I was watching her last night;
I started, for I did not hear
His footsteps, till he came quite near;
He laugh'd, and gently tapp'd my cheek,
And said with Father he would speak;
Close to his heels another came,
His name's,--Oh! I forget his name;
But sure, I heard my Mother tell,
At Gelly-Fechan he did dwell,
His fishing net was round him flung,
His coracle behind him hung;
His pouch and dart were in his hand,
Sulky he stood, as loth to stand,

"Mutt'ring between his teeth the while,
But Twm Sion Catti, with a smile,
Open'd the pouch which held their prey,
And took ('twas all they had) away
A beauteous salmon, large and bright,
Like shining clouds on some fine night;
Then straight into the house he goes,
And on the board his burthen throws,--
And with a cheering smile drew near,
To whisper in my Father's ear:
I know not what,--but in my mind,
I guess 'twas something very kind.
Oh! where another shall we see
So handsome and so kind as he;
And I think good,--but Mother says
He has some strangely naughty ways;
But are you angry, Lady dear,
That not one kindly word I hear?
You look so pale, and sigh so deep,
Dear Lady, what can make you weep?"

But still Angharad did not speak,
Though brightly blush'd her changeful cheek,
And much she strove to hush to rest
The busy thoughts which now opprest;
Yet faint the smile which gave relief
To little Shanni's transient grief,
And pleas'd she sees the young ones go
Back to the cot, demure and slow,
Half ling'ring, yet obedient still,
As wont to own another's will;
Their sister Megan's gentle call
Was heard and answer'd by them all.

Then soon Angharad silence broke,
And gravely thus to Megan spoke,--
"Say, is your Father well again,
Or weak and languid, or in pain?.
Yet better, sure, or I had seen
Some one of you at Ystradffin;

"Come, rest with me, and let me know
The little story of your woe."

A tear was in her dark-brown eye,
As Megan softly made reply,--
"Oh! worse and worse, dear Lady, still,
And pain and care his bosom fill;
And sad, at times, his word and look,
But then he takes his Holy Book,
And finds a precious promise there,
That heav'n will for the Widow care,
And like a shield, will cover o'er
The fatherless, and helpless poor.

"Oh! we must ever rue the day,
When on the hills he lost his way;
He'd been at Cayo, and from there
Was going to Tregaron Fair;
'Twas mid-day ere he left the place,
And difficult the road to trace;

"Yet, well he knew the bogs and brakes,
And every turn the Cothy takes,
And every landmark, high and lone,
Like Crugiau'r Ladi'sI heaps of stone;
But soon no guidance could be found,
For deep the snow fell all around,
And mingling heath, and bog, and hill,
Awoke the dread of unknown ill;
And many an anxious thought supplied,
Whilst miles, long miles, he wander'd wide,
Till the last feeble ray of light
Was hid in deepest shades of night.
I See Appendix, 27.

"That fearful gloom forbade to stray,
And chill'd each ling'ring hope away;
His frozen limbs grew faint--he fell!
How long he lay, there's none can tell;

"Our faithful dog had fondly prest
His shaggy sides upon his breast,
And by his kindly warmth sustain'd
His Master's life, which sleeping wan'd,
And oft he howl'd, in dire dismay,
At length some shepherds pass'd that way;
In search of straying lambs they went,
But 'twas all-seeing Mercy sent,
Like good Samaritans they came,
And rais'd and warm'd his death-like frame.

"Onward they bore his helpless load
Along that wild and lonely road,
Where few save ponies, mountain bred,
Secure and fearless, ever tread;
Cautious and patient, on they go,
O'er mountain meads,I half hid in snow,
I Mountain meads,--extensive tracts of land on the top of many lofty hills, so moist and so luxuriant as to deserve and receive the name here given, and which the word Rhossan signifies. See Appendix, 11.

"And oft-times trace with curious eye,
Where Cothy winds and wanders by;
Or glance o'er hills outspreading wide
To Cwrt-y-Cadno'sI dreary side,
But doubtful (soon their path) no more,
They hear far off Pwll-Uffern's2 roar.
1 Court-y-Cadno,--Fox's Court. 2 Pwll Uffern,--Hell Pool.

"There, rocks o'er rocks assemble round,
And bid the water 'know their bound;'
In vain their rugged sides enclose,
Their tow'ring summits still oppose;
But Cothy, raging, keeps its track,
And forms the mountain cataract;
Foaming and swelling, rushing on,
Determin'd to be heard , and gone.

"Heard! aye, full oft with awe and fear,
But now a joyful sound to hear,

"Sweet as the sound of Sabbath bells
To them of home and rest it tells.

"The Cadno I on the wild hills bred,
The Grugiar2 on the Rhossan fed,
The Eryr3 on the craig's rude breast,
Delighted own their home, the nest,
But bound by stronger, holier ties,
Bliss sweeter still, man's home supplies;
And, Oh! ten thousand times more dear,
When God is known and worship'd there.
[I] The Fox. 2 The Grouse. 3 The Eagle.

