Ystradffin.

]> Ystradffin.Bowen, Melesina.Chris Coyne,creation of electronic text.Electronic edition213 KbBritish Women Romantic Poets ProjectShields Library, University of California, Davis, California 956162003BoweMYstra

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series114Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorYstradffin: a descriptive poem, with an appendix, containing historical and explanatory notesBowen, MelesinaLongman, Orme, Brown, Green, and LongmansLondon, W. ReesLlandovery, 1839[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. ISuppl:87. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler ISuppl:87.]

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[Title Page]

/P>YSTRADFFIN,A DESCRIPTIVE POEM,WITH AN APPENDIX, CONTAINING HISTORICAL AND EXPLANATORY NOTES.BY MRS. BOWEN.LONDON:LONGMAN, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS; LLANDOVERY, W. REES.MDCCCXXXIX.W. REES, PRINTER, LLANDOVERY.INTRODUCTION.

THE scene of this Poem is the upper part of Carmarthenshire, commencing at Llandovery, and extending to the borders of Cardiganshire, a distance of about fifteen miles. The fine Estate, of which Ystradffin forms a part, (as well as the valuable Lead Mines of Nant‐y‐mwyn, and the Cave of Twm Sion Catti,) belongs to Earl Cawdor, the representative of the Golden Grove Family, to whom it descended from the Heiress of Ystradffin, who lived in the latter part of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. These romantic and beautiful scenes have long been celebrated in local tradition; and, of late years, have been visited during the Summer months by numerous parties, not unfrequently by Strangers from distant parts of the Kingdom. This circumstance is availed of by the Author, to introduce a Stranger to Llandovery, as a solitary Tourist, who, seeking a Guide, in his search after the Picturesque, meets with a person of a grade beyond the peasants, who usually attend on such occasions, both in rank and intelligence, and who, during their ride to Ystradffin, points out every object claiming particular notice. While resting at Twm Sion Catti's Cave, after a fati‐guing scramble up the lofty Dinas, in which it is situated, the Guide offers to read the MS. of a deceased friend, which contains some account of the traditionary tales connected with the surrounding Country, including slight sketches of Ancient Welsh History, Customs, Manners, &c. This forms the whole of the story, if such it can be called. And the Guide and Stranger part to meet no more.

The object of this Poem is, to bring before the Public a small portion of the beautiful scenery of South Wales, by adding, not only the attraction of fiction, but also by a reference to real personages and facts, of which no doubt can be entertained, however they may differ under the teach, of a long succession of Narrators.

The Appendix to the Poem is the result of many years attention to the subject, and will, it is hoped, throw sufficient light on any obscurity, and prove interesting to those unacquainted with the matters treated of.

Fully sensible of its numerous defaults, it is not without considerable degree of timid anticipations, that it is now submitted to the Public, from whose decision there can be no appeal.

