THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Qoelical S^ fjiumorous^W^orks 
 
 ^-^ox-y^sy^ 
 
 OF 
 
 George Fardo. 
 
 Rclatina to 
 
 PoiDpsland and l2ortl) and SoutD Wales* 
 
 CALL RIGHTS RESERVED). 
 
 BATH. 
 
 PRINTED BY WILKINSON BROS. & CO., 
 
 19, UNION STREET & UPPER BOROUGH WALLS. 
 
 1903.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 > ♦ < 
 
 
 Page. 
 Jubilee Hymn, 1887 ... 5 
 Stream Dreams of Wales 6 
 Caerphilly ... ... i? 
 
 Youth aud Age ... 23 
 
 Legend of Barry Dock ... 25 
 The building of Barry Dock 28 
 The Seven Sisters, Penarth 31 
 Gwaelod-y-Garth ... 34 
 
 Ye Storm King ... 36 
 
 Font-y-Gary ... ... 41 
 
 Song, Llantrisant ... 42 
 
 The Witch of the Went- 
 
 loog ... ... 43 
 
 Shakespeare ... ... 103 
 
 The Wye ... ... 106 
 
 Sarn Helen— Legend of 
 
 Holm Island ... 107 
 
 Bleakmere, Salop ... 130 
 
 Pwll-y-Pant .. ... I34 
 
 Cambrian Maiden's Prayer 135 
 Cot by Sully Isle ... 136 
 
 Polly of Penarth ... 137 
 
 The first Snowdrop ... 138 
 
 Spring ... ... ^39 
 
 Autumn ... ... 140 
 
 The Seneschal... ... 141 
 
 Bargoed Mill ... ... 142 
 
 Dick Spot, Oswestry ... I44 
 May and December ... 148 
 
 The Usk ... ... 149 
 
 Her first Christmas Day ... 150 
 Baby Grab ... ... 151 
 
 A Baby, born ist June ... 152 
 Annie Dorothy ... ,, 
 
 Bile... ... ... 153 
 
 Ethel .. ... 155 
 
 Pant-y-ffynon, Selattyn ... 156 
 Cwm George, Dinas Powys 157 
 Song, The Colonel ... 160 
 
 Whittington Castle, Salop 162 
 The shortest Day ... 164 
 
 Tettenhall Wood ... 165 
 
 Llanymvnech ... 166 
 
 Lill and' Dot ... ... 170 
 
 The Po.stmau ... ... 171 
 
 Page. 
 Chepstow Castle ... 175 
 
 The Cornfield ... 177 
 
 The Maid of Ystrad 179 
 
 Mynach ... 
 Bessie of Barry ... 180 
 
 The Glow-worm ... 181 
 
 Farewell ... ... T82 
 
 Nature ... ... 183 
 
 On theTauat ... ... 184 
 
 The despicable one ... 185 
 
 A nightmare Dream ... 186 
 
 A Reverie ... ... 187 
 
 Hope ... ... ,, 
 
 Ingratitude ... ... „ 
 
 Sympathy 
 
 Yestj'u-ap-Gwrgan 
 
 Tintern-ou-W}'e 
 
 Man 
 
 The Old Road Man 
 
 A Shropshire School, by 
 
 Oswestry, 1836 
 His Darling ... 
 The Orator 
 The Babe of Sion Hill ... 
 
 188 
 189 
 190 
 191 
 193 
 
 197 
 198 
 200 
 Wightwick Mill, South 201 
 
 Stafford ... 
 At a Farm, North Wales, 
 
 holiday time (after 17 
 
 days' rain) ... ... 204 
 
 The Dove ... .. 205 
 
 Gratitude ... ... 207 
 
 Sally ... ... 209 
 
 Lily ... ... 211 
 
 Mother ... ... 212 
 
 Her Hand ... .. 213 
 
 In Memoriam ... ... 214 
 
 Quakers' Yard, Glamorgan 215 
 Richard Sebastian Bond, 
 
 Artist (Bettws-y-Coed) 218 
 Christmas Song — 1861 ... 220 
 King Cotton ... ... 221 
 
 April ... .. 223 
 
 The late Duke of Clarence 224 
 Romance of Powysland 
 
 (Crimean War) ... 225 

 
 Jubilee Rpiiiti. 
 
 Sang at the Banquet presided over by the Author at the Jete 
 in Compton Hall Park, 21st June, 18S7. 
 
 For our great Queen and country 
 
 We homage pay to Thee, 
 That Thou, All-gracious Father, 
 
 May bless our Jubilee. 
 A great world smiles with plenty, 
 
 Our nation teems with wealth, 
 And Thou the way hast shown us 
 
 To happiness and health. 
 
 Ensample of all virtues. 
 
 Our Queen, protect and guide, 
 That Thy Divine intention 
 
 May sway her Empire wide. 
 Give wisdom to all people, 
 
 Give statesmen honesty, 
 And all the world as brothers 
 
 An endless Jubilee. 
 
 The flowers that bloom around us. 
 
 The sun that shines to-day, 
 The ocean that surrounds us. 
 
 The tuneful song-birds gay, 
 Proclaim Thy loving kindness, 
 
 O Father — God — benign ! 
 The love Thou hast vouchsafed us 
 
 In Queen Victoria's reign. 
 
 CHORUS : 
 For our great Queen and country 
 
 We homage pay to Thee, 
 
 That Thou, All-gracious Father, 
 
 May bless our Jubilee. 
 
 5
 
 $u)cct stream Dreams of Wales. 
 
 {Composed ivhen Author zvas bedridden after an accident.) 
 
 I. 
 Sweetest Rivers of Wales ! shall I ever again 
 Explore your wild shores ? Ah ! to doubt it is pain. 
 Again hear nij' loved ones rejoicingly laugh 
 As the Nightingale trills on the banks of the Taff? 
 See Bargoed, and Rhymny and Ely's live floods ; 
 Caerphilly's weird Towers ; St. Fagan's dense woods ; 
 Or gaze through those vistas of bright living green, 
 Where mead, stream and wild-wood, commingled are seen. 
 That haunt of the fairy - Porthkerry's surprise ; 
 Or wild Cwrt-y-rala, whose rocks shut out skies. 
 Or roam through Rhiwbina, whose sheltering bowers 
 Are joyous with song-birds and gemm'dwith wild flowers. 
 Below which the channel leads to a sea-grave, 
 The Usk, Wye and Severn's combin'd tribute wave ; 
 While Devon's rough combe-rocks, with time wrinkled 
 
 [frown, 
 Hold war with the wild-waves, and proudly look down, 
 Prepared for the onset, repulsing attack ; 
 Each wave to spra}' smashing, then hurling it back 
 To the far-famous Islands, the mystical Holms, 
 Where the angry sea splashes and surges and foams. 
 Those islands which silently tell their own tales 
 As the links that last joined dear old England and Wales. 
 And who doth not love to revisit Llandaflf, 
 On the margin and banks of the picturesque Taff? 
 Whose heart doth not swell, by the windings of Taff, 
 When charmed with the chimes oftime-honor'dLlandafif? 
 And new-fangled religions may come and may go 
 Like the tide in the TaflF, they may ebb, flood and flow, 
 But Christians have worshipped since Christians were 
 At some cherish'd fane in Llandaff's sacred shade L'^^*^® 
 It oft hath been roofless ; aye, sometimes stripp'd bare ; 
 But worshippers ever were found kneeling there. 
 
 6
 
 And the hill-fox and wolf may have howl'd through its aisle 
 
 And the raven have croaked in the shattered old pile, 
 
 But, glory to God ! now at Teilo's lone shrine, 
 
 A house proudly stands, fit for worship divine. 
 
 Where a Vaiighan did dispense the pure milk of the Word 
 
 With a sweet simple service in Christian accord. 
 
 May the Church on the Taff, which first kindled the spark 
 
 Of the pure Christian light when our country was dark, 
 
 Her place as our Mother Cathedral retain 
 
 Till the Master in Glory shall come back again ! 
 
 May her teachings lead up, like her tower and her spire, 
 
 To that which is purer, holier and higher. 
 
 Till the " Glad tidings " taught in the Church of Landaff 
 
 Flow as free o'er the earth as the waters of Taff. 
 
 And, like the old river, the flowing ne'er cease 
 
 Till the world holds the doctrine of good-will and peace. 
 
 I love thee, dear Wales ! be it south, be it north ; 
 
 And loud of thy beauties I'd gladly sing forth. 
 
 I love, too, to roam on the banks of the Taff, 
 
 When the sweet smiling sun makes the dark waters laugh. 
 
 II. 
 
 I have follow'd the Conway through rock-rift and glen, 
 
 Through black, yawning caverns, and stork-haunted fen, 
 
 While plunging and rushing through bracken and bower. 
 
 The Machno's pure waters to seize and devour ; 
 
 While tearing, triumphant, o'er torrent and fall — 
 
 With giant-like fury, enough to appal — 
 
 While scowling beneath the grim rock of the Bard, 
 
 As though the tradition its bosom had jarr'd ; 
 
 While mirroring calmly the lone Fairy Glen, 
 
 As if wasted strength it would woo back again. 
 
 Ere it takes up the Lledr its current to swell. 
 
 And roams through the wild woods in Bettws deep dell. 
 
 Pellucid, lone, Lledr, meanders the vale 
 
 Reflecting great Siabod all snow clad and pale.
 
 And wliile Dolwyddelan doth nestle above, 
 
 Limpid Lledr glides gently through dense Druid's Grove> 
 
 Rolls rumbling and tumbling through quaint Lledr bridge^ 
 
 Beneath Eagle Craig's lofty picturesque ridge, 
 
 Till Conway, elate, lifts with pride his wave-crest, 
 
 And Lledr, the fair, courts repose in his breast ; 
 
 'Neath the rocks of old Bettws, where Llugwy in state 
 
 To pour into Conway her waters doth wait. 
 
 Lithe Llugwy, from boulders serrated and steep, 
 
 In Conway's calm stream-bed reclines as in sleep. 
 
 Forgotten the fearful escape from her thrall, 
 
 And her grand head-long flight o'er the fam'd Swallow 
 
 Then Trefriw, Llanrwst and far- fam'd Talycafn, [Fall. 
 
 With mount, vale and forest, like glimpses of Heaven, 
 
 The Conway reflects ; till the walls of the Harp 
 
 Shew watch-tower, and turret, and loop-hole and scarp ; 
 
 With the rocks — on the sky-line— where Gryffydd the 
 
 Was murder'd by kinsmen, his heart bled to save, [brave^ 
 
 The Saxon invader he fought and defied ; 
 
 But, alas ; by his countrymen's treason he died. 
 
 And the heights of Deganwy, fantastic in form, 
 
 And the bold rocky bluff, the great head of the Orme, 
 
 Proclaim that old Conway hath reach'd the sea-shore. 
 
 Carnarvon's great river, its course keeps no more ! 
 
 And as the bright sun tips, with gore, the west wave, 
 
 Old Conway dies glorious, like Gryffydd the brave ! 
 