"Lady, the gracious pow'r on high
Listens when helpless infants cry;
He heard the sigh, and saw the tear,
And gave us back our Parent dear.

"And one was made the instrument,
Who little thought of such intent;
One who had sought Tregaron Fair,
For frolic more than business there,
And having gain'd an ill renown,
Was fain in haste to quit the Town;
O'er mountains drear to wander wide,
E'en to Pwll Uffern's rugged side;
And' in that unfrequented spot
Seek shelter in a shepherd's cot;
He found the safety which he sought,
And comfort to my Father brought;
For here his weary hours were spent
Upon his bed of languishment,
But soon the tears of joy assuaged,
The fire which in his bosom raged,
Fast o'er his palid cheek they fell,
(The Stranger knew my Father well,)
Active and kind he form'd the plan
To carry home the suff'ring man,

"Upon a sledge, with tender care,
(The friendly Shepherd takes his share,)
Homeward they bring him through the day,
That Stranger well could point the way,
For to our cottage hearth, a guest,
He oft had come, when danger prest,
And hence his grateful feelings flow,
Lady, I think his name you know,--
'Twas Twm Sion Catti," Megan sigh'd,
A crimson hue her pale cheek dy'd;
She strove to smile, and tried to speak,
But tremblingly her accents break,--
"And Lady, well does Mother know
What kindness he does daily show!"

Angharad did not raise her eyes,
And Megan only heard her sighs,
Perchance 'twas grief at this sad tale
That made her tremulous and pale;

Yet soon Angharad softly said,
(Averting, as she spoke, her head,)
"But Megan, is there not a fear
This kindness may be bought too dear?"

Megan look'd up, but could not spy
The wonted glance of sympathy,
And felt at heart that heavy chill,
Precursor oft of unknown ill;
She dare not trust her voice to speak,
Nor did Angharad silence break,
Each, with her own full thoughts intent,
Arose, and towards the cottage went;
That white-roof'd cottage shew'd the care
Of those who humble comforts share;
The garden fenc'd with holly round,
Where flow'rets bloom, and leeks abound,
And evergreens clip'd close, yet tall,
And rosemary against the wall,

And cheerful buz of busy bee,
Sign and reward of industry.

The earth-made1 floor was smooth and clean,
A bright oak settle form'd a screen
Around the hearth, where cheerful glow'd
A fire, the mountain turf bestow'd;
Here Grufydd, half reclining, lay,
Clad in his suit of homespun grey,
The wool his own few sheep supplied,
The work, his thrifty partner's pride;
His own dear Gwenny, kind and good,
Prepares alike his garb and food;
A little table near him placed,
With all he needed, duly graced;
The bowl his flummery2 contained,
The cup his pale parch'd lips had drained,
1 The Cottage floors are frequently made of earth and lime, and when beat level, and kept dry, are not uncomfortable. 2 See Appendix, 28.

The Book, on which his languid eye
Was fix'd in solemn scrutiny,
That Holy Book,I so lately won,
With blood of many a martyr'd son,
So highly priz'd, so dearly bought,
'Twas from that Holy Book he taught.
[I] See Appendix, 29.

His children stand sedate and meek,
Peace in each look, health in each cheek;
The Mother's busy wheel at rest,
The baby to her bosom prest,
Each waiting quietly to hear
The words of life, and love, and fear;
The poor man rais'd his drooping head,
Look'd anxious round, and, "Megan," said;
The latch was lifted, and she came
With Ystradffin's beloved dame;

Whom to receive with decent pride,
With ready care each young one vied.

She wav'd her hand with gentle grace,
And each resum'd his wonted place;
For not unfrequent would she share
Their pleasant work of praise and prayer,
And though a transient glow pass'd o'er
The Sire's pale cheek, it was no more
Than joy call'd forth, for well he knew
The truths he lov'd, she reverenced too.

"Lift up your hearts unto the Lord,
And listen to his holy word;"
A soft "Amen" each meekly said,
And all was still while thus he read:--

"Let not your hearts be troubled; ye believe
In God--my parting words receive:

"I go unto my Father to prepare
A place for you, my happiness to share;
My Father's house can many mansions shew.
I would have told you, if it were not so;
I go, but surely I again shall come
To welcome all who truly love me home;
Then, if ye love, to keep my laws aspire,
In my name, asking all that ye require,
And I will pray the Father, and he'll give
The Comforter , in whom alone ye live;
The Holy Spirit, whom your souls shall teach,
That wisdom human learning cannot reach:
My peace I give you; peace I with you leave,
Peace that the world knows not, nor can receive."1
I 14 Chapter of St. John.