April, 1839.YSTRADFFIN.YSTRADFFIN.THE sun his parting rays had shed,And still a ling'ring lustre spreadO'er Llanymddyfri's1 ruin'd tow'r,"More lovely in its humble hour,Than when it held in days of oldThe haughty prince, and warrior bold;When potent peers its walls assail'd,Or captives in its donjons wail'd;More lovely now, with ivy bound,And peaceful dwellings all around,Than when in all its strength and pride,It aw'd the country far and wide!''1 Pronounced,—Lan‐um‐thuv‐ry, the ancient name of Llandovery, a Town in Carmarthenshire, South Wales;—the double d is sounded like th.—See the Appendix. Thus said a stranger, as he stood,Gazing around in tranquil mood;His noble port and pensive faceWere full of dignity and grace;Nor youthful was he, nor had yetTime's tell‐tale fingers on him setOne mark of age's wintry pow'r,Nor stole one mental gem or flow'r;His ardent mind at ev'ry look,From nature inspiration took;And she, (who scorns the heedless eye,)Her votary meets on mountains high;Points where the rocky masses hung,Watches, when crumbling fragments flung,In the vex'd river, rudely dash,And listens to the awful crash;Listens and gazes, 'til the soundIs hush'd! and all is peace around;With light step sweeps the wild heath's bloom,And smiling, shews the flow'ry Cwm;1Finds on the Primrose bank a seat,And joins the Linnet's carol sweet;Tells where unfading beauty lies,And reads his rapture in his eyes!1 Pronounced, Coom, a Dingle.But man! inconstant man! will stray,Tho' smiling nature courts his stay;Ambition claims him for her own,Fame talks of triumphs yet unknown,Wealth boasts a wide extended sway,Whilst Pleasure chides his long delay;To each his ardent eyes he turns,For each his beating bosom burns;Yet, when their rival charms are known,The halcyon hours of peace are flown!And nature, who those hours had led,Blushes, and turns her drooping head;Fondly her hand on his she lays,And still the parting hour delays;But when the City meets her view,She sighs! and falters out—Adieu!Time, with his burthen on his wings,To nature's aid kind mem'ry brings,With all her hoard of joys and pains,And smiles, which she alone retains.Again he dreams of those blest hours,When nature strew'd his path with flow'rs;So now to meet her charms he roves,'Midst Cambria's1 lovely hills and groves.See Appendix, 2. From beaten paths to turn aside,He seeks, and finds a practis'd Guide,Known well to whom each deep recess,Each dang'rous ford, or wilderness,Each cavern'd rock, or lofty hill,Unfathom'd pool, or mountain rill;For in his youthful days he'd been(Proud of the name) a sportsman keen;At early dawn, wild for the chace,His fleet hounds court the well‐known race;Or o'er the heathy hills he hies,[The preceding word has been changed in manuscript hand to read "hies." Ed.]To watch the Grugiar1 as it flies.Again he seeks the rushy dell,And drags the Dwrgi2 from his cell.From ocean, when the finny tribe,(Unerring instinct for their guide,)1 The Grouse,—literally the heath hen, from grug, the heath berries, which is their favourite food. 2 The Otter,—literally, Water dog. Pronounced,—Doorgi, the gi being sounded as in "give." Seeks in the fresher, sweeter wave,Their silver‐shining sides to lave;In the light Coracle1 he glides,And fearless o'er the river rides,Near the wild falls of Towy creeps,And spears the Salmon as he leaps!So pass'd his youthful prime away,Whilst still he sought his changing prey;So pass'd the pride of riper years,In light unprofitable cares;And little wiser is he now,Tho' manhood's fading on his brow.Such was our Guide! nor lowly he,But full of ancient pedigree,Through cent'ries backward trac'd his way,(Perchance to Ilion's2 fatal day,)[1] See Appendix, 3.2 The fall of Troy. See Appendix, 3.What tho' his sires could little boast,Save empty claims to lands long lost;Tho' many a care his parents knewFrom numerous sons, and acres few; Tenacious pride still closely clung,And swell'd in blood from Brutus1 sprung,And scornfully that blood recoils,From the bare thought of merchants' toils.Such was the stranger, such the Guide,Whom fortune to his wish supplied,And soon they fix th' excursive plan,The beauteous scenes around to scan;Choosing the early hours of morn,While yet the dew hangs on the thorn,Whilst matin hymns the gay birds sung,And flow'rets new‐born fragrance flung,As grateful incense duly giv'nIn just return to bounteous heav'n,Thus teaching man's rebellious race,In pious love their path to trace.1 See Appendix, 3The pair began their way while stillThe morning mist roll'd down1 the hill,And diamond dewdrops deck the grass,O'er which the leverets lightly pass;That heavenly calm breath'd all around,Which but at early dawn is found;That calm which makes a mortal knowEarth was not meant a seat of woe;And in the silent stranger's breastThat holy calm was deep imprest; Loos'd from the world's turmoil and care, His heart impell'd th' unutter'd pray'r,In unison of thought and sight,For Llanfair'bryn1 rose on the right,A church upon the hill's fair side,O'erlooking vale, and grove, and tide.1 The Welsh Peasants foretell fair weather when the mist rolls down the hills in the morning, and rain, if it rolls up. Either way, it is a pleasing sight.1 Llanfair‐ar‐y‐bryn, (St. Mary on the hill,) one of the two Parishes of Llandovery, the other is Tingad, they stand as described in the Poem. He paus'd, look'd round, and turn'd his steed,"Might we not up yon hill proceed?"" 