The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival :: :: University of Virginia Library

[The following songs have been written to accompany different National Airs, and compose but a small part of an extended series. The verse has been formed in all, except those adapted to the German airs, on the rhythm of the music, not exactly note for note, but so as to give a corresponding flow and expression. In the German series, the verse of the original German songs has been followed, with a few slight deviations, in most instances, to suit more exactly the rhythm of the airs. The Norwegian airs are taken from Derwent Conway's Journey through Norway, &c. The German series is taken from an old German Convivial Song-Book (Taschenbuch fur Freunde der Freude). The airs of the first ten were composed by J. A. P. Schultz; those of the remaining eight, by J. F. Reichardt. The mottos prefixed indicate the original songs and their authors. The Russian specimens are from a small collection of Russian popular airs accompanying Götze's Collection of Russian Popular Poetry (Stimmen des Russischen Volks in Liedern): the Bohemian from an extensive series of popular airs accompanying the Collection of Bohemian Popular Poetry by Ritter von Rittersberg (Czeske Narodnj Pjsnie): the Gaelic, from a small collection of genuine Gaelic airs, in Logan's Scottish Gael: and the Welsh, except the Rising of the Lark, from a collection of old Welsh tunes in E. Jones's Bardic Museum. It is hardly necessary to remark, that the poetry is, in most instances, adapted to the national or particular character of the air or song which it was intended to accompany.]

NORWEGIAN.

I. National Air.

Ye sons of sires who fought and bled
For liberty and glory,
Whose fame shall ever wider spread
Till Time is bent and hoary,
Awake to meet the invading foe!
Rouse at the call of danger!
Beat down again his standard low,
And backward hurl the stranger!

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They knew no fear, those sires of old,—
'Mid swords and bayonets clashing,
Still high they bore their banner's fold,
Its stars, like lightnings, flashing.
Be like those sires! With freeborn might
Renew the deeds of story!
Who lives, shall win a wreath of light!
Who falls, shall sleep in glory!

II. Mountain Air.

Sons of the chase, awake!
Haste, see the morning break!
Wake to the horn!
Ere fades the morning star,
Echoes, 'round crag and scar,
Proudly its blast afar,—
Far rings the horn!

Hark to the bay of hound,
Tossed from the mountains 'round!
Hark to the horn!
Mount,—mount, and hark-away!
Bright dawns the glorious day,—
Soon we 've the stag at bay:
Loud wind the horn!

GERMAN.

I. The Flower of Liberty.

“Es giebt der Plätzchen überall.”—
Stollberg.

There is no land so fair and bright
As this, where first I drew the light:
There is no land so dear to me
As this, that bears the strong and free,
The cradle-home of liberty!

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Here blooms a sweeter flower,
Than aught in orient bower.
The flower of freedom, fair and bright,
Here spreads its leaves of roseate light.
Yes, freedom's flower here, fair and bright,
Unfolds its leaves of roseate light!

Though far around the world I roam,
My heart still lingers for its home;
And even where Spring for ever dwells
Each flower I meet but only tells
Of that for which my bosom swells.
The flower that graces free
Thy temple, Liberty!
Though far away my steps may roam,
That flower still wins me back to home.
Yes, far away my steps may roam,—
That flower still wins me back to home.

II. The Chain of Love.

“Wir trinken, kühl umschattet.”—
Voss.

O, there are links that bind us,
Of magic power,—
The links, that softly twined us
In Eden's hour.
Joy wreathes his flowers around them,
And love with silk has bound them.
O, there 's a charm, no tongue can tell;
But still the heart, with hidden swell,
Can speak it well!

That chain,—the freeman wears it
With generous pride:
That chain,—the hero bears it,
With haughty stride.

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Yes, lion hearts receive it,
As fairy fingers weave it.
Subdued by love, they still can dare
The battle-field, and fearless there
Its dangers share!

III. The Patriot.

“Dass nie ein Land zu keiner Zeit.”—
Baggesen.

Who loves his country, firm will stand
To meet the fierce invader;
Will lift his sword, with earnest hand,
To aid her.
He knows no fear, when danger calls
The patriot to his country's walls:
When danger forth the patriot calls,
Fearless he fights, and willing falls.