Here Gruffydd clos'd the Book, and meekly knelt,
Briefly expressing what his bosom felt,--

"We bless thee for the precious promise here,
We pray that each may claim his blissful share;
We beg the heav'nly guidance, help, and still
We prostrate all before thy holy will;
Food for our bodies, and our souls supply,
And teach us how to live, and how to die;
Whate'er we ask for his dear sake accord,
Who died for sinners,--Jesus, Saviour, Lord."

The duties of the day were done,
They ended as they had begun;
The young ones sought the fresher air,
The baby claim'd the Mother's care;
And then Angharad nearer drew,
To hear the poor man's sorrows too.

"He was," he said, "resign'd to die,
And felt the time was drawing nigh;
One thought alone disturb'd his rest,
His Wife, his babes, might be opprest!

"Yet wherefore fear, the Lord is strong,
His promises are broad and long,
To them I cling, and ever will,
I own and trust his mercies still."

"Be comforted," was her reply,
"Nor doubt the aid I can supply;
Still in this cot shall Gwenny dwell,
From charge and change protected well,
And still herself and babes shall share,
While life is giv'n, my fost'ring care."

"The Lord reward thee, Lady,--He
Alone thy bounteous acts can see;
Oh! bless the Lord," he feebly said,
And on his bosom sunk his head,
And Gwenny sprung in haste to hold
Her fainting Husband, wan and cold,
Whilst the dear Lady's tearful eye
Watch'd the sad scene in silence by;

The door was open'd, and was seen
Megan, with one from Ystradffin;
A basket in the damsel's hand,
Fill'd by her Lady's kind command;
A bowl of flummery, wine and meat,
For sick and well, a cottage treat;
But Megan's Father caught her eye,
And, "Oh! he's dead," her piercing cry,
She clasp'd his hand, and kiss'd his cheek,
"My Father! dearest Father, speak!"

"Hush, Megan, hush," Angharad said,
"See, he revives, be not afraid;
The basket, Nelli, take it up,
Give the Metheglyn and a cup;
There, Megan, hold it to his lip,
'Twill do him good, if he but sip."

He drank, and rais'd his glassy eye,
Gazing around unconsciously,

And while his children eager strove
To pay the debt of fillial love,
Then, ere awak'ning reason came,
Softly retir'd the lovely dame,
Pleas'd that returning life she view'd,
But shunning words of gratitude.

Here paus'd the Guide, and shut his book,
Then said with cheerful voice and look,
"Oh! how it soothes a feeling heart,
The sweet impression to impart,
That Innocence , unsullied, bright,
Undaunted Truth's resistless might,
And sweet content , and constant love,
And heav'n-born Peace , all joys above,
And rosy Health , the bosom cheering,
And Freedom , ev'ry joy endearing,

"And flatt'ring, fleeting Happiness,
The rural shades perchance may bless.

"And while we paint the rustic's glee,
The hearty laugh, sincere and free,
The simple joys, which still remain
To cheer the mountain and the plain,
We wish to find within their sphere
A purer virtue dwelling there."

The Stranger smil'd, and shook his head,
Then gently sigh'd, and gravely said,
"The wish I grant you, may be well,
But, ah! experience still must tell,
Wherever human footsteps go,
There closely follow vice and woe,
And virtue's steps as rare are seen
To grace the rustic village green,
Or low roof'd cot, in lonely glen,
As in the busy haunts of men;

"When was it giv'n to human kind,
Virtue in flow'ry paths to find?
Surrounded with unnumber'd woes,
Assail'd by hosts of hidden foes,
With strictest watch , the heart she keeps,
And lifts to heav'n the eye which weeps!
No boundaries her steps controul,
Her heritage the human soul!"

A moments pause, a down cast eye,
Ere the Guide ventur'd this reply:--

"Deep truths are these, I needs must say,
Confirm'd by fearful facts each day;
But oft, when truth appears too bright,
We close our eyes, to shun the light!
My little book, then, let me take,
And hear me for Angharad's sake."

PART IV. CAPEL PEILIN.1 1 See Appendix, 30,

WITH stealthy pace, time passes on,
A touch, a tint, and he is gone!
But wheresoe'er our steps are ranging,
That touch, that tint, each scene is changing;
Yet all as soft, as silently
As Summer's clouds escape the eye,
E'en while we watch with wond'ring gaze
The forms which dullness will not praise!

And with time passes life away,
The moment first, the hour, the day,
Perhaps unmark'd, or unemploy'd,
Distasteful, or but half enjoy'd;
In transient smiles, or ling'ring grief,
Pass as they will, their stay is brief,
And many a wilful soul must mourn
Those hours that never can return!
Thoughts, if not words, explain the sum,
"Oh! for a yesterday to come! "

Angharad, where wert thou, fair maid,
When Gruffydd in the dust was laid?
When that poor family of grief
Sought but of heav'n and thee relief!
Wert thou away on pleasure's wings,
Where none the tale of sorrow brings?
In Halls, to which alone belong
Fantastic dance, and sportive song,

Fann'd by the gales of fortune's smiles,
And lur'd by flatt'ry's artful wiles,
Lull'd by the incense sweet of praise,
Pass'd lightly thus thy halcyon days.