 III. 
 I have watched the Clyweddog, in paroxysms wild, 
 Tearing through rocky caverns, all riven and piled, 
 Now leaping, now seething, now roaring with rage ; 
 Now dashing, now splashing, her ire to assuage ; 
 Now kissed by a sunbeam, in grotto or glade, 
 Now scowling 'neath storm-clouds in some sombre shade ; 
 
 8
 
 Now shimmering sweetly in sunshine's rich glow, 
 While the forest's long shadows are tossed to and fro, 
 Now eddying, twirling, past gnarled root and tree. 
 For nothing may check her mad course to the sea : 
 And doting as bridegroom upon his young bride 
 Her torrent of passion is Dolgelly's pride. 
 Bold Barmouth, too, welcomes her coming with glee ; 
 While great Cader Idris frowns high o'er the sea. 
 Clyweddog to Wnion resigning her name 
 Becomes ever after obedient and tame. 
 And then on the bosom of Mawddwch she glides, 
 Till both are engulfed in the ocean's great tides. 
 
 IV. 
 I have bounded up Berwyn with life in its prime, 
 I've angled in Ceiriog in joyous spring time ; 
 Past lovely Llanarmon, and down the green vale, 
 While wild warblers mingled love songs with the gale. 
 Past Glyn's budding beauties, 'neath poplar and birk. 
 Past prill, rock and mountain, to picturesque Chirk. 
 Where the " pass of the graves " doth still silently show, 
 How the Cymry and Norman exchanged blow for blow, 
 That day when the Norman host, worsted in fight, 
 Was routed and Henry sought safety in flight. 
 And Ceiriog's stream brawled along just as we see, 
 Past Brynkynallt's halls to its junction with Dee. 
 And Ceiriog, the lovely, brings back like a dream 
 Fond mem'ries to me of another sweet stream. 
 The Morlas, secluded, runs down through the glen, 
 It's hist'ry entwined with the Bard, Llywarch Hen ; 
 Who saw from Selattyn, which glow'rd on the glade. 
 His last son laid low by the sharp Saxon blade. 
 Oh ! sweet silver Morlas ! so pure, and so bright, 
 How oft have I view'd thee with throbs of delight. 
 
 9
 
 Thy banks deck'd with primrose : thy cadence so sweet, 
 As rippling o'er pebbles thou sang 'neath my feet. 
 Thy waters as pure as the bright pearly shower 
 That sprang from the cascade in Eden's fair bower. 
 May thy haunts of delight ever haunt me in dreams, 
 I love thee as Cambria's, purest of streams ! 
 
 V. 
 
 And memory conjures up yet a fair stream, 
 
 The Morda, so merry, which comes like a dream. 
 
 Of the far distant past, when in boyhood I stroU'd, 
 
 To see benign Nature her beauties unfold : 
 
 Before the gay lark soar'd in song to the sky. 
 
 Or the grey of the day-break ascended on high. 
 
 And when the hot sun made me seek the cold glade, 
 
 I lov'd thy cool stream and thy green leafy shade. 
 
 Where the kingfisher built, and the trout and the coot 
 
 Clung close to those haunts where no man had set foot. 
 
 Industrious Morda, whose course from the hills, 
 
 Is damm'd, cross'd and toss'd by more bread-winning 
 
 Than any Welsh stream of its size or its length, [.niills 
 
 Hence I boast of its beauty, its swiftness and strength. 
 
 I've followed the silvery trout-teeming Morda 
 
 From Llawnt, through the woods and the rocks of Craig- 
 
 [forda 
 Past the hall where the chieftain, resolved to be free, 
 
 Hung the Norman King's minions high up in a tree. 
 
 Then prov'd by his valour against the Grand Turk, 
 
 That war to a Welshman was pastime, not work ; 
 
 And bold as a lion, the chief of Llanforda 
 
 Prov'd metal was made on the banks of the Morda. 
 
 Meandering Morda, so pure, and so cool, 
 
 'Neath umbrageous branches, past willow-fringed pool. 
 
 Through meadows where Cowslips and Ladysmocks pale, 
 
 Bedeck the romantic and verdure clad vale ; 
 
 lO
 
 Through chasm and whirlpool, through glade and through 
 
 [glen, 
 Through fields ever fertile, through soak, swamp and fen ; 
 
 Till lost in the Vyrnwy's swift treacherous stream 
 
 The brook fades away like a vanishing dream. 
 
 And Vyrnwy and Morda to Severn repair, 
 
 Adding wealth to the charms of Sabrina the fair. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And who can forget thee ? Sweet river,— I cannot, 
 Forget thee ! x-\h, never ! thou murmuring Tanat, 
 Or Berwyn's wild heights ; or Llangedwin's vale ; 
 Or Blodwel's sweet site — Pen-yr-voel's sad tale. 
 Or great Llanymynech's bold bluff up above 
 (Where rapturous hours I have spent with my love) 
 Aye, hopeless, indeed, must that man be who cannot 
 Find pleasure and health on the banks of the Tanat. 
 Even Rhaiadr hurries to bound from the rock, 
 And dashes, all foaming, with thud and with shock, 
 For lovely Llangedwin's sweet flow'r scented vale. 
 Which mirrors the mountain, the dell and the dale ; 
 And genial Blodwel's fair bowers, where Spring 
 Tempts Flora her earliest treasures to fling. 
 And glorious, indeed, is that meeting which ends 
 In V3Tnwy and Tanat uniting as friends. 
 Here, peace, by her symbols of staid rustic life 
 Oblivion throws over the blood-shed and strife 
 That reigned when old Blodwel's fair Palace o'erthrown, 
 Saw Mercian and Cymr^ contend for a throne. 
 
 VII. 
 
 It is rapture to ramble by dark rolling Dee, 
 From its birth by the lake to its death-bed at sea, 
 While sacred Valle Crucis' sad ruin we scan, 
 Romantic Llangollen and grim Dinas Bran : 
 
 II
 
 Twixt Cefn, with viaduct graceful and grand, 
 
 Cysylltau, by fairy-like a quaduct spann'd ; 
 
 And Glyn,with it's lime rocks and wild wooded height, 
 
 The vale is a scene of unbounded delight ! 
 
 And on rolls the Dee, and reflects on its way 
 
 The towers and turrets of lordly Wynnstay ; 
 
 And past famous Bangor, where once on its banks 
 
 The blood-thirsty Pagan horde slaughtered the Monks. 
 
 Great Palace of Eaton ; rich Westminster's spoil ; 
 
 If wrung from the sweat of our poor sons of toil, 
 
 Or gained in fair commerce ; or policy won ; 
 
 'Tis a terrible load for the soul of one man ! 
 
 And down by the deep Dee, at Nature's own shrine, 
 
 I pray that contentment and health may be mine. 
 
 And away with the river from Eaton's proud halls, 
 
 To romantic Chester's red time-honor'd walls, 
 
 Where Celt, Roman, Saxon and Norman, in might. 
 
 Each held regal sway, and then passed into night. 
 
 The night of the past, where oblivion doth hide 
 
 Their virtues, ambitions, their crimes and their pride. 
 
 And where once they dwelt, the still stedfast old Dee 
 
 Rolls on in its prime to the deep rolling sea. 
 
 Just as when the first Charles saw with terror and pain 
 
 His army fly routed from Rowton's green plain. 
 
 As when the weak Richard in Flint's fortress grim 
 
 Saw BoHngbroke's star make his life's star wane dim, 
 
 With misery's moanings o'er loaded the air. 
 
 From Hilbre's rock-isle to the far point of Ayr. 
 
 Inspiring Glendower with hatred's dread sting 
 
 To die or avenge the sad fate of his king. 
 
 The brave Cymro of old ere he fought to be free. 
 
 Kissed the banks and then drank nispiration from Dee. 
 
 And our history's page teems with records of thee, 
 
 Thou right royal river— well-named " Divine Dee ! " 
 
 12
 
 VIII. 
 From hoary Plinlimmon, with crest in the sk}^, 
 As infants rush forth mighty Severn and Wye. 
 Sabrina, to roam through old England's rich dales, 
 The Wye, to cling fondly to beautiful Wales. 
 Both laving such banks, with their pure limped streams, 
 As one sees in soft slumbers, in soul soothing dreams. 
 Montgomery's sad ruin ; old Powys's towers. [bowers^ 
 BIuflF Breidden's blue heights ; and fair Powysland's 
 By Strata Marcella, of whose stately pile 
 A few shattered fragments lay deep in the soil, 
 Which, thanks to the zeal of Gungrog's gifted son, 
 Are now brought to view in the light of the sun. 
 (And Powysland's kingdom no truer son owns 
 Than her leal, loving subject — her iMorris Charles Jones). 
 Proud Salop ! entranced with thy beautiful face. 
 Sweet Severn enfolds thee with loving embrace. 
 While Wrekin tow'rs proudly, without a compeer, 
 Over W roxeter's ruins, whose wonders appear, 
 Within the fair landscape as burn-marks of time, 
 Still telling of tyranny, terror and crime. 
 Neglected lies Buildwas, whose Abbey, sans roof. 
 In silent decay is a standing reproof; 
 That structure, so sacred in this wealthy land. 
 Dismantled, deserted, dishonor'd, should stand. 
 And Severn, reflecting the pile, glides away 
 As if its pure waters abhorr'd the decay. 
 And past the domain of old Vulcan we sail 
 To Bridgenorth with pleasure from grim Coalbrookdale. 
 As the Teme brawls to Severn her voice in review, 
 Calls the scenes where the maiden braved Comus and crew 
 Whom Milton, immortal, for pastime was fain 
 With unrivalled power to evolve from his brain. 
 
 13
 
 What dramatic art, without show or pretence, 
 
 The poet put forth to protect innocence ? 
 
 As when his lov'd country for freedom did fight, 
 
 His pen ahvays wrote what his heart felt was right. 
 
 Now Worcester in peace raises roses and hops 
 
 O'er which the fam'd Malverns in pride raise their tops, 
 
 As they did o'er the field when stern Cromwell elate 
 
 His great "crowning mercy " despatch did dictate, 
 
 When brother fought brother, and neither would yield, 
 
 As prov'd by their bodies strewn thick on the field, 
 
 And past hoary Glo'ster, swift Severn rolls by 
 
 And hastens to Chepstow to wed the fair Wye. 
 
 Which, true to her birthplace, clings to the sweet vales 
 
 Of Brecknock and Radnor and health-giving Wales. 
 
 What Briton in Monmouth can view Wye's pure tide, 
 
 And think of great Harry without feeling pride ? 
 
 As the fifth Henry saw it we now view the Wye ; 
 
 As it then ebb'd and flow'd so it now rolleth by, 
 
 And so will it flow, while like shadows we fly. 
 
 Which the clouds o'er the mountains reflect in the Wye. 
 
 And the Wind-clifTs tall height and fair Tintern's wreck'd 
 
 [shrine, 
 Show us scenes, rich and rare, as her rival the Rhine. 
 
 And Chepstow's hoar tow'rs from the rock to the sky. 
 
 Reflect breadth and depth in the waters of Wye. 
 
 Oh ! ruin majestic ! respect, in decay, 
 
 Jnspir'd by thy grandeur, I hasten to pay. 
 
 Regretfully fond and with soul-speaking sigh, 
 
 I grieve to depart from the beautiful Wye. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And what of the Ogwen ? Whose voice from afar. 
 