'Tis early, and this slight delay,The prospect, doubtless, would repay."He waited not the Guide's assent,Unheard, if utter'd, on he went;And few the steps, ere all aroundA thousand varied charms are found;The ivy'd walls, the flow'r deck'd graves,The meads which winding Towy laves,The distant Van,2 the neighb'ring Town,The wooded hills soft sloping down;Llandingad Church in lovely view,With many a mansion, old and new;These, and unnumber'd beauties more,The enraptur'd stranger's eyes explore;And whilst these charming scenes impartThe purest pleasure to his heart,He marks the moral of the view,He marks it, and explains it too.2 Bannau Shir Gaer,—the Carmarthenshire Beacon, or Van, a lofty mountain, dividing that County from Brecknockshire."See! how within a mountain screen,Llandovery's shelter'd town is seen,Wide as its domiciles extend,God's holy house at either end,A watchman's sacred task fulfils,Points to the everlasting hills,And sweetly bids each son of careBegin and end the day with pray'r;And whatsoever lot be giv'n,Still, like those hills, aspire to heav'n!"More had he said, but here the GuideWith hearty laugh, approached his side,—"Why, Sir! 'twould tempt one to supposeYou knew how yonder Fabric rose!Aspire to heav'n! aye, legends say,St. Mary taught those folks the way;Those folks who strove long time to raiseYon holy house for pray'r and praise;Down in the Vale they labour'd still,Each morn their work was on the hill!At length their purpose they forego,Convinc'd St. Mary will'd it so;Nought did their further labours mock,And Llanfair'bryn stands like a rock!"The Stranger smil'd, and turn'd his steed,Inquiring still as they proceed,"How call you, friend, yon wooded hillNow on our left, extending still?"" 'Tis Allt‐y‐tlodi,1 Sir, and wellIts name each poor man's child can tell,For ev'ry needy townsman thereStill claims his right to cut his share,(Long as the Brân its feet shall lave,This welcome boon the Donor gave;)And whilst the faggot's cheerful blazeDelights and cheers his children's gaze,He bids the young ones learn to nameThe friend from whom that right they claim:Kind, though eccentric, was the man,And while a lenghten'd course he ran, He taught his wide‐spread2 flock to pray, He spoke of heav'n, 'and led the way.' " "And justly dear the meed of fame, When it awaits the good man's name," The Stranger said, and then pass'd on 'Twixt Gilvach and the meads of Tonn.1 Pronounced,—Allty‐cloddy. See Appendix, 6.2 Ibid.And Dolauhirion Bridge is near,And beauteous Towy deep and clear,Over its rocky bed is leaping,Or in its dark caves silent sleeping,Or forming frightful whirlpools there,Or sparkling in the sunny air,Romantic, awful, beauteous still,From its first source of mountain rill,Until it forms Caerfyrddin's1 pride,The consort of old ocean's tide.Through deep Cwm Coy, 'neath Erryd Grove,2The pair in tranquil silence rove,Sooth'd by the gurgling waters nigh,Now seen, now hidden from the eye,Though many a break of bank and bushBetrays the stream's impetuous rush.1 Carmarthen.2 See Appendix, 7."Sir," said the Guide, "behold yon tree3Which shews how high its course must be, When swell'd by mountain wreaths of snow,The foaming waves no bound'ries know!Yet, though the wintry flood we fear,A summer storm seems still more drear.3 Ibid. 8.Such was one well remember'd day,The fields smelt sweet with tedded hay.The lambs upon the hills were sporting,The kine to Towy's stream resorting,The birds were gay, the flow'rets fair,And balmy breathings fill'd the air,With buoyant spirits on I went,To spear the salmon, my intent,A fav'rite haunt I sought, for thereThe prize would well reward my care,'Tis near the Dinas,1 Sir, and weEre long that far‐fam'd spot shall see.""Full of my sport, I heeded notAmongst the clouds one dark'ning spot,And 'midst the sunshine little fear'dThe warning thunder distant heard;The winds were hush'd, yet, strange to say,The trembling leaves seem'd all in play,And straws and feathers rose in air,Whirling in strange commotion there;The timid birds fled screaming by,To hide within recesses nigh:Rous'd by these tokens, I withdrew,And shelter'd in a cavern too.'Twas time! or I were lost, no doubt!It came! it burst! a waterspout!It pour'd a sweeping deluge round,And forc'd the river o'er its bound.1 Dinas is derived from the old Celtic word