It might be,--but it was not so,--
Her ear had drunk the tale of woe;
Nor tardy was the aid she gave,
Dearly she lov'd the pow'r to save!
If Aberhonddu's1 circles gay,
Or Merlin's2 city hail'd her stay,
Was pity's gentle mood restrain'd,
Because a wider sphere she gain'd?
Oh! no, for charities unknown
Cheer'd mourning hearts, and bless'd her own!
Then, if in happy temper gay
She laugh'd intruding cares away,
1 Pronounced,--Aber-hon-thee, Brecknock. 2 Carmarthen.

Sportively innocent her jest,
And age itself her charms confess'd;
In crouds and closet, all declare
Angharad fairest of the fair.

And has that heart all sunny hours?
Are all her footsteps strewn with flow'rs?
Not Earth, but Paradise, her dwelling,
If thus a mortal's doom excelling;
No! deep within that heart a feeling,
Strengthen'd by time, her peace is stealing;
And though her smile still brightly shews,
"A thorn is hid beneath the rose!"

Oft when with gentle grace she seems
Attentive to their flatt'ring themes,
Her ev'ry thought is far away,
She hears not what the babblers say;

Wearied with crouds, she sighs for home ,
And longs in solitude to roam.

So now at Ystradffin she stays,
Or 'neath the lofty Dinas strays,
Musing her past and future lot,
Or seeks the peasant's humble cot;
A welcome guest where'er she goes,
To meet their smiles, or soothe their woes.

In Capel Peilin now she kneels
With all the warmth a pilgrim feels,
Whose feet have trod a devious way,
A promis'd orison to pay.

There is a new rais'd hillock there,
Bestrewn with herbs and flow'rets fair;

But not a word to tell for whom
That earth is heap'd, those sweet flow'rs bloom;
It is not Gruffydd's, for close by
A gravestone meets Angharad's eye,
Carv'd with his name, and holy verse,
That would his well plac'd hope reherse;
A shade of sad'ning sorrow fell
On thoughts which seem'd the name to tell;
Of one belov'd! with shrinking dread
She mourn'd awhile,--the unknown dead !

But not a trace of gloom is seen
Upon her face at Ystradffin,
For dear lov'd friends await her greeting
With all the joy of cordial meeting.

Oh! for a pow'r to clip the wings
Of Time, when heartfelt pleasure brings
Its precious gift of converse sweet,
Where blameless mirth, and calm joys meet;

When taste and wit, and sense combin'd,
Gild hours, which leave no sting behind.

Time will not stay, nor friends remain,
We part in hope to meet again;
How sweet, when time's full course is o'er,
To meet in bliss, and part no more.

"And they are gone!" Angharad sighs,
The morn is fair, serene the skies,
She mounts her pony to dispel
The grief which ever marks "farewell!"
And unattended, takes her way
Towards the rude hamlet of Nantbay,
And oft to some poor cottage near,
She turns, the humble heart to cheer;
Her words, her looks, the cares dispel,
Of hearts, where want and mis'ry dwell.

At Nant-y-mwyn,I but brief her stay,
To hear the gossip of the day;
Whate'er it was, it pleas'd her not,
And much she wish'd it were forgot;
It spoke of pranks, nor wise, nor good,
But further hearing she withstood;
One part alone attention gain'd,
"A lonely Widow, sorrowing, pain'd."
1 Nant-y-mwyn is now a very respectable house, inhabited by the Agent of Lord Cawdor's Mine Works.

The tale half told, she mounts in haste,
Eager the gen'rous joy to taste;
Of doing good, nor slow her pace,
Nor shall we all her progress trace;
Nor need we name the dwelling where
The suff'rer liv'd, who claim'd her care.--
While on her purpose solely bent,
Slight was the glance Angharad lent

To outward obstacles which lay
Obtrusive in the awkward way;
And passing ev'ry hind'rance o'er,
She ties her pony to the door,
There for awhile unheeded calls,
As if untenanted those walls,
As if that lonely, cheerless place,
Was shunn'd by all the human race.

The house delapidated, old,
Tales of neglect and ruin told;
The grass grows tall upon the thatch,
The door hangs loose upon the latch,
The wooden chimney black from age,
Juts out oblique, with dire presage,
And all external tokens tell,
"Scant store of comfort here can dwell;"
Yet custom throws a veil o'er all,
And dear the place which "home" we call.

At length her patience fully spent,
She pull'd the latch, and in she went;
But such the change from bright ey'd day,
To the dense shade before her lay;
That for a time Angharad stands,
Less trusting to her eyes than hands,
Till reconcil'd her vision grows,
And all the uncouth scen'ry shews.