So stood our fathers, side by side,
In freedom's cause victorious,
When back recoiled the invading tide,
Inglorious.
And when our country calls again,
O, be her voice not heard in vain!
When loud our country calls again,
Our home shall be the tented plain!

IV. Wealth of Soul.

“Freund, ich achte nicht des Mahles.”—
Voss.

Not for gold, and not for splendor;
Not for crown or throne;—
No, never will my soul surrender
What it holds its own.

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They may dote on piles of treasure,—
They may swim in streams of pleasure,—
Poor their gain!
Poor their gain!
Poor, ah! poor beyond all measure!
Vain, O, vain!
Only slavery's chain.

Not for all that wealth can offer
Would I check my soul,—
No, not for regal bounty, suffer
Slavery's base control.
Ever in my own dominion,
I would mount on eagle's pinion,
Free as light!
Free as light!
Far above the tyrant's minion,
Wing my flight,
Nerved with strong delight.

V. The Festive Evening.

“Friert der Pol mit kaltem Schimmer.”—
Voss.

Cheerful glows the festive chamber;
In the circle pleasure smiles:
Mounts the flame, like wreaths of amber;
Bright as love its warmth beguiles.
Glad the heart with joy is lighted;
Hand with hand, in faith, is plighted,
As around the goblet flows.
Fill,—fill,—fill, and quaff the liquid rose!
Bright it glows,—
O, how bright the bosom glows!

Pure as light our social meeting:
Here no passion dares invade.
Joys we know, not light and fleeting;
Flowers we twine that never fade.

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Ours are links, not time can sever:
Brighter still they glow for ever,—
Glow in yon eternal day.
No,—no,—no, ye will not pass away
Ye will stay,—
Social joys, for ever stay!

VI. Our Country.

“Bekränzt mit Laub den lieben vollen Becher.”—
Claudius.

The vine may glow, with purple clusters bending,
Where proudly flows the Rhine,
Or, richer pomp to classic ruins lending,
Round tower and temple twine.

We need no vine our country's hills to brighten:
We need no boasted wine.
Be ours the sails, that o'er the ocean whiten,
Around the masted pine.

Be ours the nervy hands that spread and furl them,
With gallant hearts to dare,—
Ours freedom's bolts, with sinewy arms to hurl them,
When threatening comes the war.

Mild as the morn, in peace, our starry splendor
Afar shall light the main.
That flag may perish,—never shall surrender
To boastful pride again!

VII. Washington.

“Füllt an die Gläser, füllt bis oben.”—
Voss.

Fill, fill your glasses,—brim them over!
We drink a health of high renown!
No patriot brow shall glory ever
With brighter wreaths of honor crown!

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Our country's Sire!—with fond emotion,
With firm resolve, and deep devotion,
Around our Union's altar-flame,
Here we invoke his sacred name!

That name shall be our watchword ever
When danger threats, or foe is nigh.
Cursed be the hand that dare dissever
The holy bond we prize so high.
Do thou, blest shade! this Union cherish;
Thy memory here shall never perish.
Long as thy deeds shall here remain.
O, bind us in thy golden chain!

VIII. Liberty.

“Im Hut der Freyheit stimmet an—”

Beneath our country's flag we stand,
And give our hearts to thee,
Bright power, who steel'st and nerv'st our hand,
Thou first born, Liberty!
Here, on our swords, we swear to give
Our willing lives, that thou mayst live!

For thee, the Spartan youth of old,
To death devoted, fell;
Thy spirit made the Roman bold,
And fired the patriot Tell.
Our sires, on Bunker, fought for thee,—
Undaunted fought, and we are free!

Run up our starry flag on high!
No storm shall rend its folds;
On, like a meteor, through the sky,
Its steady course it holds.
Thus high in heaven our flag unfurled,
Go, bear it, Freedom, round the world!

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IX. The Banquet.

“Dem Kindlein, das gebohren ward.”—
Stollberg.

Loud rings the golden cup of joy,
Amid the banquet halls,
And manhood, light as sportful boy,
For mirth and music calls.
Give loose to pleasure! send it free,—
O, send it free,
To roam in wildest liberty!

CHORUS.

Our hearts are free!
They mount in wildest liberty!