 Roars loud as the thunder when Nature's at war. 
 When fork -lightning flasheth through storm cloud and fog 
 What cheek doth not blanch under tragic Benglog ? 
 
 14
 
 Rugged rocks, raking cloud-rifts, fantastic and wild ; 
 Split, riven, serrated, in disorder pil'd ; 
 Wreck'd world's grotesque fragments, chaotic and grand, 
 Disorder so ordered by Nature's command, 
 That nought out of place mids't these horrors is seen, 
 To mar the effects of the wild tragic scene. 
 With garments of snow and with summit in Heaven, 
 Each mount springs from earth like a giant new shriven. 
 Snowdon, Carnedd-Llewelyn, old Dafydd, Tryfan, 
 Scowl down as if Ogwen were curs'd by a ban. 
 On Ogwen, imprison'd deep down in the lake. 
 By adamant walls which no effort may break. 
 But when re-inforc'd the strong stream in its wrath, 
 Laughs to scorn every obstacle placed in its path, 
 With bound and with crash and with hoarse hollow roar, 
 He tears from his bonds like a giant of yore. 
 His mighty voice thundering — deafeningly loud, 
 Re-echo'd above in the mountain and cloud, 
 Till the storm up aloft and the torrents below, 
 Like strife in the elements, add woe to woe. 
 Making man, the poor pigmy, with his puny arm, 
 Stand trembling and spell-bound by awe's gruesome charm 
 No trace here of life but the eagle's shrill scream. 
 Or the croak of the raven in unholy dream. 
 A scene, so majestic, so fearfully grand ! 
 Were jfit for a Monarch to make his last stand, 
 And share 'mongst the caverns the storm-clouds and rocks, 
 His freedom, with famine, the wolf and the fox ; 
 Oh ! wild, tragic, Ogwen ; thou type of old Wales, 
 Whose grandeur, the awe stricken vision assails ! 
 From Hilbre's lone Isle to renown'd Anglesea, 
 From Menai's bright wave to the dull Severn sea. 
 There is nothing in stream-dream at fancy's command, 
 Like the Ogwen, majestic ! the wild and the grand ! 
 
 IS
 
 From Gwynedd to Pow3's, Deheubarth to Gwent ; 
 Carnarvon to Cardiff, the Briton content, 
 With the grandeur of Ogwen, the beauty of Wye, 
 For far distant countries hath no need to sigh. 
 And while, with its beauties, contentment prevails, 
 I would cling until death, unto glorious old Wales ! 
 
 i6
 
 CacrpDHIp,— fl Romance, 
 
 I. 
 
 Fair Lily gazed down from a tower of Caerphilly, 
 On the moonlighted moat's placid waters beneath ; 
 Where her face surfaced up by a pale water-lily, 
 And she shrank from its startling resemblance to death. 
 
 Sweet Lily, the lovely, the pride of Caerphilly, 
 
 A landless young Knight had made mad by her love ; 
 
 And she loved her young Knight, though the world 
 thought her silly, 
 
 For her father had sent him the wide world to rove. 
 
 And Willie was loved by the maids of Caerphilly, 
 His sweet winning smile had enraptured them all ; 
 And bravely in fight had the gallant young Willie 
 Saved the life of his Chief near his ancestral hall. 
 
 And when in the Castle of lordly Caerphilly, 
 
 Earl Gilbert had knighted the brave hearted youth. 
 
 His eye met the eye of the charming young Lily, 
 
 And the world seemed too small for the loves of them 
 both. 
 
 Away, and away, from the towers of Caerphilly, 
 
 By the windings of Rhymny no longer to roam ; 
 
 Where the daffodil warms the poor heart that's grown 
 chilly. 
 
 And the pale modest primrose in Spring makes its home. 
 
 And the mountains that frown round the keep of 
 Caerphilly, 
 
 With the clouds in the distance in chaos were lost. 
 
 As down Severn's sea-stream away sailed Sir Willie, 
 
 And his heart ,4ike the billows, was riven and toss'd. 
 
 17
 
 And a lord from o'er Severn demanded poor Lily, 
 
 As wife for his son — a poor niddering coof ; 
 
 But Lily, the lovely, adored of Caerphilly, 
 
 As a maiden would die ere she'd breathe neath his roof. 
 
 And year after year did the walls of Caerphilly, 
 Her sad heart imprison till hope was nigh dead ; 
 No news of Sir Willie had reached his dear Lily, 
 And her poor heart was sinking with bodings of dread. 
 
 No news, did they say ? Yes, a Knight of the Lily, 
 Against the Grand Turk had won wealth, name and fame. 
 But little thought Lily, in distant Caerphilly, 
 That this knight and her lover was one and the same. 
 
 .
 
 II. 
 
 And her father commanded the men of Caerphilly 
 Their harness, their armour, their horse to prepare ; 
 To escort their mistress, the sad-hearted Lily, 
 Into Cardiif, as guest to the lordly De Clare. 
 
 And oh ! how she yearn'd for the gallant Sir Willie, 
 To warm with his valour and love her poor breast ; 
 For tidings had reach'd the proud walls of Caerphilly, 
 That knights would meet knights with stout lances in rest. 
 
 And he, from o'er Severn, who coveted Lily, 
 Had sworn he would die. or else win her as bride : 
 And hence ! 'twas she long'd for her noble Sir WiUie, 
 Whom her father had banish'd beyond the salt tide. 
 
 Where lovely Morganwg grows rugged and hilly, 
 Beneath a rude rock, rent from summit to base ; 
 While fierce wolfish stars made the night air bite chilly, 
 A knight in his armour lay low on his face. 
 
 On his shield, bent and dented, a simple white lily, 
 Disfigur'd and batter'd, lay down by his side ; 
 And a poor wounded steed, his snow-white fleet filly, 
 Bit the grass as its gore the cold earth's bosom dyed. 
 
 And three rude blood-stained ruffians, stretched out, 
 
 will-he-nill-he, 
 With harness all shatter'd, with weapons all blood ; 
 
 Had felt the sharp sword of the Knight of the Lily, 
 
 As they rush'd from their ambush beneath the dense 
 wood. 
 
 But, who limps away there, and whistles so shrilly. 
 And savagely glares on the gallant young knight ; 
 Then makes for the turrets of lordly Caerphilly, 
 Is it he from o'er Severn in this sorry plight ? 
 
 19
 
 And had he not fought for the maid of Caerphilly, 
 
 In the lists, and been vanquished — yea, borne to the 
 ground — 
 
 By the brave nameless Knight, by the Knight of the Lily, 
 
 While Cardiff's old walls with wild cheers did resound ? 
 
 And had not sweet Lily, the pride of Caerphilly, 
 
 A prayer sent above for the brave nameless knight, '] 
 
 As he rode from the lists on his proud snow-white filly, 
 
 And modestly vanished away from her sight ? 
 
 2C
 
 Ill, 
 
 Fair Lily look'd down from a tower of Caerphilly, 
 On the sun-Hghted moat's placid waters beneath ; 
 Where her face, surfaced up by a pale water lily, 
 And she shrank from its startling resemblance to death. 
 
 Now what is to happen in lordly Caerphilly ? 
 Which sparkles in sunshine with banners so gay. 
 Is the Knight from o'er Severn to wed the fair Lily ? 
 And, alas ! is this day to be their wedding day? 
 
 And now in the Chapel of honoured Caerphilly, 
 The Knight from o'er Severn doth claim the fair bride ; 
 And the priest hastes to join to the heart-broken Lily, 
 A bridegroom false-hearted and bloated with pride. 
 
 But what means that summons outside old Caerphilly? 
 And what means that trumpet's voice blatant and blare ? 
 What is it that gladdens the heart of poor Lily ? 
 'Tis the well-welcom'd war-note of noble De Clare ! 
 
 And down fell the drawbridge, and into Caerphilly 
 A gallant procession of warriors and knights. 
 Brought the gallant Sir Willie, astride on his filly. 
 As the hero of heroes, the foremost in fights ! 
 
 And the Priest in the Chapel of hoary Caerphilly, 
 Suspended his function and clasped up his book. 
 As the noble De Clare led the gallant Sir Willie, 
 And spake to the traitor with withering look. 
 
 " Thou wretched assassin would'st thou wed fair Lily ? 
 Go ! hide thy false face in some penitent cell. 
 If ever thou'rt seen near the walls of Caerphilly, 
 Thy advent shall usher thy funeral knell ! " 
 
 21
 
 And another good Priest took in hand the fair Lily, 
 He had come from the rude lonely cell by the heath ; 
 Where the pale mangled form of the gallant Sir Willie, 
 Had been tenderly carried and rescued from death. 
 
 And ne'er did the towers of frowning Caerphilly, 
 Such huzzas of welcome send forth through the air, 
 As when gentle Lily was wed to Sir Willie, 
 Uniting the loves of the brave and the fair. 
 
 22
 
 youtl) ana JIgc- 
 
 Youth. O, Extac}^ ! O, bliss and joy ! 
 
 Age. O, lunacy ! thou silly boy. 
 
 Youth. Love, purest love, without alloy ! 
 
 Age. Don't be a fool, thou stupid boy. 
 
 Youth. Love, such as thine, can never cloy. 
 
 Age. Thou'lt soon get tired of thy toy. 
 
 Youth, O wert thou mine— mine ! only mine ! 
 
 Age. 'Tis sickening to hear him whine. 
 
 Youth. Words can't express my boundless love ! 
 
 Age. Then bray like ass, or coo like dove. 
 
 Youth. Without thy presence, what were life ? 
 
 Age. He'll never make the girl his wife. 
 
 Youth. Thy words are sweeter far than honey ! 
 
 Age. Thou stupid boy, she's got no money. 
 
 Youth. O, if she would but be my wife ! 
 
 Age. And make thee wretched all thy life. 
 
 Youth. Retired in some lonely cot. 
 
 Age. And live on nothing. Oh ! what rot ! 
 
 Youth. In some sweet peaceful mountain vale. 
 
 Age. Aye, milk and honey, the old tale. 
 
 Youth. Far from the selfish, sordid world. 
 
 Age. Hurrah ! he's got his flag unfurl'd. 
 
 Youth. Bathed in a sea of purest joy ! 
 
 Age. He's off to sea now. Ship, ahoy ! 
 
 Youth. With prattling cherubs in a glen. 
 
 Age. O, yes, I know it. I've had ten ! 
 
 Youth. And knowing naught of earthly ills. 
 
 Age. No Income-tax— no butcher's bills ! 
 
 Youth. We'll spend our lives in love's retreat. 
 
 Age. Oh ! what a splendid country seat. 
 
 23
 
 Youth. We'll make our world a paradise. 
 
 Age. With cherubs of your own, how nice ! 
 
 Youth. And as our children upward spring. 
 
 Age. And no expense, or trouble bring. 
 
 Youth. How sweet to watch their rising years 
 
 Age. No sorrow, and no fears, or tears ? 
 
 Youth. Till women they become and men. 
 
 Age. Of course they'll all stay in the glen ? 
 
 Youth. Then in our eve — our life's decline, 
 Upon our children we'll recline. 
 