The chimney claim'd full half the space,
Thence light gleam'd on the broad hearth place;
Thence only!--all the rest was gloom,
Where dust and smoke contend for room;
The wicker1 lattice, thick and rude,
Forbade the sunbeams to intrude,
Yet, just admitted such a light
As might a bat or owl invite;

Shadowy and dusk, save when the fire
Blaz'd forth the aid, strange steps require.
1 These are now but rarely met with.

Across the fire a stick was flung,
And there the steaming crochan hung,
And one long table occupied
A transverse part, from side to side;
The unceil'd rafters, black as jet,
And hung with many a spider's net,
Serv'd as a sort of storehouse too,
For hat, and stick, and wooden shoe,
A bacon flitch, a bag of meal,
Flax, wool, a distaff, and a reel,
While but a broken wall between
Pigs, poultry, kine, were heard and seen.

Nor absent here the cottage pride,
An oaken Dresser fill'd one side,
Bright as a looking-glass itself,
The pewter bright upon the shelf,

A chest of draw'rs, as bright and high,
Untrim'd, with fashion to comply,1
And (each behind its polish'd screen,)
Two lofty beds complete the scene.
1 This is generally part of the 'Stafell, and usually remains without locks and ornaments until the Wedding, lest it should be antiquated,

Strange as it was, it was not new
To her who near the fire side drew;
Angharad thought of her alone,
Whose voice she heard in plaintive moan,
Whose bending form she faintly spied
Within that chimney's dingy side,
And ere the Widow saw her guest,
Soft pity's words were thus addrest:--

"Gladwys, at length we meet again,
I grieve to find you thus in pain;

Would I could banish ev'ry woe,
But let me all your sorrows know;
They may not be beyond relief,
At least 'twill mitigate your grief."

O'ercome with pleasure and surprize,
Poor Gladwys wipes her tearful eyes,
And takes the kindly offer'd hand
That helps her feeble limbs to stand;
But not from age that weakness came,
Gladwys, from recent wounds was lame;
Nor was it years had dim'd her sight,
Her full dark eye was keen and bright,
And still a comely dame was she,
With fair high brow, from wrinkles free;
Though thoughts of past or present doom
Had cast o'er all her face a gloom;
Angharad's voice the spell had broke,
And with a thankful look she spoke.

"Oh! Lady, since I saw you last,
Sorrows and cares have met me fast,
And I have follow'd to the grave
The friends I lov'd, but could not save;
Three times my heart has felt the blow,
My good old man was first to go!
His lamp was trimm'd in holy love,
His hope, his home, was heav'n above;
And he was full of years and pain,
We trust our loss has prov'd his gain;
My brother next was call'd away,
With suff'rings keen, and slow decay;
I need not to your mind recall
How Gruffydd was esteem'd by all;
And very dear he was to me,
The best of earthly friends was he.

"Then all seem'd wrong with me to go,
My sheep were buried in the snow,

"My herds by sad diseases wasted,
The baneful Yew my horses tasted,
And two fell victims!--well aday!
Ere long a rick of new-made hay
Took fire, and burst at length in flame,
That threat'ning towards this Cottage came;
('Twas then these painful wounds were made,
Seeking to give my feeble aid,)
But heav'n the fearful doom dispelling,
Preserv'd my life, and this lov'd dwelling;
And Providence is kind and good,
For I have home, and clothes, and food;
Though very feeble, poor, and old,
And many a woe is still untold,
Our fav'rite horse, old Morgan's pride,
Was kill'd the day poor Megan died!"

"Megan," Angharad eager cried,
"Is my sad presage verified?

"Strange that no tongue to me has said
'Megan is number'd with the dead!'
Yet many a hint I now recall,
Oh! tell me Gladwys, tell me all."

" 'Twas shortly after Morgan died,
Megan came here with me to bide;
Her gentle voice, and cheerful smile,
Would many a woeful thought beguile,
Industrious, dutiful, and mild,
She was indeed a darling child.

"Another guest soon follow'd too,
Evan Sion Rhys came here to woo,
A Widower, old and rich was he,
Good-looking, jocular, and free;
And all our kindred heard with pride,
Megan should be a wealthy bride!

"E'en her poor Father spoke with joy,
But Megan seem'd averse and coy!
"Twas bashfulness,' the neighbours said,--
'Twas something more, I felt afraid;
Whate'er it was, no word confest,
The secret buried in her breast;
But still, as nearer drew the day,
Her health and spirit sunk away;
She knew it was her Father's choice,
She heard her Mother's pleading voice,
And she had yielded to their pray'r,
In hopeless, loveless, mute despair!
Something of this at times I saw,
But 'tis from retrospect I draw.

"The Widower had an only child,
A daughter, arrogant and wild;
And tattling tongues at times would tell
That none in peace with her could dwell;

"Of this, half earnest, half in joke,
In Megan's ear one eve I spoke,
A tear was in the dear girl's eye,
Though calm and gentle her reply,--
'But I, dear Aunt, shall cause no strife,
For I shall never be a wife!'