As bird on pinion swift and strong,
In airy flight we play,
And as a bird's, our festive song,
Full echoing, floats away.
Joy crowns the banquet! We are free!
O, we are free!
But pure and high our liberty!

CHORUS.

Yes, we are free;
But pure and high our liberty!

X. Spring.

“Der Frühling ist gekommen.”—
Stollberg.

The Spring, the Spring is coming;
The birds are merrily singing:
The Spring, the Spring is coming;
We hear the nightingale,—
In shade of rose, at evening,
We hear the nightingale.

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The yellow buds are breaking;
The flowers in meadow are blowing;
And gentle winds are playing
Along the grassy vale,
Around the airy mountain,
And down the grassy vale.

The Spring, the Spring is with us,
And light the swallow is flitting;
The Spring, the Spring is with us,—
It brings the nightingale,—
In cool of shady evening,
It brings the nightingale.

XI. The Seasons.

“Der Herbst beginnt.”—
Schulz.

The Spring is gone,
And, one by one,
The blossoms are withered and faded:
The Summer, too,
Is almost through,
And thinner the fountain is shaded.
Come, Autumn, come!
Thou lead'st me home:
The birds of the Summer are flying.
Thou wilt not stay,
But steal'st away,
And Winter behind thee is sighing.

The stars are bright,
This winter night:
The lake is merrily ringing.
The skater there,
To the frosty air,
His open bosom is flinging.

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But Spring again
Shall wake the plain,
And showers the blossoms sprinkle.
As through the vale
Light blows the gale,
The lake shall curl and crinkle.

And Summer, thou,
With dripping brow,
Shalt plunge in the shady river,
When golden day
Is on his way,
And field and meadow quiver.
But, Autumn, come!
I welcome home
Fallen leaves and faded flowers.
Thy sky is blue,
And soft as dew
Thy still and gentle hours.

XII. The Boatmen of the Rhine.

“Ein Leben, wie im Paradies.”—
Hölty.

A joyous life, like Paradise,
We lead along the Rhine,
From where it springs 'mid glacier ice,
To where it meets the brine.
By mountain farm, and moated tower,
By ancient town, we glide:
By vine-clad hill, and fabled bower,
By castled rock, we ride.

'Mid Alpine song we float along;
Through field and meadow stray:
Where grows the vine, in purple twine,
We win our easy way.

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We left the free, brave Tell, with thee,
Their earliest rights to keep:
Now through a realm, that once was free,
We hasten to the deep.

XIII. Festivity.

“Fröhlich tönt der Becherklang.”—
Stollberg.

Joyous rings the goblet's chime,
In our merry meeting;
And our cheerful hearts keep time,
As the hours are fleeting.
Wake the echoes round us!
Friendship's chain has bound us!
Only love can wound us!
Fill your glasses,—fill them o'er!
Drink, and care shall vex no more!

Joy ascends on purple wings,
Golden clouds around him:
Lightly to the wind he flings
Every chain that bound him.
From his heaven descending,
See him o'er us bending,
Brightest influence lending!
Fill your glasses,—fill them high!
Quick as light, the minutes fly.

XIV. Youth.

“Rosen auf den Weg gestreut.”—
Hölty.

Roses strewed along my way,
Round me songs of gladness,
On I speed in youthful play;
Mine nor care nor sadness.

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By me pleasure trips along,
Maid with eye bright glancing;
Round the woods repeat her song,
As their leaves are dancing.

Gayly thus we trip it on,
Frolic youth and pleasure,
Gayly, as the moments run
By, in lightest measure.
While the spring of life is new,
Fresh its roses blowing,
So its early joys pursue,—
Quick the stream is flowing.

XV. The Vintage.

“Bekränzet die Tonnen.”—
Hölty.

The vines are deeply blushing;
The vintage is nigh;
And plenty is gushing,
In showers, from the sky.
Bright spirits are fleeting,
On white clouds, along;
And glad hearts are greeting
Their presence with song.

The youth and the maiden
Now haste to the vine;
The choicest of clusters
They gracefully twine:
With music and dances,
They bear them away;
Their toil is but pastime,
Their labor is play.