Dûn, pronounced nearly like Deen in English, and is frequently found in the names of places in Scotland. It signifies a lofty fortification, a strong hold. It is the proper name of the grand hill near Ystradffin. See Appendix, 11.Oh! what a fierce resistless tide,Spread dire destruction far and wide,Uprooted trees in all their bloom,With new made hay, find equal doom;The lowing cattle hurried on,Swim struggling till their strength is gone,While the poor sheep with languid eye,In mute despair, float helplessly.Upon the banks there is a spotWhere stood the shepherd's lowly cot,An old and poor, but honest pair,In peaceful solitude dwelt there;The sheep upon the mountain's sideWere all his care, and all his pride;And she, with housewife thrift befitting,Was fam'd for spinning and for knitting;No waste of furniture was there,A table, bed, and wooden chair,A three legg'd stool on either side,Their turf‐fed fire, and chimney wide,Down which the trickling damps descended,And where the Crochan1 was suspended,Spoons, noggins, platters, flum'ry bowl,And large brass pan, comprised the whole;But they had learn'd to bring the hopeOf earthly goods in narrow scope;They know not wants, which proud ones do,So were content, and thankful too!Poor souls! on that disast'rous day,Their little all was swept away;The torrent with resistless forceSoon made their hut a water course!Crochan and table, chair and stool,Were toss'd along with strange misrule;Nor could the bed a fixture stay,(Where the poor man then fev'rish lay,)Borne by the overwhelming flood,Upon a thicket near it stood,And there, by mercy's hand detain'd,Till help arriv'd, it safe remain'd.1 A large Iron Pot, generally suspended from a pole placed across the chimney; it usually has a very thick and exceedingly rude wooden lid; and it forms the chief part of a Welsh Peasant's kitchen range.But that brass pan, as some will tell,Floated along the wild waves swell,Just like a coracle, but bright,And many a silly crone did fright;And then, (a lengthen'd voyage past,)At Llyn‐yr‐hên‐bont1 sunk at last;That deep dark pool we now are near,And Henllys walks are lovely there."1 See Appendix, 9."But," said the list'ning Stranger, "sayHow did you fare that dismal day?""Oh! safe enough my rocky den!And when the storm abated, then,Scrambling and wading, half between,I soon was snug at Ystradffin.Now, Sir, the road is wide and clear,And Erryd to the right is here;And on the left hand, rising still,Stands Cefntrenfa,1 on the hill,Casting a side‐long glance of prideO'er Cae'r‐allt‐fach's fair sloping side."1 Pronounced,—Keventrenva."Sir, have you ever felt the pow'rOf mem'ry o'er some long past hour,Calling its spirit back again,To tell its tale of joy or pain?There's not a dwelling I can see,But bids that spirit wake in me!Bitter or sweet, I need not tell,The heart its burthen knows full well!"The Stranger answer'd not, but sigh'd,And soon Cil'cwm's1 Church tow'r they spied:" 'Tis a poor village, Sir, and mean,Not over large, not over clean;Yet, somehow to my heart 'tis dear,For many a friend lies buried near!And it can boast a lengthen'd day,Its tales of mirth, and wild affray,And many a monumental stone,Recording names in life well known;Yet little worth a Stranger's eye,Save those wide spreading Yew Trees nigh;But on the right, one hut I see,That claims a ling'ring look from me;1 Pronounced,—Kilcoom, a very extensive Parish in the upper part of Carmarthenshire.'Twas once the Harper's1 humble home,Tho' distant far he lov'd to roam:Llanwrtyd and Llandrindod too,Rejoic'd his Triple2 Harp to view;The sprightly dance, the native lay,Chas'd the long night, and cheer'd the day;And oft was ask'd for o'er againCodiad yr haul,3 that fav'rite strain,Ar‐hyd‐y‐nos4 with varyings meet,Codiad yr Hedydd's5 warbling's sweet;Y Gadlys,6 and a hundred more,Nor then exhausted was his store!Blind, old, and poor, the Harper died,Nor will his place be soon supplied,Nor shall we easily forgetThe strains we heard when Friends were met;Nor yet his look of pride and pleasure,When skilful hearers prais'd the measure;His proudest boast, 'I taught that strainIn the noble Mansion of Glanbrane.' "1 Well known as Daniel the Harper.2 See Appendix, 10.3 The Rising Sun.4 The Livelong Night, adapted to the English song of Poor Mary Ann.5 The Rising of the Lark.6 The Camp of the Palace, or, "Of a noble Race was Shenkyn.""Is it not there?" the Stranger said,"Beneath yon rocky mountain's head,The Cat'ract rushing down its side,And wooded hills encircling wide?A lovely Mansion there I see,Might well a mountain Chieftain's be."" 