"Have you not promis'd, Megan, say?
Have they not fix'd the wedding day?
The Bidding, and the 'Stafell too,
Have they not talk'd of all with you?"

"Yes! yes! dear Aunt, and all is right,
So they all say!--good night, good night!"
And then, poor child! she feign'd to sleep,--
Alas! she only sought to weep.

"But Gruffydd's dying hour drew nigh,
And Megan watch'd in sorrow by;

"He bless'd her past and future life,
And bade her prove a duteous wife,
Then kiss'd her with a smile of peace,
That said, 'all earthly thoughts must cease.'

"It was a seal, no pow'r could move,
Press'd with a dying Father's love;
Each hope, each thought, each wish resign'd,
Calmly she bent her stedfast mind,
Her own in other's good to find;
And soon a hundred friends were here,
The bidding and the bridal cheer;
The Pwython1 paid with lib'ral hand,
The Pwrs-y-Gwregys2 full and grand,
And ev'ry honour duly shar'd,
All for the scamp'ring race prepar'd.
1 The gifts or loans made at this time. 2 The Wife's purse, being the sums so collected.

"The Bridegroom rode a fiery nag,
That scorn'd behind a hoof to lag;
Yet none our Ceffyl could exceed
For eye of fire, and foot of speed;
Nor was the Bride's-man loth to shew
How brave the Bride with him could go;
How well he shuns, where ambush lies,
How dextrously detains the prize.

"Loud was the din and jocund glee,
And far was heard the revelry;
It came at length across yon hill,
More distant then, and all was still;
And with the sound my heart sunk too,--
So sad was Megan's fond adieu;
Silent and tearful all the while,
Alike unheeding jest or smile;
She sat apart from all beside,
More like a mourner than a bride!

"Yet once she turn'd her head to me,
And softly sigh'd, 'It will not be!
I cannot rule my stubborn heart,--
Would I were dead ere thus we part!'
And then around my neck she threw
Her arms, and sobb'd!--a last adieu!

"Blind as I was, not then to know
It was not maiden fear, but woe;
Fast o'er the hills their course was bent,
For 'twas to Cayo Church they went,
And Cothy marks the rugged road
That led to Evan's snug abode.

"I wept the weary hours away,
Till some return'd with closing day,--
They told me,--Oh! I scarce can tell
All that the hapless bride befell;
They told me o'er and o'er again,
But, Oh! it seem'd to turn my brain;

"One said, 'she died without a groan
Another heard a piteous moan;
And all, save one , in this agreed,
Her spirit instantly was freed!
Lady, I wander!--and 'tis well,
For 'tis a dismal tale to tell.

" 'Twas when th' exulting Bridegroom tried
On his own steed to place the Bride,
That fiery creature pranc'd around,
And threw his burthen on the ground!
One scream alone her terror told,
And she lay motionless and cold!"

Angharad shudder'd, and turn'd pale,
In heart-felt sorrow at the tale;
But not a word could she command,
She only press'd the Widow's hand,
And bent in mournful attitude,
Till the sad story was renew'd.

"I said that all agreed, save one ,
She linger'd till the rest were gone,
(In tender sympathy with me,
For Megan's youthful friend was she;)
Then said, 'Upon my lap, when dying,
My darling Megan's head was lying;
Her eyes were clos'd, pale! pale her cheek,
I gaz'd, but did not dare to speak;
One mournful groan, one deep fetch'd sigh,
And she look'd up with bright'ning eye,
Smil'd, as she saw my well known face,
(No time that smile can e'er efface!)
Then nam'd a name , and breathing slow,
'Faithful till death!--Oh! tell him so!'
She tried, but could not utter more,
And the last struggle soon was o'er.'

"In Capel Peilin (lowly laid,)
Poor Megan's bridal bed was made,

"And many a flow'r is on it spread,
And many a tear is o'er it shed,
For all the Country hither come
To mourn the hapless maiden's doom;
To mourn for her, and weep with me,
Left thus in grief and poverty."

The Widow's story thus was ended,
Angharad silently attended,
And tears alone her pity shews,
Yet once she started, and the rose
More deeply glow'd upon her cheek;
Her pulse beat quick,--she did not speak:
No comments on the story made,
No word her bosom thoughts betray'd;
What name, so nam'd, she did not ask,
As if she shunn'd a fearful task,
But mus'd awhile then ere she goes,
Thus sought to soothe the Widow's woes.

"Weep not the dead! their warfare's o'er,
Sorrow and pain they feel no more;
Nor let your anxious mind despair
Of future good to meet a share;
Your herds and flocks shall be replac'd,
Your home with ev'ry comfort grac'd;
The Widow is the care of Heav'n!
Consign'd to me the pow'r is giv'n,
A willing Almoner to stand;"
She put her purse in Gladwys' hand,
Then saying with a smile, "Adieu! "
She mounted, and was out of view,
Ere yet the Widow could express
How deep her heart-felt thankfulness,
Or bliss Angharad's name, or say
What frequent orisons she'd pay.