O'er hill, and o'er valley,
Is calm and repose;

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The voice of the fountain
Is hushed as it flows;
The lake, too, is sleeping,
Unruffled its breast:
All nature is keeping
A Sabbath of rest.

The vintage is gathered;
The harvest is in;
The fruitage of autumn
Is piled in its bin:
The swallows are flitting
To sunnier shore;
We care not for Winter,—
We 've plenty in store.

XVI. Spring.

“Freude jubelt; Liebe waltet.”—
Matthisson.

Mirth is shouting, joy is singing,
Far o'er hill, o'er vale and plain!
Love his merry flight is winging
Through the flowery groves again.
Even the secret forest feeleth,
Trembling deep, his magic power.
Round the hill, at evening, stealeth
Music, gentle as the hour.

Spring is with us,—flowers are blowing;
Round their leaves the west-wind plays:
As afar their breath is flowing,
To their couch he hastes, and stays.
Every sound, that nature utters,
Blends in harmony with all,—
Bee that hums, and leaf that flutters,
Whispering wind, and waterfall.

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XVII. Evening.

“Phöbus eilet, nach der Reise.”—
Köpken.

Evening o'er the vales descending,
Fresh the wind from mountain blows;
And the stars, their influence lending,
Win the laborer to repose.
Night resumes her silent reign,—
Shadowy coolness soothes again!

CHORUS.

Blessings on her gentle reign!
Coolness soothes our hearts again.

Dimly o'er the mountain fading,
Sunset glories die away.
Night, each hue of beauty shading,
Robes the earth in dun array.
But she brings us still repose,—
Soft our wearied eyelids close!

CHORUS.

Grateful is her still repose,—
Pressed by sleep, our eyelids close!

XVIII. Hope.

“Hoffnung, Hoffnung, immer grün.”—
Herder.

Hope! thou art my only friend.
When the light that shone around me
All has fled, and grief has bound me,
Though not love his influence lend,
Thou, O Hope! art still my friend.

All the flowers of life may wither,
Friend and lover, glory, gold,—
All may fly, we know not whither,
But thy arms shall still enfold.

358

Hope! thou ever art my friend.
Though my dearest joys should leave me,
Fate of all I loved bereave me,
Thou a cheering light wilt send,
Still, O Hope! my only friend.

All that wins the heart is fleeting;
Ere 't is known, it flits away,
Ever from our grasp retreating:
Thou, O Hope! alone wilt stay.

RUSSIAN.

I. The Battle Call.

“Ach ty pole, moe pole czistoe—”
“Ah! thou plain, my open plain!”

Loud rings the battle trumpet,
Far resounding, far swelling!
Rouse, heroes, rouse to the conflict!
See, yonder the dark foe
Sweeps, like a winter storm!

On speeds the fierce invader,
Wild as ocean high-heaving!
Strong nerve ye, boldly to meet him!
Back hurl him, as dashed wave
Rolls from the rock-bound shore!

Earth far has shook beneath him,
All-invading, all-subduing!
Yet fear not,—country is sacred!
Who arms for his loved home,
Fights with the sword of Heaven!

359

[II. Think, O think, how much thou lov'dst me]

“Wspomni, wspomni, moy liubeznoy,
Moiu prez'niuju liubov—”

“Think, O think, beloved,
Of my early love!”

Think, O think, how much thou lov'dst me,
When my cheek was fresh and fair!
Do not coldly now forget me,
Though its bloom has gone!

Think how oft we sat together!
Happy were our moments then.
Then my eye was bright with pleasure,—
Now 't is dimmed with tears.

Like a rose was then my beauty,
Rose that opens first in spring.
Then my charms could more allure thee,—
I could love not more.

Leave, O, leave me not forsaken!
I will love thee ever true.
Pale my cheek, and sorrow-stricken,—
Love still lights my soul.

III. The Willow.

“Iwuszka, iwuszka, zelenaia moia—”
“Willow, my green willow!”

Bright flows the meadow stream, and o'er it bends the willow;—
There sat the maid I love, and wove her flowers in garlands:

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There sits no gentle maid;—O, canst thou tell me, willow,
Where I can find the maid that sat at evening by thee?

Light on the meadow stream there floats a rosy garland;—
Fair maiden wove the flowers, and dropped them in the water.
“Go, garland,” thus she said, “and whisper to my lover:
True ever is thy love,—her heart will ne'er forget thee.”