 Age. Stay gentle youth, and list to me ; 
 
 Before you an old man you see 
 Borne down by years — long years of grief ; 
 And do my children give relief ? 
 I once was young, and, like thee, loved ; 
 And forty years' experience proved 
 That love did not decline with years, 
 But she is gone — forgive these tears ! 
 My children, aye ! I once possessed 
 Ten children, and I did my best 
 To raise them in a world of strife — 
 For they were dear to me as life ; 
 Where are they now ? where are they gone ? 
 I have no children, no, not one ! 
 Some dead ; the living are to me 
 As strangers : and with grief I see 
 That I am all but quite forgot, 
 And no one loves me now, God wot I 
 
 Youth. And would'st thou, in thy dotage, try 
 To rob me of my dreams of joy ? 
 No ! still will I love fondly on, 
 And still will build my hopes upon, 
 A life of love unmixed with woe, 
 Though grief like others I may know ; 
 For love, unselfish, true and pure 
 Will all the ills of life endure ! 
 
 24
 
 ye Ceaend of Barrp Docke^ 
 
 (a fiction). 
 
 Once upon a tyme ye towne of Caerdiffe, till then 
 obscure, sprange forthe to grette renowne. Ye tradying 
 loones from Scotlande and ye north ; from Englonde, 
 north and south, and east and west ; from Powyslonde in 
 ye North of Wales, likewise from Southern Isles in sighte 
 of Gaul, had pressed ye myghtie Lorde to gyve them 
 Dockes for their wants; and ye Lorde, dyd answer thusse : 
 
 " What ho^ ye varUts ! have ye not ye DocJces of Bute? " 
 
 " Bute-too-full ! " one waggyshe loone replyed ; but 
 hys weak pun, upon so grave a subject, was punysh'd by 
 ye silence of contempte. And ye Lorde then dyd shoutte :- 
 
 " Ati'ye ivant more Doche room, mayke ye Dockes for 
 yer selves.'''' 
 
 " Eh mon ! d'ye ken thatte ? " said a childe from 
 Scotlande, sometimes thoughte effeminate because he 
 dyd use ' 4. HoocV when he dyd sign hys name; but 
 heere they dyd err : for the childe hys back-bone was so 
 stoutte that wyth ane stroke of pen he could cleare ye 
 coffers of ye Caerdiffe Bank. Hys doublette was wyth 
 coale pittes lined. Hys cast off hosen were wyth jingling 
 vickies crammed ; and hys big shippes could fill ane 
 Barry Dock wyth hys ain coal. 
 
 And then old — grande old — Powysland, Davyss-yr- 
 Ocean, cry'd : — 
 
 " Teer, teer, yess, yess ! 
 Tit you heer thatte ? " 
 
 And ye Tyne-syders, ye men from Mersey, and ye 
 tradying loones, to one man, each slappyt hys leathern 
 
 25
 
 breeches thyghcs, until yc greasse dyd flye outte from ye 
 seames, and shouted : — 
 
 " Lyd yc. hatro Ihatte ?" 
 Thysse awful exclamation, so deep and full of mean- 
 ynge, was echoed by ye vales and hills unto ye Castle of 
 Windsor Forest, atte St. Pagans. 
 
 Atte St. Pagans ye Lord of Windsor whose pryde 
 was hys deepe mysterious Forest, dyd hear hys voice of 
 thunder repeate ye potent words : — 
 
 " Dyd ye heare fhatte ? " 
 whyche reverberated through ye forest. 
 
 Now somme folk dyd holde views dyvergent in 
 regard to ye Forest of Windsor ; but ye great art-loving 
 and wise Lord of Windsor and ye deepe, impenetrable 
 Forest, were as one on ye great Dock system by ye Isle 
 of Barry for ye loones of Caerdiffe. 
 
 He of Windsor was of Britishe Oake, whyle ye deep 
 Forest was of Scottyshe Pyne ; and combined they dyd 
 make one impenetrable Windsor Forest at St. Fagans. 
 
 And through ye deepe Forest one thought dyd 
 thusse finde words : — 
 
 " Gyve ye ircuhjiuje loones a dwnery 
 
 Ye table was rychlie spredde. Champagne wine (of 
 ye best gooseberrye brands from Ye London Dock Vine- 
 yards) dyd enliven ye fat sotheron, and dyd make hym 
 feele (indeed he dyd soe bawle outte), thatte : — 
 " He was ajollie good feUowey 
 
 Myghtie usquebagh of ye Scottish Highlands 
 (brought from Dublin), maykd ye cannie Scotts dance 
 wyldlie in their kilts as they dyd bellow for : — 
 
 ^^ Aula Unig ayjiey 
 
 Then theer wass " Lemonate " and " Ohincher Peer " 
 off ye costliest prants, matured, it is said, in ye west 
 
 26
 
 mudde, and of such a strengthe that ye fumes thereof 
 dyd overcome and kille two scurvy scaveng3Ts in ye 
 CaerdifFe sewer ; th5'sse myghtie tipple was for ye tenter 
 conscience of ye valliante and warlike Taffy, who, much 
 excited, sang in heart-rending and asphyxiating gutterals : 
 
 " Hen ivladfy Nhadau " 
 and other profane songs wythe wylde emphasis. 
 
 And at ye myghtie feaste ye guests all went over to 
 ye Windsor Forest for weal or woe, and with one accorde 
 and untuned voices dyd exclaim : — 
 
 " Yess, yess ! Yess, yess ! 
 For sure ! For sure ! 
 We'll pilt a Parry Tock " 
 
 ^'A Barry Dock !" 
 
 Ye Engl3'sshe loones dyd shoutte through champagne 
 fumes. 
 
 And ye kilted Scot, wi' whuskie primed, roared 
 outte : — 
 
 ".4 Barry Dolce:' 
 
 Eh! mon, 
 
 " We maun build a Barry Doke.'^ 
 
 And ye man that dyd first starte — 
 " Ye idea of Barry DocTc^" 
 (since itte hathe become a greatte success), 
 Hys name itte is 
 
 LEGION!! 
 
 27
 
 Cbe Buliaitig of Barrp Dock* 
 
 Needy members ! clear your throats ; study speeches, 
 discount votes. 
 
 Lawyers hasten ! here are fees ! Navvies ! here are bread 
 
 Bare the quarry, [and cheese. 
 
 Rend the rock. 
 Delve and hurry, 
 
 Barry Dock. 
 
 Witnesses, who don't take fees, hurry up Hke swarms of 
 bees, 
 
 At St. Stephen's give^ en hloc, evidence for Barry Dock. 
 
 What of Cardiff? 
 
 What care ye ? 
 Cry Barry Dock, 
 
 And take the fee. 
 
 Telegraph and Telephone, make it far and widely known ; 
 
 Monopolist and giant drone, at us dare not fling a stone. 
 Swing the mattock. 
 
 Drive the spade. 
 Dig the deep dock 
 
 For our trade. 
 
 Railway Kings and Engineers, hurl contempt on him 
 that fears ; 
 
 Opposition ! let it come, beat our resolution drum ! 
 Giant boilers, 
 
 Crank, shaft, winch ; 
 Hoist brave toilers, 
 Never flinch. 
 
 Shew bold fronts to all who come ; opposition must 
 succumb. 
 
 Hasten up ! ye busy ants ; here is work for him that 
 
 Bricks are batter'd, [wants. 
 
 Splinters fly, 
 Rocks are scatter'd 
 To the sky ! 
 
 28
 
 Hammers swing and anvils ring ; long streets in the 
 
 meadows spring, 
 Waters pure pump from the vale ; electric lamps light 
 Delvers, hewers, [hill and dale. 
 
 Plan, contrive, 
 Soughs and sewers, 
 For our hive. 
 
 Railroads sinuous are made ; Trucks roll up, more rails 
 
 are laid, 
 While timber, steel and iron, flock, to our Barry Town 
 High, aloft there ! [and Dock. 
 
 Raise more tips. 
 Hasten seamen ! 
 Bring more ships. 
 
 Colliers from the murky hole, hasten, send your shining 
 coal. 
 
 Sinkers ! Miners ! haste, combine : sink the shaft, and 
 Drive the heading, [form the mine. 
 
 Bore the hole. 
 From his hiding 
 Drag King Coal. 
 
 Hurry ! bustle ! muscle, bone ; hurry up and hurry on. 
 
 Trimmers hustle ; ladies rustle, in your silks, but rustle on. 
 
 Hurry, hurry, 
 Court and marry ; 
 But no delay. 
 So hurry on ! 
 
 Spare not body, mind, or brain ; hurl along the scream- 
 ing train. 
 
 Heed not ! spare not ! strike and shiver ! build the bridge 
 and span the river. 
 
 Drive the tunnel, 
 
 Bore the hole. 
 To the funnel 
 
 Pile the coal, 
 
 29
 
 Give us breathing time ? quoth ye ; give ye breathing 
 
 time, not we ! 
 See them anchored in the stream, steamers huge all under 
 
 Coming into [steam. 
 
 Barry Dock, 
 
 Going out of 
 
 Barry Dock. 
 
 Men from England's fertile vales 1 Men from Scotland's 
 
 wildest dales ! 
 Men of earnest, working Wales ! whose dauntless courage 
 All undeterr'd [never fails. 
 
 By threat, or shock, 
 Your pluck hath made 
 A Barry Dock ! 
 
 And with the Dock is built a name, which through the 
 
 world shall live in fame ; 
 And should in future ages come a difficulty to o'ercome. 
 Children's children 
 
 Up shall flock, 
 Their sires did build 
 A Barry Dock. ! 
 
 And Bards unborn the fame shall sing, of rude Llandinam's 
 
 self-made king, 
 *Whose life-like bronze, on yonder block, pores o'er the 
 plan of Barry Dock. 
 
 Who, bold in fight, 
 
 Onset or shock. 
 Fought for the life 
 Of Barry Dock. 
 
 •Note. It only seems like yesterday that the Author and 
 his wife accompanied Davies's son Fklward to criticize this 
 statue, and he invited them to Llandinam. Poor Edward (a 
 modest retiring gentleman) has joined his great and good 
 father in a happier world. 
 
 30
 
 *( 
 
 tbe Seuen Sisters/' 
 
 (on penarth-i.avernock rocks). 
 
 Near La'rnock point seven sisters stood, 
 Prim, stiff, sedate, as if of wood ; 
 Nay, there the seven sisters stand, 
 On dizzy height, o'er La'rnock's strand. 
 And, do not mock at them ? I besr. 
 Each stands vpnn a wooden leg. 
 And though they stand on giddy height 
 Their heads ne'er swim in giddy phght. 
 The gloomy clouds may frown and scowl, 
 The channel wolves may yelp and howl. 
 The wanton Flat Holm light may wink, 
 These stately sisters never blink. 
 Silent, and ever reticent. 
 To scandal, or false sentiment ; 
 To worry, or to discontent ; 
 To do a wrong, or wrong resent ; 
 These peaceful sisters ne'er give way. 
 Their lives they pass in harmless sway. 
 The English light may shine afar 
 And emulate the morning star. 
 Fair Weston, shimmering, far away. 
 Her sparkling diamonds may display. 
 As charms, at night, on channel edge ; 
 While Clevedon, jealous, from her ridge, 
 Holds up her necklace bright to sight. 
 And cheers the gloom of darkest night. 
 The channel course, go, wander down, 
 Until the eye meets grim Brean Down ; 
 And thence the Holm and La'rnock fort 
 Shew if an enemy means sport. 
 We've got our bull-dogs well in hand 
 To guard, inviolate our land. 
 