And long with straining eyes she staid,
(When distant far the generous maid,)

List'ning till faint the footsteps cease,
Then seeks her lov'd fireside in peace.

Inly disturb'd, and griev'd, and vex'd,
Her mind with mingling thoughts perplex'd;
Her homeward way Angharad takes,
But from the social circle breaks,
And seeks her solitary room
To hide her heart's increasing gloom.

It was the evening's lovely hour,
And balmy breathings own'd its pow'r,
And hush'd at length was ev'ry sound,
Save lowing herds in distant ground,
Or bleating sheep, or the soft breeze,
That wav'd the many tinted trees;
The moon on lofty Dinas sleeps,
Her image o'er the Towy creeps,
And through the sky serenely clear,
In bright succession, stars appear.

Angharad, by the window sits,
Watching the bat's erratic flits,
Heark'ning the mournful owl's shrill scream,
Or sullen roar of distant stream,
While ev'ry sound, whate'er it be,
Blends in one soothing harmony;
And she was sooth'd, and softly sigh'd,
A sigh in unison replied!
So low, desponding, yet so near,
She rose, in breathless haste and fear!

The window, near the rising ground,
Seem'd to admit the startling sound;
'Twas open, and she ventur'd near,
Half fearing what to see or hear;
"Was it a dream?" Angharad said,
"Safe in these walls what need I dread?
Yet in my heart those words remain,

('Angharad, mark, we meet again!')
Nor is his threat or promise vain.

"Ah! why does prudence still repel
The gentle thoughts my tongue would tell?
Why must I wear a look of scorn,
And hide in smiles a heart forlorn?
'Tis cruel still, where'er I ride,
To hear of talents misapplied;
Graces of form and mind deceive
The hopes of those who love, yet grieve,
And still at ev'ry feast and fair,
With thoughtless frolic, he is there!
Which those are ever fain to tell,
Who envy, but can ne'er excel.

"But, hush! I hear again that sigh,
A shadowy form approaches nigh;

"It comes!--be still my heart--'tis He!
Dare I remain?--'twere wiser flee;
But how escape? I cannot move."

"Angharad! (hist!) Oh! listen, love,
Am I then doom'd to bear your hate?
(Oh! who could live with such a fate?)
Why sternly tell me to forget,
The happy hours when first we met?
Why listen to my vows, my sighs,
Then crush the flatt'ring hopes that rise?
Angharad! Lady! dearest love,
Oh! speak, and all my fears remove."

"Leave me! go, go, 'tis sure amiss
To prowl around in hours like this,
I will not listen till the day
You cast your follies far away;

"Nor yet till many a year that's past
Shall shew how good resolves can last;
I will not be a Robber's Bride,
For friends to grieve, and foes deride."

"Oh! bless thee, Lady, for the word
That does so sweet a hope afford!
Though vaguely giv'n, I bless thee still,
And bend obedient to thy will:
Yes, here I vow, if life is giv'n,
By all that's dear in earth and heav'n,
With ev'ry pow'r of mind and soul
Each future action to controul;
But dear Angharad, be my guide,
And then I cannot wander wide;
Wherefore delay the promis'd bliss?
Say but one word--Oh! whisper--Yes!"

"Urge me no more," was her reply,
But love lay lurking in her eye,

And ev'ry angry word denied,
Impell'd by still resisting pride.

The wily youth his rapture reigning
The humble look of sorrow feigning,
With all love's melody of tone,
Begg'd but this simple boon alone;
To press her hand , ere yet they sever,
"With one fond kiss, remember'd ever."

Low through the open window bending,
A tear of softest pity lending;
Her trembling hand she gives, to tell
How sweet, though sad, this last farewell.

That hand was to his bosom clasp'd,
And in his own was firmly grasp'd,

And then exultingly he cried,
"Lady, 'tis won!--'tis won my bride;
Nor shall this little hand be free
Till love's sweet vow is pledg'd to me;
Dear are the dewdrops in thine eyes,
And dear the fragrance of thy sighs,
And life itself with joy I'd yield,
From ev'ry ill thy breast to shield;
Yet if those lips can utter 'no!'
Farewell alike to life and woe;
The world is nought to thee or me,
For thou another's ne'er shall be!
Fear not the name of Robber's bride!
I must not,--will not be denied!"

Ah! 'twas not fear that sway'd her mind,
That passion of ignoble kind
Had little influence o'er her breast,
A sweeter feeling rul'd the rest;

Though tremblingly she vow'd to share
With him each future joy and care,
That with the dawn those vows should sound
In Capel Peilin's sacred ground,
And friends from far and near should meet
The Bride of Ystradffin to greet.

Tradition still delights to tell
Her Lover kept that promise well;
Which said, "progressive virtue's grace
Should ev'ry former stain efface;
That grateful years his faith should prove,
And but with life should end his love!"