Low droops the willow-tree,—its leaf is pale and yellow:
There flows no meadow stream,—the summer sun has dried it.
Brown all the grass below,—no maiden gathers flowers;
Sits there no more at eve, to weave her flowers in garlands.

See! on the pebbles lies a soiled and withered garland;—
Such is my withered heart, and so my hope has faded.
False maiden wove the flowers, and cast them in the water;—
Soon dried the stream away, and withered lay the garland.

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BOHEMIAN.

I. Bird of the Mountain.

“Lasstowiczka ljta, ljta,
Powjda z'e swjta—”
“The swallow is flying, is flying;
He tells me it dawns.”

Bird of the mountain, sweetly thou singest,—
O, sweet thy song!
Over the fountain, high in the branches,
Thou sitt'st alone.
There oft, at evening, I linger to hear thee:
Bird of the mountain, sweetly thou singest,—
O, sweet thy song!

Bird of the mountain, why art thou ever
So sad and lone?
Only I hear thee breaking the silence
So deep around.
Art thou the spirit of heart-broken maiden?
Bird of the mountain, why art thou ever
So sad and lone?

II. The Bird that has lost its Young.

“Wy panenky sedlsky, ge was tu gen dwanact—”

Why so sadly sing'st thou?
Hast thou lost thy loved one?
Why art thou so lonely,
'Mid the woods afar?
“They have stolen all my young ones,—
That is why so sad my song!”

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Cease thy song of sorrow!
Spring is all around thee,—
Other loves may bless thee,—
Break not so thy heart!
“They have stolen all my loved ones,—
Other loves I cannot know!”

III. Dushka.

“Prawda a z'adna lez'—”

I.

Dushka, fairest of maidens!
Long have I sought for thy love.
Long have I courted thee;
Long have I lingered;
Yet not a smile have I won.
Still thou art dear to me,—
Ever art dear to me;
Ever till death I am thine.
Dushka, fairest of maidens!
Give me, O, give me thy love!

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Dushka, fairest of maidens!
Turn not so coldly away.
Thou wilt remember me,
When they have left thee,
When all the faithless are gone.
Then thou wilt think of me,
Fondly wilt think of me,
Know I am faithful and true.
Dushka, fairest of maidens!
Yield me, O, yield me thy heart!

II.

Dushka, fairest [dearest] maiden!
Thou art still my only love.
When the early blossom
Of thy beauty fades,
Thou wilt find me ever true.
Other youths may leave thee
When thy roses wither;
Still my heart is ever thine.
Dushka, fairest [dearest] maiden!
Thou art still my only love.

Dushka, fairest [dearest] maiden!
Thou wilt ever be my love.
Not, like bird of summer,
Do I flit away;
Even in winter I remain.
I will never leave thee,
Though the storm be rising;
Then I'll press thee to my heart.
Dushka, fairest [dearest] maiden!
Thou wilt ever be my love.

The two songs under this head were written to accompany the same air as differently modified in its time. The original time of the air is triple (3–4), with a syncopated note (a pointed fourth) in the middle of the first measure. The second song, not including the words in brackets, it is adapted to this time including the words in brackets, it is adapted to a triple time, in which the first measure is resolved into a uniform series of eights. This last modification has a much slower movement than the preceding, the absolute time of which is determined by the syncopated note in the first measure. The movement of the verse is determined, the other lines remaining the same, by the varying length of the first line: quicker when that is shorter, and slower when that is longer, that an equilibrium of time may be preserved throughout. The first song is adapted to the same air, in 6–8 time; moving by triplets, as the second by couplets of syllables.

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GAELIC.

I. Homeward Bound.

Air: “An Iorram Fhir a Bhata.”—(The Song of the Boatmen.)

O'er the foaming sea,
Far the ship hastens,
To the green island
Where my love dwells.
There we meet, love;
Never part more,
Till our eyes close
In their last sleep.

Bear me swiftly on,
Fresh and fair breezes,
O'er the blue ocean;—
Fill my white sail!
For my heart longs
For its dear home,—
Longs to meet her
Whom my youth loved.