'Tis Neuadd, Sir. Nature and ArtUnited here, their charms impart;From Garth, Craig‐Rhossan,1 and The Foel,2The hand of Taste improv'd the whole.That eye each scene observant view'd,And form'd to beauty, e'en the rude!'Tis past! a tale too briefly told,That eye is shut, that hand is cold!All that was mortal, in the tomb;Oh! how unlook'd for was the doom!"1 See Appendix, 11.2 Pronounced,—Vole.A painful feeling touch'd the Guide,He turn'd obtruding grief to hide;'Twas but a momentary pause,Nor was there need to ask the cause;Nor was there time! a distant soundOf Sportman's shout, and yelping hound;Quickly dispers'd the unwonted sigh,Uplifts his head, and lights his eye.Hark to the dogs! I see them nowUpon Penlifau's darksome brow;Oh! how I love to hear that cry!My spirit seems with them to fly;As o'er the hills their course we trace,Eager I feel to join the race;In Summer, Autumn, Winter drear,We find a healthful pleasure here;And tho' the Seasons change the Game,The jocund glee is still the same.Ah! there they go! and now they're gone!The Stranger spake with calmer tone."Doubtless such sports with some agree,With them I feel no sympathy;Nor with a Sportsman's eye behold,These lovely Vales, and mountains bold;Yet surely with a zest as true,As ever Sportsman met the view."And onward still the Pair are rangingO'er mountain scenes for ever changing;Tall groves whose hanging branches meet,And kiss the Towy at their feet;Fair sloping banks of verdant green,Where the light‐bounding flocks are seen;And many a cheerful sunny spot,Where stands the Miner's neat white cot.And soon Craig Mwyn1 before them lies,Rearing its dark head to the skies!Deep buried in whose gloomy sides,The shining pond'rous metal hides;The vaulted cave's unequal height,Beset with spar, and crystals bright,Conceals the multitude within,Absorbs the never ceasing din,Save when forth‐issuing numbers bear,The rich rewards of toil and care,And Echo, newly waken'd, tells,Where unremitting2 labour dwells.1 In which are the Lead Mines belonging to Earl Cawdor.2 One set of Miners work for four hours, and then give place to another set, the work going on without interruption, (Sundays excepted.)Through Rhyd Pengarreg safe they go,('Neath Summer's sun the stream runs low;)And fearlessly the mountain maidenSteps o'er, barefooted, and well laden,1Yet treach'rous Towy oft has prov'dFatal to him who rashly rov'd.But they have pass'd in safety o'er,A lowly hut2 stands on the shore,Dear to the weary Miner's heart,The humble joys it can impart;Rest, cwrw, and a blazing fire,Nor more it yields, or they desire.1 This I have more than once seen whilst crossing.2 A poor Public House, known by the name of the "Miner's Arms."A road from rude Pengarreg's cleft,Wild Allt‐y‐Beri's on their left,Form'd, as it were, of many a stone,By giant pow'r abruptly thrown:Then fasten'd with a verdant yokeOf Alder, Mountain Ash, and Oak;And Cwrt‐y‐Ffynnon1 there is seen,Peeping from out its covert green;With here and there a hut beside,Perch'd on the mountain's rugged side,Small hope of comfort there to dwell,Yet suiting that wild scen'ry well.And beautiful that wildness too!With the lofty Dinas full in viewAnd Towy's winding waves are seen,Spreading the rival hills2 between;And 'Rescob3 in the distance hiding,Whilst o'er its head dark clouds are gliding:Yet seeming in a sunny light,To rise advancing on the sight.1 Pronounced,—Courty Funnon, it is a Cottage with a well.2 Allty Beri and the Dinas.3 'Rescob. A beautiful hill, commonly called Fforest yr Esgob, or the Bishop's Forest; it was such within the last 20 or 25 Years, but is now bare. It belongs to the Bishop of St. David's, and is on the other side of the River, opposite the Dinas, and very close to Cape Peilin, but is in the Parish of Llanddewi Brefi, Cardiganshire.And little further do they rideEre loudly shouts the watchful Guide,In Cymru's tongue! the Native strain,Was quickly heard,—nor heard in vain.A Shepherd leaves his humble meal,To join the Pair with ready zeal;Accustom'd oft to lead the way,And tell old tales, whene'er he may.But when the Guide forbids to teach,Checking the shrewdly fluent speech,And bids him make the steeds his care,At Ystradffin, and wait them there,He goes! of guerdon well aware.Now o'er the greensward path they rove,Beneath the shade of Dinas' grove;Now winding round the mountain's feet,They mark the rushing waters meet,In Carreg Towy's rocky cells,Where wild uproar forever dwells;In boist'rous play, and cloud‐like foam,Doitheia seeks rude Towy's home.The Stranger stands awhile to gazeIn silent, rapt'rous, heartfelt praise.Nor lost on our observant Guide,Were feelings deeply gratified:Proud of his lovely Native Land,He gaily smiled, and wav'd his hand."Look where those rocks fantastic lie,Softly reposing on the sky!There yonder mountain‐berries wave,O'er Twm‐Sion‐Catti's1 far‐fam'd Cave!Reported scene of many a feat,That little boasts of good or great:Yet he was not a humble hind,Nor did he lonely fortunes find:A Wilding Wight, in days long gone,Perchance you'll hear of him anon."1 For reasons which will hereafter be sufficiently evident to the Reader, the Note for this name is postponed