 31
 
 At tliese the seven sisters gaze, 
 But nothing can their minds amaze. 
 And are they maiden sisters ? well — 
 Reader be patient, time will tell. 
 Each stands as prim, sedate and staid, 
 As ever stood confirmed old maid. 
 And all, in dress, are so precise ; 
 And all alike ; so neat ; so nice ! 
 Each season's fashions, year by year, 
 They never fail to follow here ; 
 Their dresses are not ' tailor made ' 
 But by the Grand Designer laid. 
 So, not a seam seems out of place ; 
 And all is symmetry and grace. 
 In spring in living green they show, 
 In summer sun they sunshades grow, 
 In autumn's variegated sheen, 
 They wear the sere and drop the green ; 
 And winter, often— pleasing sight- 
 Finds them, as vestals, clad in white. 
 They keep their forms to nature chaste 
 And never cultivate a waist. 
 And hence come visitors in flocks 
 To see the seven on La'rnock's rocks. 
 Have they had offers ? many a score 
 Have passed deneat/i them ; many more 
 Than pen can write, or numbers tell, 
 And still fresh beaux new numbers swell, 
 The sisters' presence seems to bring 
 Them forth hke daffodils in spring. 
 One tells his love in accents low. 
 As from his heart his protests flow. 
 Another croaks his plighted troth 
 In tones as false as perjured oath. 
 
 32
 
 To tell his great love one swain tries, 
 But his tongue fails and language dies. 
 Another scoffs and loves in sport, 
 He does the same in every port. 
 Another's ship lies in the roads, 
 His sad heart sinks with mournful bodes ; 
 The ocean's hungry waves await 
 To sink his ship and seal his fate. 
 Another points towards the west, 
 Tnrows back his head, expands his chest, 
 Declares he lives but for her love, 
 And with her love will victor prove. 
 And still the seven sisters stand 
 Gracing the rocks o'er La'rnock's strand. 
 From passion, pain and pride, aloof ; 
 ' Gainst human weaknesses all proof ; 
 Their arms wave gently on the breeze, 
 These sisters are — ])ut — seven trees ! 
 Well known to lovers of Penarth, 
 Well known in many a home, and hearth ; 
 Whose life's love story must recall 
 Them back to that first moonlight stroll 
 On yonder rocks on La'rnock's strand 
 Whereon the seven sisters stand. 
 The rocks are crumbling in decay. 
 The sisters too must fade away, 
 But none, I ween, would have them die 
 Without one fond regretful sigh ! 
 
 33
 
 6u)acIo(l p 6artl)« 
 
 C Foot of the Garth," Glamorganshire." 
 
 O, sweet little hamlet of Gwaelod-y- Garth I 
 
 So prettily poised betwixt heaven and earth, 
 
 Thy cottages snug and thy gardens so fair, 
 
 Betoken that nature is still worshipped there. 
 
 Thy children's wild voices ; their sweet hearly laugh, 
 
 fn harmony brawl wii.h the beautiful Taff — 
 
 The river that rolls in the depths of the vale, 
 
 So bright in the sunshine, so grand in the gale I 
 
 Castle Coch, of its towers and its fame may be proud, 
 
 But Garth in his pride lifts his head in the cloud 1 
 
 Wild music the wind whistles over the hills, 
 
 While beauty in form charms in sweet daffodils. 
 
 And modesty's type in the primroses pale 
 
 Finds a sweet prototype in the maids of the vale. 
 
 Dost feel thyself great ? Oh. ascend the great Garth ! 
 
 And ponder and gaze on the brow of Penarth. 
 
 Over mountain and plain, over wild wooded cliff 
 
 Where smothered in smoke lieth envied Caerdiff. 
 
 Behind see the mountains like giants on guard 
 
 Over diamonds hidden beneath the green sward. 
 
 While snake-like as though they creep forward by stealth, 
 
 The coal-laden trains rob wild Wales of her wealth. 
 
 Yes the wealth of a country is recklessly hurled 
 
 O'er the seas to add wealth to the wealth of the world, 
 
 While blood, bone and sinew, are wasted and worn. 
 
 And husband and children are mangled and torn. 
 
 For what ? just to earn a poor pittance of wage, 
 
 Just sufficient their hunger and thirst to assuage ; 
 
 34
 
 While jewels abstracted from mountains and vales 
 
 Will leave but the casket in wealth yielding Wales. 
 
 Whose real wealth is squandered away from the source 
 
 In reckless profusion, sans shame, sans remorse ; 
 
 And wealth so abstracted, by Mammon displaced. 
 
 By no human power can e'er be replaced. 
 
 And it weighs down one's heart with forebodings of woe 
 
 To behold the sad waste as it rolls to and fro. 
 
 So much working power lost in each laden train 
 
 Which science might counsel us how to retain, 
 
 To weigh down the bread earning end of the scales 
 
 And add to the Avelfare of wage-winning Wales. 
 
 And the fair face of nature all blurred and all charred, 
 
 Doth show where King Mammon has wasted and marred. 
 
 But, sweet little hamlet of Gwaelod-y-Garth ! 
 
 Though no frowning ruin doth boast of thy worth. 
 
 Tradition unerring suggesteth the tale 
 
 How thy children of old shed their blood in Taff's vale 
 
 In defence of their loved ones, of homestead and hearth, 
 
 And the sweet little hamlet of Gwaelod-y-Garth. 
 
 Oh ! may peace and plenty and sunshine and mirth 
 
 For ever prevail in sweet Gwaelod-y-Garth. 
 
 35
 
 y^ stormy Kpnge, 
 
 I. 
 
 Ye Ocean Ouene a court dyd liolde, 
 
 Her regal myghte she dyd displaye, 
 Wyth richest robes, with Knyghts so bolde, 
 
 W3^th Heralds grave in quaynte arraye. 
 
 II. 
 Y« Storme Kynge had bin cited there, 
 From wild north seas, hys dreadful lay re ; 
 And wyth her Judges grave arounde 
 Y® Quene took stand upon thys grounde. 
 
 III. 
 Her noble ships, her seamens' myghte, 
 
 Her foes had vanquished neare and far ; 
 But wyth y^ Stormc-Kynge's frantic spite 
 
 She had to wage an endlesse war. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A thoughtful student had supplied 
 
 A magic needle for a guide, i 
 
 To poynte y® Storme Kynge's dread domayne, 1 
 
 To lead her seamen o'er y® mayne. i 
 
 ""■ ! 
 
 Wyth myghte and mayne, stoute, sturdy, art, ^ 
 
 To brave y^ winds of ocean wide 11 
 
 With mynde hard wroughte, wyth brow so swarte, '' 
 
 Fierce steam had tam'd to plough y** tide. 
 
 VI, 
 
 But though y^ magnet needle, true, 
 And giant steam prov'd trustye too ; 
 Though ports of refuge she had mayde, 
 Y® Storme Kynge still had crippled trade. 
 
 36 
 
 I 
 
 i
 
 VII. 
 
 Ye Storme Kynge rude, wyth bois'trous.mien, 
 Wyth locks unkempt, wyth features wylde ; 
 
 Wyth hoarse, harsh voice ; wyth eyes so keene, 
 Glared on y" Ocean Ouene, so mylde. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For hj^s defence he then was urg'd, 
 But hys demeanour rudely verged 
 On insult to y^ swete Sea Ouene, 
 Wyth open scorne he view'd 3^* scene. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Y® Sea Quene then, in regal pride. 
 
 To make y^ churlish Storme Kynge cower, 
 
 " Dost 5^e," quothe she, " Jieera at my st/de," 
 " These tokens of my queneiie power " ! 
 
 X. 
 
 '■'• Heere many a true and gallant hiyghte 
 But tvayts my worde to lead y^ fyghte^ 
 She ceas'd to speake, and dropt a teare, 
 Her knyghts she saw all quak'd wyth feare ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 Y® Storme Kynge laugh'd wyth uncouthe glee, 
 And on y® Quene and courtiers frown'd ; 
 
 ^'Aye who ? " cry'd he, *' will fyghte ivythe me ? " 
 Then cast hys gauntlet on y® grounde. 
 
 XII. 
 
 A strypling, slim, no squire, or knyghte, 
 Tooke up y^ glove and gaged to fyghte — 
 A youthe was he, unknown to fame, 
 And, SCIENCE was hys modest name. 
 
 37
 
 xm. 
 
 Young Science wyth keene gaze discern'd, 
 Y« features of y^ Storme Kynge rude ; 
 
 Y« Kynge's wyld tactics soon he learned, 
 H3's blustering puffs wyth scorne he viewed. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then bowing to y® swete Sea Ouene, 
 
 He gaged to foyle y® Storme Kynge's splene. 
 
 To bind her coasts w3'-th magic band, 
 
 To paralyze y^ Storme K3aige's hand ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 Wyth th3'sse y® Storme Kynge loud dyd shoute- 
 " Thou stripling proud, thy Ihreats are vayne ! 
 
 Thy pigmy power with scorne I floutte, 
 
 Thou knows^f I^m lord o^cr land and mayne ! " 
 
 XVI. 
 " Thee u-yth a tempest IHl assaile, 
 And make thy pallid cheeks more pale ! " 
 And then wyth howl, with shriek and shoutte, 
 He shook y® palace walls so stoutte. 
 
 XVII. 
 He roar'd down flues, roar'd through y« hall, 
 
 And in y*^ corridors dyd sing — 
 " Aye, who ivill y Storme Kynge enthral 
 
 When he y hurricane doth bring ? 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " ni blanche your seamens^ cheeks wyth /eare, 
 Your harbours, ports, your creeks IHl cleare, 
 Your sailors to y* sharks lUl yive, 
 And on y^ sea no ship shall live ! " 
 
 38
 
 XIX. 
 
 He vanish'd thence, wyth fryghtful roar, 
 With raging power on mischief bent ; 
 
 Y« giant oaks by roots uptore, 
 
 And howHng through y® forest went. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Hys promise, Science soon bore out. 
 And girt y® island round about 
 Wyth safe-guards sure on sea, on land, 
 To keep y^ Storme Kynge at command. 
 
 XXI. 
 Y« Storme Kynge suddenly return'd. 
 
 In sable clouds, one wilde midnighte ; 
 Wyth frantic, raging spite he burn'd, 
 
 Full frightfully he w^aged hys myhte. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But word had flown throughout y^ land, 
 ^^ Beware, y^ Storme Kynge is at hand! " 
 And rock-bound coast, and creek, and bay, 
 Were lighted up as bright as day. 
 
 XXIIT. 
 And Ufe-boat, tug-boat, rocket, line. 
 
 Were out where danger threaten'd most. 
 Libations on y® angry brine. 
 
 Old Neptune soothed on ev'ry coast. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And joy-bells on each stout ship rang. 
 And " sirens" on each steam-boat sang ; 
 And, as y® Storme Kynge disappear'd. 
 Young science to y® echo cheer'd ! 
 
 39
 
 XXV. 
 