Yonder rises dim,
O'er the dark waters,
Far, the green island
I have sought long.
Speed thee, swift bark,
As a dart flies!
Soon my loved shore
I shall greet again.

II. The Tryst.

Air: “Righil Thulaichean.”—(Tulloch Reel.)

O come, lassie, come and meet me!
Come, lassie, to the hazel!

365

There, lassie, thou hast trysted,
At the gloamin' hour to meet me.
We will sit beneath its shadow,
As the gloamin' light is fading,
And the mist, along the meadow,
All its dewy flowers is shading.
We will sit and talk together,—
Tell how much we love each other;
As the lambs among the heather,
Gentle aye to one another;—
With a kiss of love and kindness,
Then we'll part, to meet again.
O, come, lassie, come and meet me!
Come, lassie, to the hazel!
There, lassie, thou hast trysted,
At the gloamin' hour to meet me.

O come, lassie, come and meet me!
Come, when the lambs are faulding,—
Come to the hazel, lassie!
I'll be early there to meet thee.
Thou wilt na' distrust thy laddie,—
Truthful aye he 's been unto thee:
He has ever loe'd thee, lassie,—
He will ever dearly loe thee.
Now the heather bells are swinging,
And the gowany turf is glowing,
Bright the saugh, and gay the rowan,
Red the rose, and green the rashes,
Meet me, lassie, by the hazel,—
Meet me by the mountain burn!
O, come, lassie, come and meet me!
Come, when the lambs are faulding,—
Come to the hazel, lassie!
I'll be early there to meet thee.

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III. The Lover's Lament.

Air: “Cuilfhionn.”—(The Holly.)

O, closed the eye that beamed so kindly,
Mild as the morn, when it first uncloses!
O, pale the lip, that smiled so fondly,
Pure, in its hue, as the dewy rose!
O, like the rose, that lip has faded!
Cold in the grave thy form reposes;
Dark, dark as night, my soul is shaded;
Full as the fountain, my heart now flows.

Long shall I think of the hours when I sat with thee.
Under the shade of the trysting tree, at silent gloaming;
Long shall I dwell on the scenes I have viewed with thee;
But I shall see thee no more again.
Yet shall I never forget how I strayed with thee,
Over the hills, in the sunny noon of April, roaming;
Never forget how in childhood I played with thee,
Hours, that, like thee, were without a stain.

IV. Clan Donnal's Gathering.

A Pibroch.

Air: “Cogadh na Sith.”—(War or Peace.)

Up, Clan Donnal!
Wild rings the pibroch through glen and through valley;
Loud peals the slogan, that calls you to war!
Haste! Donnal's bold warriors on yonder hill rally;
High blaze the bale-fires o'er heath and o'er mountain;
And broad waves the standard, and streams afar.

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Up, Clan Donnal!
Gird on the broadsword, and on with the tartan!
Haste, where the pipes shrilly waken the echoes,
For there is the gathering of Donnal to-day!
Up, Clan Donnal!
Haste ye from lake, and from glen, and from mountain,
From forest and heath, from the well and the fountain,
And rush ye, like eagles who sweep to their quarry,
Or sons of the mountain, abroad on their foray,
Nor think of aught else, but the loved ones behind you,
Who faithful defenders, in battle, shall find you.
So up, and away!

Up, Clan Donnal!
Haste to the gathering, as hounds in the morning
Speed where the horn rings o'er heath and o'er hill!
Haste! Clansmen should spring as the pipes give their warning,—
Dash from their heights, like a flood from its fountain,
When swelled by the burst of a cloud to its fill.
Up, Clan Donnal!
Trusty and faithful we ever have known you;—
Fearless and true were your fathers before you;—
Long may their pride and their glory remain!
Up, Clan Donnal!
On through the torrent, and on through the river,
And on up the steep where the mountain-sides shiver,
For spirits of heroes are hovering o'er you,
And yonder the Saxon invader before you;—
On, from your soil with your good claymores sweep them,
And high at the foot of your Grampians heap them.
So up, and away!

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WELSH.

[I. Of Hoel, high and glorious, raise the pæan ]

Air: “Blodau yr Gogledd.”—(The Flower of the North.)