to the latter part of the Poem.So still their rambles they pursue,With lofty Dinas full in view.The crumbling rock, with moss o'ergrown,The crystal streamlet trickling down,The rushy swamp, the crisped heath,Crackling the hasty foot beneath;All these are past! before them lieThe scathed rock's rude majesty.Masses immense, promiscuous hurl'd,Speak the convulsions of a world,Which sequent centuries have drest,With shrubs, and herbs, and mossy crest.And now a rifted [The preceding word has been changed in manuscript hand to read "rifted", possibly from "rilled." Ed.]rock is nigh,Yawning before the wand'ring eye,Whose broad dark sides on either hand,Like high embattled ramparts stand.With careful steps they upward wind,And soon a narrow entrance find,That just admits them one by one,With form convolving1 to the stone.Lofty, though narrow, is the Cave,And o'er its top wild branches wave,And on its tall sides, smooth and bare,Full many a carved name is there!Names of the present and the past,Which thus beyond their date would last.1 The entrance to this Cave is through a narrow aperture formed of two immense slate rocks, which face each other, and the space between them is narrower at the bottom than at the top, so that the passage can only be entered sideways, with the figure inclined, according to the slanting of the rock.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 saidHe 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 unmeetTo 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 agreeTo 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 ledUpon 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 lieWatching 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'dThose 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 feelHis garrulous Companion's zeal,And thankfully his wish exprestTo listen, and awhile to rest.Pleas'd with the Stranger's ready choice,The Guide began, with cheerful voice.PART I.CALANGAUAF.11 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 taleOf 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 glareOf midnight lamps, but lov'd to shareThe 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 affordRich gifts to load the festive board;Nor were they slighted, nor unpriz'dThe 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 shewThe 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'dThe pure bright fluid, taught to tellOf 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 untiesThe band which hides Angharad's eyes,While loud they shout, "the omen's trueIts promises all rest with you!"Gwriad, with lighter heart drew near,And whisper'd softly in her ear,"Oh! dear Angharad, dare I tellThe 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 knownNo 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,1And 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 proveThe 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 boastA 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 aloneBlazon 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 Dda1 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 spyIf 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 fameCould 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 unknownEcho 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 graceThe bravest of a warrior race."Yet, once again, a note of praiseFor 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 farIn 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 meetingWith 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 seesThat warning lightI 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 slowAs 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!11 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 trainWith 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 endOf some too dearly valued friend,Or mus'd upon the blighting checkTo flat'ring hopes, in fortune's wreck;—Whate'er it was, his looks aloneThe deep'ning gloom of thought made known.But lives there one who never feelsWhat sympathy a glance reveals?Nor owns that cordial can impartA balmy influence to the heart?Again he takes his Book and reads,And thus the wassail tale proceeds.PART II.LLYN‐YR‐HEN‐BONT.1WHO has not felt that strange reliefOf 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 shewWe 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 graveOf 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 tombStrike 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 strewAs fair, alas! as fleeting too!Seek not untimely thoughts of sorrowToo like to pierce the heart tomorrow!Recall we, hours of merrimentIn 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 cheerDisdain a gladsome tale to hear?That ere that crescent orb should wane,For her should meet the bridal train;The Swains in holiday arrayWith true‐love knots of ribbon gay;Should with