 Young science with hys povv'r profound, 
 Had made all safe ; had set all right : 
 
 Ye warning pass'd— y^ Storme Kynge found 
 Hys dreaded dangers dyd not fright. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 He still howls at y^ Ocean Ouene, 
 And on her seas hys breath so keen, 
 Assails her ships wyth spiteful force, 
 But science still keeps on hys course. 
 
 XXVII. 
 Young science thus holds out y« gage, 
 
 Thus braves y® blust'ring Kynge, hys myghte ; 
 Quoth he, " Bold Kynge, Ihnuijh dread thy rage^ 
 
 Ifeare thee not, nor shun y fyghte^ 
 
 XXVIII. 
 " My growinq sl'ill my arm shall nerve, 
 Nor in y^ conflict will I swerve, 
 Until thou dost obey my nod, 
 For science is y^ childe of God ! " 
 
 40
 
 font p garp. 
 
 There is a rustic, rock-ribbed bay, 
 Where sunshine loves to tarry, 
 
 It nestles snugly on the way, 
 Twixt Aberthaw and Barry. 
 
 When blue-bells bloom, with daisies gay, 
 When birds sing blithe and merry ; 
 
 When lambs, like sunbeams, skip and play, 
 Oh ! come to Font-y-gary. 
 
 The rocks smile so in sunshine's glow, 
 
 It would entrance a fairy ; 
 As winds waft music sweet and low 
 
 O'er waves at Font-y-gary. 
 
 'Mongst fairy-rings upon the lawn, 
 With mushroom pearl-buds starry ; 
 
 I'd cull, enraptur'd, with my own — 
 Wild flowers at Font-y-gary. 
 
 Then stroll upon the sheivy rock — 
 Old Neptune's wave work'd quarry — 
 
 While ships sail by and sea-birds flock, 
 To lovely Font-y-gar}-. 
 
 41
 
 Processional Song, 
 
 Sung by thousands of Welsh people o?i Llaniiisant mountain top 
 
 to welcome Sir David Evans, Lord Mayor of London, on 
 
 visiting his native Toivn. 
 
 Llantn'sant from her mounlains 
 
 Smiles o'r Adorganwg's vales, 
 And gives to mighty London 
 
 A leal Lord Mayor from Wales. 
 Then children of Llantrisant, 
 
 Let his your motto be — 
 "5// honedy and virtue, 
 
 Virtue and honesiij.'" 
 
 No knignt with brighter armour 
 
 E'er left Llantrisant's height : 
 No David with heart warmer, 
 
 Goliath met in fight. 
 Than he, whose glorious motto, 
 
 Henceforth our pride to be. 
 Was '' honesly and virtue. 
 
 Virtue and honesty ^ 
 
 Though fortune on Llantrisant 
 
 Hath chang'd from smile to frown ; 
 A Phoenix from her ruins, 
 
 She springs and wins renown. 
 And echoes from her mountains 
 
 Her song to Severn Sea — 
 '■'■By honesty and virtue^ 
 
 Virtue and honesty^ 
 
 Though cottage homes be roofless, 
 
 And ruin-rent her towers, 
 Yet picturesque in beauty 
 
 Is this old town of ours : 
 And, rich in moral splendour. 
 
 Our motto now shall be — 
 ^'■By honesty and virtue^ 
 
 Virtue and honesty y 
 
 43
 
 THE 
 
 WITCH OF THE WENTLOOG, 
 
 OR THE 
 
 toI5m ffat^it. 
 
 A PRE-HISTORIC 
 
 SOUVENIR OF THE SEVERN SEA 
 
 {With modern reminiscences). 
 
 Who shall fathom the dark blank chasm 
 Of the wild, weird deep, far distant past ? 
 
 Or who can fathom the dark, dark sky. 
 With the starry host of its vaulted vast ? 
 
 ' Twere as well to try with thy gaze to pry 
 In the mysteries of eternity ! 
 
 43
 
 Part i. 
 
 Invasion. 
 
 „ II. 
 
 The Druids. 
 
 „ III. 
 
 The Wentloog. 
 
 „ IV. 
 
 ... ... MVFANWV. 
 
 „ V. 
 
 The Marsh Camp. 
 
 „ VI. 
 
 Lavernock Fight. 
 
 „ VII. 
 
 The Camp Attacked. 
 
 „ VIII. 
 
 Leon and Myfanwy. 
 
 „ IX. 
 
 Lays of the Golden Harp. 
 
 „ X. 
 
 The Dragon Re-launched. 
 
 „ XI. 
 
 The Camp Destroyed. 
 
 „ XII. 
 
 ... The Modern Wentloog. 
 
 44
 
 T. 
 INVASION. 
 
 Bluff Seafoam, of sea-rovers, monarch, he, 
 
 Of braves was bravest on the rough dark wave ; 
 
 His famous ship, and daring, dauntless, crew 
 
 All foes had overcome in every clime. 
 
 And breaths were held, and mothers' frightened babes. 
 
 With tales of Seafoam and his daring deeds. 
 
 Of fierce sea-rovers pioneer was he. 
 
 To force a keel along the Severn sea. 
 
 ^& 
 
 His ship rode like a monster on the wave ; 
 
 An angry dragon's head glared from her prow ; 
 
 And o'er her stern a twisted dragon's tail 
 
 The salt spray lashed ; endowed her as with life. 
 
 Oars, port and starboard, fin-like bristled forth, 
 
 Controlling stream and current, wind and tide. 
 
 Mast-hoisted from her deck a rude spun sail 
 
 Spread like a dorsal fin. Her bulwarks, sheathed 
 
 By shields of savage warriors all round. 
 
 Shewed like a dragon's scales— the monster made 
 
 A monster of the deep. The surging waves 
 
 The rakish vessel pitched, tossed, rolled and heaved, 
 
 Her cordage rattling, while her timbers creaked, 
 
 Symphonious groaning with the ocean's dirge, 
 
 Gave life, voice, action, to the dragon form, 
 
 And filled her foes with fear. 
 
 This, long before King Arthur held his court : 
 Long, long before the warriors of wild Wales, 
 Had colonized the rock-ribb'd Breton shores. 
 Long, long before Wales, Dorset and Cornwales 
 
 45
 
 Had reinforced the fiery, patriot Gaul, 
 With brother-warriors fighting side by side. 
 To stem the tide of conquest of proud Rome. 
 Long, long before a host of Cyniru went 
 With Maximus to aid Imperial Rome 
 To ward off her decline. 
 
 From yellow wave to pierce the azure sky 
 Arose the grand Steep Holm. While Lavernock 
 And great Brean Down, like Alpine monsters, frowned 
 Down the black gulfs on Severn's restless tide. 
 The prisoned waters through the rock-rifts rushed 
 Like furies fierce at ebb and flow of tide. 
 The Flat Holm Isle upsprang a mountain steep. 
 By fissured rocks to rocky La'rnock bound. 
 Rock-bridged the channel seemed from shore to shore ; 
 But yawning gulf-jaws, deep in caverns dark, 
 Where waters thundered with a thud and crash, 
 Made gruesome gaps between the crumbling rocks : 
 To pass were death : the choice- above— below ! 
 Beyond, Penarth in clouds like giant scowled. 
 Exchanging frown and smile with snow-capp'd Garth 
 As cloud, or sunshine, made them in the mood. 
 Garth's sky-kissed brow was then eternal snow. 
 Deep, dashing down, in cavernous rock depths. 
 The Taff and Rhymny, two wild torrents, roared. 
 The mountain-tops' serrated pinacles 
 Had not, as yet, decayed to rust and dust 
 To fertilize and fill the valleys fair. 
 
 And who but native pilot dared to pass 
 The maelstroom-race between the Island Holms ? 
 From distant seas adventurous men had come 
 To Cornish shores to seize the sparkling tin, 
 
 46 
 
 f
 
 But none, perchance, had passed the fatal race 
 Beyond which fame reported yellow gold. 
 And wealth untold lay buried in the soil. 
 
 Bluff Seafoam hearing of the dangers dire, 
 
 And yearning for the adventurous risk. 
 
 And gloating o'er anticipated gold, 
 
 Set sail, rejoicing, for the Severn sea ; 
 
 The upper Severn waters to explore. 
 
 Or let his bones bleach on its weed-clad rocks ; 
 
 Or with his carcass fertilize the soil. 
 
 Whoever thought in those far-distant days, 
 
 Wealth — boundless wealth — could lie in aught but gold ? 
 
 That diamonds lay hid beneath the soil 
 
 To furnish motive power to a world ! 
 
 That fleets from Severn sea would sail and steam. 
 
 Whose tonnage call for millions to compute. 
 
 One ship of which bluff Seafoam's monster craft, 
 
 Would dwarf down to a schoolboy's plaything toy. 
 
 In so-called savage times, what Briton dreamt 
 That men could ever live to boast that they, 
 Who forced most of their country's wealth away 
 Discarding all but bigotry and greed. 
 Sans learning, art, sans all that brings true fame, 
 Would rank as greatest in the social scale ? 
 But, as the ages roll, strange things come round. 
 Oh ! for a mighty genius, God inspired. 
 To temper industry with something great ; 
 To check base Mammon and his senseless waste ; 
 To show, while life in idleness is vice, 
 Perveted industry is brutal crime. 
 
 47
 
 That wasting mine-wealth squanders precious power, 
 Which well applied might make our darling, Wales, 
 For ages the great thrift-hive of the world. 
 
 The thrift-hive — aye, the generous pioneer 
 
 Of all that's noble, virtuous and true. 
 
 Her boasted motto, " Truth against the world," 
 
 Be real ; not a lip-tripped parrot cry. 
 
 Not cHng to virtue just because it pays. 
 
 Nor live the soul-slave of a man-made creed. 
 
 But upright ever, though the Heavens may fall. 
 
 O, may through every valley, mount and moor. 
 
 True liberty its God-like sway attain, 
 
 And man to man be brother and a friend. 
 
 And scatter superstition to the winds. 
 
 And narrow-prejudices leave behind, 
 
 And Mammon-worship banish from the soil. 
 
 48
 
 IT. 
 THE DRUIDS. 
 
 Man yearns for something Christlike in his soul, 
 
 For sympathetic touch with Love Divine ! 
 
 In every age, in every clime, he craves 
 
 For something higher, purer than himself. 
 
 To emulate, to worship and adore. 
 
 But if religion be misunderstood, 
 
 Fell superstition serpeat-like crawls in 
 
 And in its trail dark bigotry finds friends. 
 
 And substituting narrow human creed, 
 
 By selfishness and cruelty, fiend hatched. 
 
 Makes God's most precious gift a withering blight. 
 
 Upon a silvan knoll, capped by a wood. 
 
 The Celtic Dolmens, or stone Cromlechs stand — 
 
 Rude evidence that death an empire swayed 
 
 As stern in pre-historic times as now — 
 
 And with Saints Nicholas and Lythan's fanes. 
 
 Suggest religions, two — for fallen man. 
 
 And here Morganwg smiles in beauties fair, 
 
 Here soft and balmy blow the winds of Heaven. 
 
 Here Druids ruling with barbarian pomp, 
 
 Pursued their mystic rites in days remote ; 
 
 When man abode in hut and cave, and lived 
 
 At least a natural if savage life. 
 