I. The Song of Heroes.

Of Hoel, high and glorious, raise the pæan,
Bards, with hoary hair, like streaming meteor!
Strike the harp, in martial symphony!
Close the strain in sadness!
The deeds of other days, worthy heroes,
Bright as holy Heaven, fair as vernal flowers,
Strong as mountain wolves, lions too in fight,
Mild as April showers, in their peaceful days,
Ruling righteously, conquering nobly,—
Such, alas! are seen no more.
No more shall hero's arm wield the falchion
High-born Hoel bore to victory.
Rust has dimmed it; time has tarnished it:—
Breathe us tones of sorrow!

II.

Aloft resounds Llewellyn's horn;
Sharp rings its blast, like note of scorn;
From Snowdon's peaks it rolls at morn,
O'er Gwynedd proudly swelling.

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Its echoes bound from crag and scar,
And, borne by mountain winds afar,
They call the Cambrian youth to war,—
The Saxon's death-peal knelling.

Like lightning's flash on lake or stream,
The sword of Rhydderch darts its gleam.
None, but its own unconquered lord,
Can bear in fight that magic sword.
Who else dares draw it from its sheath,
Finds in its wasting flame his death.
In Rhydderch's strong right-hand, it waves,
A meteor, o'er yon Saxon slaves.
Such Rhydderch's sword, Llewellyn's horn,
Far-flashing, proudly swelling.

The air in this instance is in quadruple time (4–4). The first of the songs accompanying it is written with a syllable to each note of the music. The second is written in the regular metrical rhythm of the air, with only one syllable to each eighth of time, but with a repeat of the first four lines. By reading in the second line of the first piece, “like meteor, streaming wide,”—in the fifth line, “the deeds of days departed,”—and in the eleventh line, “No more shall arm of hero,”—the rhythm of the verse becomes that of declamation.

II. The Bard's Song.

Air: “Y Bardd yn ei Awen.”—(The Bard in his Inspiration.)

Hark! yonder swells a music,
Full, yet distant; as from Heaven,
Flows it through the air.
Bards! wake ye, and in chorus
Tune your harps, and raise your voices,—
Welcome here the song!

Hail, heroes, bards and sages,
Princely Hoel, high Cadwallon!
Night veils us, but around us
Heaven is opened, and its music
Lifts us to its halls!

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III. The Song of Victory.

Air: “Tôn Alarch.”—(The Swan's Note.)

Shout, shout for victory!
Raise high the pæan!
Strong arms have conquered,—
Strong hearts impelled them.
Bright hymns shall welcome us,
Loved arms embrace us,
Fond blessings follow us
Home to our halls.

Full is our triumph;
Home now is rescued:
Sun-bright our victory;
Stain cannot dim it.
But for the fallen
Breathe now the requiem!
Glad songs should bear them
High to their heaven.

Shout, shout for victory!
Low lies the invader:
Heaven still protects us,
Shields hearth and altar.
Bards, tune your symphonies!
Swell full your chorus!
Bright deeds to other days
Flow on your songs.

Loud rings the pæan,—
Youth fondly listens;
Hearts so inspirited
Pant high for glory.
Soft tones of sorrow
Breathe for the fallen,—
Welcome as incense,
Rise to the stars.

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IV. The Rising of the Lark.

See! Morning breaks,
And pours its light
O'er yonder height,
And, dewy bright,
Young Day awakes.
I mount and sing,
On quivering wing,
And bear to heaven
My joyous song.
In midway air,
As flitting star,
'Mid golden beams
I float along;
While far below
In dawn's first glow,
The woods attune
Their vocal throng.

Thus lost in light,
With sudden fall,
From Heaven's high hall,
At love's sweet call,
I drop my flight;
Then mount again.
The eye in vain
Can trace me,
As I sweep on high;
But still the ear
Can ever hear
My clear notes
Falling from the sky,
As if in bush,
At evening's hush,
The nightingale
Close warbled by.

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Sing, joyous lark!
My heart with thee
Mounts light and free,
High liberty
Its shining mark.
Still heavenward fly!
With thee, on high,
My spirit speeds
From earth afar;—
On airy wings,
Aloft it springs,
To dwell 'mid light
Of sun and star;—
Full-voiced and strong,
It pours its song,
Like hymn that greets
The victor's car.