the joyous Bridegroom rideTo force away the willing Bride,1While 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 riseTo 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 complaintOf 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 HindNow 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 failTo 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 knowWhat pain your silence must bestow."Yet Blethyn's friendship could not moveThe 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 wilesIn 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 triedTo 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'rTo 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 prideFlung 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 rushThrough 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'erBoth man and beast, and still rolls onAs 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 keepsTo 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 sideThe coracle does smoothly glide.But here a sudden squall arose,And off the tiny vessel goesAlong 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 eyesAgain light o'er the stream it flies,But it is empty!—with a screamShe 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, broughtIts 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 knowThe source of such apparent woe;"Thy own sad tale it scarce can be,For past is many a century;Yet may awaken'd feelings tellA 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 tellWhat more these Wassaillers befell;Still have we time to hear the rest,Ere yon bright orb illumes the west.""Briefly, dear Sir, my artless strainShall all these puzzling terms explain;As relics of the olden days,Which still, perchance, may merit praise;By these our early Sires essay'dTo 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 hospitalityProv'd friendship's firm reality."Say, does a Youthful Couple shareThe mutual wish, the mutual care?Soon the Gwahoddwr blithely goesThe 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 showA kindly int'rest with the low,—While every hand some off'ring bearsTo 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 hearSome 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 effaceThose lines which nurs'ry fables trace."But since you ask, I haste to tellWhat more our Wassaillers befell."PART III.CWRT‐Y‐CADNO."THE tide of time hath long agoEngulph'd alike both joy and woe,And hearts which swell'd, and eyes which weptIn undisturb'd repose have slept,Yet Essyllt's grief, and Gwyrvil's smileShall 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 strayTo Bwlch‐y‐Ffin,1 her oft‐trod way,List'ning, while many a mingled soundSpreads 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 melodyCarolling hymns of liberty;The cottage prattlers at their playAs blithesome and as free as they;While from the cot the busy dinOf whizzling wheel is heard within;Near to their garden's shelter'd sideA new fall'n tree a seat supplied,And here Angharad waits to seeThe clust'ring young‐ones' sportive glee,Whilst many a mirthful rosy faceIts 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 hearHis 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) awayA 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 restThe busy thoughts which now opprest;Yet faint the smile which gave reliefTo little Shanni's transient grief,And pleas'd she sees the young ones goBack to the cot, demure and slow,Half ling'ring, yet obedient still,As wont to own another's will;Their sister Megan's gentle callWas 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 seenSome one of you at Ystradffin;"Come, rest with me, and let me knowThe 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'erThe 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 thereWas 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 lightWas 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 prestHis shaggy sides upon his breast,And by his kindly warmth sustain'dHis 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 loadAlong 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 wideTo 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 bellsTo 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 highListens 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 spotSeek 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 spentUpon 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 planTo 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 knowWhat kindness he does daily show!"Angharad did not raise her eyes,And Megan only heard her sighs,Perchance 'twas grief at this sad taleThat made her tremulous and pale;Yet soon Angharad softly said,(Averting, as she spoke, her head,)"But Megan, is there not a fearThis kindness may be bought too dear?"Megan look'd up, but could not spyThe 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 