 Hard by Imperial Rome leaves marks 
 
 Of her tyrannic rule in Druid's place. 
 
 St. Nicholas, St. Lythan, pardon pray, 
 
 If, in your time, ye held despotic rule. 
 
 49
 
 And with the Druid and Imperial Rome — 
 Forgetting that our God, a God of love, 
 Sends happiness for all — with cunning kept 
 Your knowledge, power and learning, for a class. 
 And superstition's terrors for the mass, 
 Your light sprang from helow — not from above. 
 
 Tear time's dark cloudiike mystic veil aside, 
 Expose to view the Druid's pride and power. 
 What agitates yon Druid's sacred grove ? 
 Why Druid, Bard and Ovale discomposed ? 
 Are warrior chief and warriors there for naught ? 
 Thus speaks an aged man, whose silver beard. 
 White as his robe, falls on his heaving chest : — 
 " Why ask I, is there peace ? while traitors live 
 And seek to kindle internecine strife ? 
 To cull the sacred mistletoe the Hook — 
 The Golden Hook — in vain I bring ; and thou 
 O warrior chief, must know that treachery 
 Doth flourish, like a pestilential scourge — 
 That traitors even now amidst us crowd.'' 
 
 Swords flash in air, sharp spears and javelins spring. 
 
 Each warrior on suspected neighbour glares, 
 
 While loyal suspects turn wild flashing eyes 
 
 On armed companions. Lowering his hands, 
 
 At which sign weapons fall and all is still, 
 
 The Druid chief continues to declaim : — 
 
 " At our last solemn court our mighty Head, 
 
 Two criminals found guilty of foul acts : 
 
 Of treason 'gainst our order ; spoke of Gods, 
 
 New Gods, all ignorant of Britain's needs ; 
 
 And threatened with an unknown " Lord of Hosts ! " 
 
 50
 
 And mother, daughter, sentenced were to die. 
 And with the white Bull's flesh to ashes burn, 
 By sacrificial fires on this great day, 
 To appease our Gods, and guard our common weal." 
 
 Aroused to rage, a warrior Chief breaks in : — 
 
 '' If Britain be attacked our weapons keen 
 
 Our land shall guard ! For let the Gods be thanked 
 
 Our limbs are stout — our hearts are sound and true." 
 
 " Cease, brave one, cease, who knows not of thy worth ? '* 
 
 Replies the hoary Chief, and thus resumes : — 
 
 " Or their strange Gods, or sorcer}-, or guile. 
 
 Or treachery, within our very camp, 
 
 Hath set the victims free ; and woe to him 
 
 If there be traitor here, for he shall die ! " 
 
 The Warrior Chief then cried, " Bring forth the Guard !' ' 
 
 And stepping forth, a veteran replied :— 
 
 " The guard, great chief, hath fled, and, it is thought, 
 
 Enamoured of the daughter's beauty, he 
 
 Conveyed the witches hence — we know not where." 
 
 And now the Druid Chief, '' Ye great ones hear, 
 'Twas danger to avert, the victim's lives 
 Were to be sacrificed - the danger's here ! 
 The victims must be captured — they must die ! " 
 Again the warriors wild, like tigers roused, 
 Presented weapons and determined front. 
 
 The Druid Chief repeats, " The danger's here ! " 
 " An awful Dragon-ship prowls round our coast — 
 But not as yet hath gone past La'rnocks rocks ; 
 Be sure this Dragon hath not come alone. 
 
 51
 
 Then warriors to your work, and we with hymn 
 And fervent prayer will our Great Gods invoke. 
 Our Bards shall with the warriors march along ; 
 In bardic song immortalize their deeds. 
 Those still kept captive, in our cages burn ; 
 Their cries like incense shall appease the Gods, 
 And make them favour our immortal souls ! 
 Meantime the potent fire, the victim's souls 
 May transform to some lower type of form, 
 Whence, purified by suffering, they may 
 Return more perfect to humanity." 
 
 53
 
 DRUID CHANT. 
 
 Let us not our laws revoke ; 
 Let us not our Gods provoke ; 
 Let us our Great Gods invoke ! 
 Guard our ever sacred Oak. 
 Oh ! avert the Hghtning stroke, 
 From decay protect our Oak ! 
 And, ye Gods ! preserve, also. 
 Our ever sacred Mistletoe. 
 
 Gods ! uplift your mighty Hand ! 
 Oh ! protect our native strand. 
 Famine, fire and spear and brand, 
 Threaten our dear native land. 
 From barbarian hordes command, 
 Oh ! ye Gods, protect our land. 
 And, ye Gods, preserve, also, 
 Our sacred Oak and Mistletoe ? 
 
 Mighty Gods ! if we must fight, 
 Nerve our arm, sustain our might : 
 Let us keep our honour bright. 
 Oh ! preserve us in the right. 
 Teach us dangers should not fright 
 Those who battle for the right. 
 And, ye Gods ! preserve, also, 
 Our sacred Oak and Mistletoe ! 
 
 The Druid Chief then sang, with face to sky : — 
 " Druid, Bard and Ovate band. 
 Pray the Gods to save our land ! " 
 
 S3
 
 III. 
 
 THE WENTLOOG. 
 
 A stately female strode, her form erect, 
 
 In robe and hood of russet hue, much worn ; 
 
 Her way she wended to the Wentloog fen. 
 
 A tress of iron-grey streamed on the wind, 
 
 An eye of fire flashed 'neath a forehead high. 
 
 Which, crossed with lines, of grief and sorrow told. 
 
 Her nose was aquiline, her lips compressed. 
 
 And though age told upon her wiry frame. 
 
 She walked as confident as warrior youth. 
 
 At times she sighed, hands folded as in prayer, 
 
 * My child ; my child ! Myfanwy ! Lord of Hosts ! " 
 
 Then glancing round, lest someone passing by 
 
 Might deem her weak, her face became as steel. 
 
 Between the Rhymny and the mud-mouthed Usk, 
 
 Naught then was seen but marsh, and pool and fen — 
 
 A mist-clad and malarious solitude. 
 
 Deep down amongst the reeds the Bittern boomed. 
 
 The Bear, the Wolf and Fox, from cave and lair, 
 
 Growled, yelped or snapped ; growled savagely for prey. 
 
 Yet here, in solitude, secure, a camp 
 
 Of brave marsh villagers inured to war, 
 
 Defying Druid might in freedom lived, 
 
 And battled for their right to live in peace : 
 
 Anathemas in vain the Druid hurled. 
 
 Beyond high Cefn Onn, the warlike Celt, 
 
 With superstitious dread shrank from the fen, 
 
 Where witch and ogre, goblin, elf and sprite, 
 
 With magic art, disease or ruin spread. 
 
 54
 
 Who had not, shuddering, heard of weird Karrack ? 
 The gibb'ring Goblin-Imp of Wentloog fen. 
 Within the wattled hut that Goblin pounced, 
 And seized the very food from table board, 
 With loud " Karrack ! Karrack ! " like magpie scared ; 
 Then flew o'er rocks ere one could mutter prayer. 
 That black faced Goblin dwarf, who had not feared ? 
 The very thought of him gave children fits. 
 
 A labyrinth encircled Wentloog fen ; 
 
 And elf Karrack, in sedge and tangled grass, 
 
 Laid twisted withies, hidden from the view, 
 
 The startled wanderer's footstep to uptrip. 
 
 And smother him beneath some treacherous bog. 
 
 Half trodden grass-paths 'midst the nodding reeds, 
 
 In some parts straight betrayed intruders on, 
 
 And left them flopping, hopeless in the pit. 
 
 And wattled fence concealed by grass and reed, 
 
 Blocked up the path, and stopped all traffic strange. 
 
 On, on, the aged female sought a path, 
 
 And hurried, reckless of all dangers dire. 
 
 When suddenly a Heron's trumpet voice 
 
 Rose o'er the fen ; the wounded bird took wing. 
 
 And in its agony a Lizard dropped. 
 
 From forth the reeds a goblin figure sprang, 
 
 Snatched up the Lizard, and in fragments tore 
 
 It limb from Umb, then gobbled up the bits, 
 
 And then it screeched aloud " Karrack ! Karrack ! " 
 
 With Eldritch laugh, which made the wanderer start, 
 
 Turn from her path and suddenly trip o'er 
 
 A treacherous twig, and stumble in the bog. 
 
 The nimble goblin its long arm outstretched, 
 
 The female safely lifted to the bank. 
 
 55
 
 Then bowed its forehead to the very earth. 
 
 Then rolled its fearful eyes ; its white teeth shewed^ 
 
 And like a mountebank tossed head o'er heels, 
 
 Then, being dumb, shewed signs of deep distress — 
 
 Of idolizing homage gestures made. 
 
 Caught up her russet robe and kissed its hem, 
 
 And beckoning with finger led the way, 
 
 With limbs contorted, ihrough the silent fen, 
 
 Towards the wild camp deep within the swamp. 
 
 With flint-ball swinging on a twisted thong. 
 The Imp smote Beaver, Heron, or aught else 
 Misfortune brought him near. His woolly hair, 
 His blubber lips and coal black shining skin. 
 Proved parentage from Canaan's slave cursed race. 
 His huge thick head — for stunted frame too large, 
 A supernatural wild aspect gave, 
 Of which the Imp intuitively knew 
 How best to use, to frighten foes at will. 
 In camp the very dogs shewed teeth and snarled, 
 And hid, where shelter offered, from the sprite. 
 Whose flint-ball and their ribs oft came in touch. 
 A fit companion was a tame Jackdaw, 
 Which Karrack often in a 3'ew-tree chased ; 
 Their chattering discord echoing o'er the fen, 
 Intensifying Wentloog's evil fame. 
 
 =;6
 
 IV. 
 MYFANWY. 
 
 Within an isle-protected rock-bound bay, 
 
 At anchor rode the Dragon ship secure, 
 
 A harbour-creek, wherein in modern days 
 
 A monument to man's determined will 
 
 Inspired by freedom's impulse to be free 
 
 From privilege's chains, sprang Barry Dock. 
 
 To which the vessels of a world may come, 
 
 No matter what the time or how the tide, 
 
 For refuge from the storm ; for commerce free ; 
 
 To bring or take, what God's Great Providence 
 
 Bestoweth freely for His creatures' wants. 
 
 The Dragon rode beneath a sheltering rock. 
 Which tower'd in crested columns to the sky, 
 {And now lies shattered on the wave washed beach 
 In globe-like fragments heaped in pebbly piles.) 
 Old Seafoam, heated with his thirst for gold. 
 Sate studying his meditated raid. 
 His crew were occupied in vaaous form, 
 Some furbished armour ; some provided food ; 
 Some played at games of chance ; i:i rapture some 
 Ear gave to Seafoam's son, young Leon brave, 
 Who played upon an antique harp of gold 
 Bent like a bow, with strings, and ornaments 
 Of richest gems, which sparkled in the sun — 
 Rich as that harp which David used of old 
 When inspiration prompted solemn Psalm — 
 And which bluff Seafoam, in fierce fray, or fight, 
 Had looted from some palace in the east. 
 