And now, when strangers seek the spot,
And guides point out the craggy Grot,
True to the fame his story gave,
They call it "Twm Sion Catti's Cave;"

Then lead,--for still the Mansion's seen,
Where dwelt the Maid of Ystradffin.

Where is the Stranger? where the Guide?
Whose rambling words our theme supplied;
Where is the rock, the stream, the hill,
Whose pictur'd charms would volumes fill?

The rock, the hill, the stream remain,
To seek the Wand'rers were in vain;
They parted each a devious way,
Along life's wilderness it lay,
Where many a joy and many a sorrow
The empire of the hour might borrow;

Yet ev'ry joy and sorrow too,
Was fleeting as the morning dew!
A voice still sounding in the ear,
"There is no abiding city here!"

The tide of time pursu'd them fast,
But on a Rock their anchor cast,
Defied the billows swelling rage,
And safe upheld the steps of age.

Now o'er the shadowy vale they pace,
And now the sullen river trace;
Now piercing through the gloomy cloud,
Which Heaven's eternal glories shroud;
The golden portals they descry,
Unseen by all but Faith's strong eye;
And in bright prospect forms arise,
Which wipe all tears from Pilgrims' eyes.

Extatic vision!--now they haste,
Nor dread that river's bitter taste;
Feeble themselves, they lean on One ,
Whose strength is felt when theirs is gone;
And while they view that distant shore,
They reach the gulph!--We know no more!

APPENDIX,

APPENDIX.
I.--"LLANYMDDYFRI'S RUIN'D TOW'R.''--PAGE 5.

CARADOC'S History of Wales gives the relation of numerous battles, said to have been fought at 1 Llanymddyfri, both between the English and Welsh, and between the native Princes themselves, in which the Castle was destroyed, and rebuilt in rapid succession. The first time I find it mentioned is, in 1113, when in the possession of Richard de Pwns, at which time it was beseiged by Gruffydd ap Rhys, and so manfully defended by Meredith ap Rhydderch, that Gruffydd was obliged to raise the siege with considerable loss; and the last time, when Rhys Vychan took his Father, Rhys Grug, (or Gryc,) prisoner, and refused to set him at liberty until he gave up to him the Castle of Llandovery, in 1227. About the year 1233, Prince Llewelyn is said to have destroyed

all the Towns and Castles throughout the Country, except Brecknock, (Aberhonddu,) most probably Llanymddyfri was included in the number, as no mention is made of it afterwards. There are, however, still sufficient remains to claim the attention of the Traveller, and add greatly to the beauty of the scene. 1 The Country round Llandovery, (of which Llanymddyfri is the ancient name,) is very beautiful. An elegant Suspension Bridge has recently been thrown over the Towy, adding greatly to the picturesque attractions of the scene. Numerous Gentlemen's Seats are within a short distance of the Town.
II.--" 'MIDST CAMBRIA'S LOVELY HILLS."--PAGE 8.

"CAMBRIA , the Britannia Secunda of the Romans, inhabited by the Silures, Ordovices, and Dimetæ was partioned by Rodric the Great, into three Sovereignties, viz. Gwynedd, Powys, and Dinefawr.

Dinefawr, Deheubarth,1 or South Wales, comprised the Counties of Cardigan, Pembroke, Caermarthen, Glamorgan, part of Brecknock, part of Radnor, part of Gloucester, part of Hereford, and Gwent, or the County of Monmouth, the residence of the Princes of this extensive dominion was at Dinefawr.2 This Kingdom was encompassed by St. George's Channel, the Bristol Channel, and the Rivers Wye, Dyfi, and Severn." --Memoirs of Owen Glendower, by the Rev. T. Thomas. 1 Pronounced,--De-i-barth. 2 Near Llandilo, in Carmarthenshire.
III.--"IN THE LIGHT CORACLE."--PAGE 10.

"THESE Coracles are historically as well as picturesquely curious; they afford a specimen of the

earliest British Navigation, and are used at this day on many of the Welsh Rivers, probably without any variation from their original form. They are made with very strong basket-work, and covered with hides , or coarse canvass , with a thick coating of pitch. Their shape resembles the section of a Walnut shell; their length is generally five feet, and their breadth seldom less than four; they are intended for only one person, and it is entertaining to observe the mode in which they are managed. The dexterous navigator sits precisely in the middle, and it is no trifling part of his care to keep his just balance. The instrument with which he makes his way is a paddle , one end rests upon his shoulder, and the other is employed by the right hand, in making a stroke alternately on each side; the left hand conducts the net, and he holds the line with his teeth. These vessels were anciently used as the means of intercourse between the inhabitants on the opposite banks of the rivers; they are now applied only to the purpose of fishing. So frail an invention would probably have been succeeded by something of more strength and capacity, had there not been found a remarkable convenience in their lightness, seldom weighing more than from 20 to 30 pounds. The fisherman, when his labour is over, slings his boat across his b