careOf 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 screenAround the hearth, where cheerful glow'dA 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 eyeWas 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 hearThe 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 cameWith 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 shareTheir pleasant work of praise and prayer,And though a transient glow pass'd o'erThe Sire's pale cheek, it was no moreThan joy call'd forth, for well he knewThe 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 believeIn God—my parting words receive:"I go unto my Father to prepareA 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 comeTo 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 giveThe 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."1I 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 stillWe 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,—HeAlone 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 holdHer fainting Husband, wan and cold,Whilst the dear Lady's tearful eyeWatch'd the sad scene in silence by;The door was open'd, and was seenMegan, 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 stroveTo 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 remainTo cheer the mountain and the plain,We wish to find within their sphereA 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 seenTo 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.11 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 silentlyAs Summer's clouds escape the eye,E'en while we watch with wond'ring gazeThe 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 mournThose 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 griefSought 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 belongFantastic 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 unknownCheer'd mourning hearts, and bless'd her own!Then, if in happy temper gayShe 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 declareAngharad 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 seemsAttentive 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 kneelsWith 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 whomThat earth is heap'd, those sweet flow'rs bloom;It is not Gruffydd's, for close byA 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 fellOn thoughts which seem'd the name to tell;Of one belov'd! with shrinking dreadShe mourn'd awhile,—the unknown dead!But not a trace of gloom is seenUpon her face at Ystradffin,For dear lov'd friends await her greetingWith all the joy of cordial meeting.Oh! for a pow'r to clip the wingsOf Time, when heartfelt pleasure bringsIts 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 dispelThe grief which ever marks "farewell!"And unattended, takes her wayTowards 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 whereThe suff'rer liv'd, who claim'd her care.—While on her purpose solely bent,Slight was the glance Angharad lentTo outward obstacles which layObtrusive 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 lightAs might a bat or owl invite;Shadowy and dusk, save when the fireBlaz'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 occupiedA 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 betweenPigs, 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,1And (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 newTo her who near the fire side drew;Angharad thought of her alone,Whose voice she heard in plaintive moan,Whose bending form she faintly spiedWithin 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 handThat 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 doomHad 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 graveThe 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 recallHow 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 hayTook 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 tellThat 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 exceedFor eye of fire, and foot of speed;Nor was the Bride's‐man loth to shewHow 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 threwHer arms, and sobb'd!—a last adieu!"Blind as I was, not then to knowIt 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 roadThat 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 tellAll 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 groanAnother 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 triedOn 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 comeTo 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 roseMore 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 despairOf 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 expressHow deep her heart‐felt thankfulness,Or bliss Angharad's name, or sayWhat 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 roomTo 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,Se