 57
 
 Young Leon, poet, warrior, seaman brave, 
 Was by the Dragon's reckless crew adored. 
 His limbs must have been cast in giant mould, 
 His features fair were classically formed. 
 In war the first to storm, to strike, to dare ; 
 In peace as gentle as a little child. 
 And as he tuned his harp within the bay 
 His listeners were entranced by music's power, 
 And savage men inured to dreadful deeds 
 Were melted by its influence to tears. 
 
 The music ceased : the sun danced on the wave : 
 When from the rocks above, a plaintive sound 
 Young Leon's harp's melodious strain caught up 
 And bound the youth as if by magic spell. 
 High up, on rifted rock, like ocean bird, 
 A seraph form in whitish green robe clad — 
 Loose floAving robe her lissom form displayed, 
 As though a mermaid by great Neptune sent 
 To fascinate the warrior chief had come ; 
 With hair dishevelled — streaming in the wind — 
 Gave ' sorrow words'; seemed lifted by her theme 
 To Heaven's mercy seat, so sad the strain. 
 Her jet black e37es big tears of sorrow dimmed 
 As from a broken heart Myfanwy sang : — 
 
 Song. 
 
 Zephyr ! Zephyr ! Why dost thou blow my hair ? 
 Gentle Zephyr ! Why am I young and fair ? 
 Zephyr ! Zephyr ! Why is there blood and strife ? 
 Gentle Zephyr ! Why should I cling to life ? 
 
 58
 
 Zephyr ! Zeph}^ ! Why dosr thou fan my cheek ? 
 Gentle Zephyr ! Why am I frail and weak ? 
 Zephyr ! Zephyr ! Why is the world so fair ? 
 Gentle Zephyr ! Why is there grief and care ? 
 
 Zephyr ! Zephyr ! Why is the sunshine given ? 
 Gentle Zephyr ! Is there not peace in heaven ? 
 Zephyr ! Zeph^T ! Why dost thou give me breath ? 
 Gentle Zephyr ! Lull me to peaceful death ? 
 
 Young Leon sprang into the briny wave, 
 
 Sea-lion-Iike he strode the shingly shore. 
 
 The steep rocks clomb, knelt at Myfanwy's feet, 
 
 A wondering eye he cast upon the maid : 
 
 Her look of terror toned at one soft glance — 
 
 He^seemed the living image of a God ! 
 
 Their eyes each other's met : they saw : they loved : 
 
 Love struck them as with lightning shafts from Jove, 
 
 And both were spell-bound on the rocky crag. 
 
 And pointing to the Dragon ship below 
 
 With hand on heart he beckoned her away. 
 
 Oh love ! Oh love ! Oh life of life, Oh love ! 
 Thou essence of all goodness — source of life. 
 Take sunshine from the sea — the flowery lea. 
 Deflower the rose : take azure from the sky. 
 Take from the violet its scent and bloom. 
 Take from thy angel's face its sweetest smile. 
 Take from the heart its only anchor — hope. 
 Take from the soul its yearning after Heaven. 
 Of these thou takest all if thou tak'st love. 
 And these thou givest all, if thou giv'st love 1 
 
 59
 
 And so these wildlings fell in love at sight, 
 And Leon bore her gentl}'^ from the rocks 
 Down to the shingly shore where came a boat ; 
 But, as he stooped to lift her in the boat, 
 An arrow from the rocks his armour struck ; 
 Glanced to the maid and quiver'd in her fiesli. 
 And as he laid her gentl}- in the boat 
 His coat of mail was with her blood imbued. 
 
 And fifty arrows at the savage flew, 
 A hundred flashing Dragon eyes upturned 
 Beheld the murderer struck down — transfix'd — 
 But when they scaled the rocks they found him not. 
 
 Ah ! Rhydry, was it jealousy, or chance. 
 That sent thine arrow with such deadly aim ? 
 Was it to kill, thuu set'st Myfanwy free 
 From Druid doom at peril of thy life ? 
 
 And Leon laid Myfanwy's fainting form 
 Within the Dragon's cabin on rich furs 
 Acquired at risk of life in foreign climes. 
 The good ship's Leech applied his healing art 
 And stanched the arrow wound by balsam famed 
 Brought by the Dragon from the Baltic sea. 
 And Leon watched and prayeJ by day and night, 
 Placed over her his magic shining shield. 
 And thought the summer sunbeam far too rough 
 To kiss her pure white alabaster brow. 
 And woe to him who dared to shew in fight. 
 Or touch the Dragon with its precious freight ! 
 
 60
 
 V. 
 THE MARSH CAMP. 
 
 The Imp and wanderer approached a maze 
 
 Of shrub and reed, through which a stranger's foot 
 
 Might rove and roam and ramble all in vain, 
 
 Retnrn he must unto the starting point. 
 
 Against a dead tree trunk where four ways crossed, 
 
 A ghastty skeleton's right arm outstretched, 
 
 A pathway indicated down a glade, 
 
 The which to follow meant eternity. 
 
 And relics grim and sad of human frame 
 
 Were strewn around to scare a prying foe. 
 
 A fleshless skull, which Karrack kicked aside, 
 
 Displayed an adder hissing through its teeth, 
 
 While birds of prey poised overhead on wing, 
 
 With ghastly garbage gorged glared on the twain. 
 
 But goblin Karrack confidently walked, 
 Until he reached the margin of a moat 
 Then plunged therein, like alligator dived. 
 And clomb a rock upon the other bank. 
 And then a coracle moved round the rock, 
 Was quickly moored unto a sapling stem. 
 And then another and another came. 
 With thongs of hide were all securely lashed. 
 The foremost tethered to the farmost bank. 
 Then planks of wicker-work from boat to boat, 
 The water safely bridged from bank to bank. 
 And skins of fur were spread upon the bridge. 
 This done by warlike men half nude and wild. 
 Each moving onward with consummate skill. 
 Without confusion, bustle or mishap. 
 
 6i
 
 Obsequiously attendant women came, 
 
 And then the wanderer walked o'er the bridge, 
 
 With all the dignity of some great Queen, 
 
 And entering the well protected camp, 
 
 Was welcomed by weird women thus in song :- 
 
 FEN -WITCHES' SONG. 
 
 Blinding storm and stifling fog, 
 Stagnant pool, ditch, spongy bog ; 
 Here a home, with snake and frog, 
 Safe beneath the Wentloog fog. 
 
 Ague, fever, come again ? 
 Scare away all tyrant men. 
 Bear and wolf and tiny wren — 
 All are safe in Wentloog fen. 
 
 Though we suffer pain acute. 
 Though we live on herb and root. 
 Here we live without dispute. 
 With the blind worm, toad and newt. 
 
 Far from Druid crimes and ken, 
 Here for man and beast a den ; 
 Come, then ? Wanderer, come again ? 
 Welcome to the Wentloog fen. 
 
 Wild shouts of, " Alother ! Lady ! Rachel ! Queen I 
 Preserver ! Goddess ! — say, where hast thou been ? 
 And where, Myfanwy ? — sunshine fled with her." 
 Alas 1 she answered not, but leaden eyed. 
 Away she glided to a lonely grave. 
 
 62
 
 Where canopied beneath an ancient yew, 
 She knelt and sobbed as if her heait would burst. 
 Within that grave reposed her princely G'.vyn, 
 Preserver, lover, husband, Rachel's all ! 
 
 Brave Gwyn ! a noble British Chief was he, 
 
 Lord of rich acres, meadow, hill and dale. 
 
 He hated tyranny and tyrant's rule. 
 
 And hence the Druid power, that brooked no peer, 
 
 Had marked him excommunicate and false. 
 
 Landless and homeless, Gwyn turned to the sea ; 
 
 From Cornwales sailed unto the mystic east, 
 
 Where wealth and fame awaited action brave, 
 
 And where he met a lovely Hebrew maid. 
 
 She, stolen from her home, was sold as slave ; 
 
 They loved as one : shared shipwreck, wealth and fame, 
 
 Till Gwyn, with Rachel, reached his native land, 
 
 For which his heart had yearned in foreign clime, 
 
 To find his lands and home in stranger hands. 
 
 And, hunted by the power that drove him thence. 
 
 He refuge found within the Wentloog fen. 
 
 And, just as Rachel gave their daughter birth, 
 
 He died of fever ; but, before he died. 
 
 Within its mother's hands he saw the babe. 
 
 And sighed " Myfanwy," and poor Rachel heard, 
 
 And she the precious babe Myfanwy named — 
 
 And now Myfanwy and her sire are gone. 
 
 Brave hearts that liberty preferred to wealth. 
 Who followed Gwyn, in love, to Wentloog fen, 
 To child and widow clave : made Rachel chief. 
 And well it was for them they made the choice, 
 And well it was for ship-wrecked sea-waifs, too, 
 
 63
 
 Of whom Elf Karrack came ashore as one, 
 Locked in a dying Nubian mother's arms — 
 For waifs and bairns who shared a common home. 
 For Rachel's rule was charity and love. 
 Her life she lived in doing naught but good. 
 Taught how to drain the fen and till the land ; 
 Taught how to fertilize the barren soil ; 
 Taught how to husband crops for winter fare. 
 Taught barter with strange craft on Severn sea. 
 Told of a brine-bed 'neath the Wentloog's soil. 
 At some far distant day to serve a world, 
 And bring to Severn shores renown and wealth. 
 
 In doing — not in saying — words were scant, 
 What Rachel said was to the purpose trite ; 
 Well weighed and well digested in her brain. 
 In outward form to some she seemed austere ; 
 But, deep beneath a seeming crust of snow, 
 Volcanic fires of love, banked up and pent. 
 Would gush up from her soul in time of need. 
 And then her loving, tender heart's contents. 
 Like balm into some broken heart would flow. 
 Of her own sufferings she ne'er complained. 
 Though ever ready others' ills to share. 
 
 Unselfish to a fault, example she. 
 For all the camp to emulate — to love. 
 The wildest waif within the camp or fen 
 Would rather die than give good Rachel pain. 
 A much loved sister of her idol, Gwyn, 
 Lay dying near the Druid's dread abode. 
 Fierce Rhydry for good Rachel's aid was sent. 
 And with Myfanwy she left Wentloog fen 
 
 64
 
 And followed Rhydry to her sister's home 
 Where comfort, aid and S3'mpath3' they gave. 
 
 The Druids, hearing, seized the hapless pair 
 To immolate in cruel sacrifice. 
 And Rhydry saw Myfanwy's face and loved — 
 Such love as man can never lose and live. 
 And hence it was that Rhydry set both free. 
 
 And so in Wentloog camp poor Rachel mourns 
 '* Myfanwy lost ! Myfanwy ! lost ! lost ! lost ! " 
 The grief-struck fen-folk standing silent by : 
 And woe betide when they the secret learn — 
 For every tear a foe must bite the dust ! 
 
 65
 
 VI. 
 LAVERNOCK FIGHT. 
 
 Beware ! The British Lion now aroused ! 
 
 There's thunder in the air : all breaths are hushed — 
 
 Their home attacked ? But one thing to be done. 
 
 All must to arms ! Dissensions ! What care we ? 
 
 No eagerness, but eager for the foe. 
 
 Wealth, politics, the chase ; health ; even love ; 
 
 Are all subordinate to one resolve. 
 
 And may it ever be so ! — blunder we ? 
 
 Aye like our Island Bull, which blind with rage, 
 
 Plants foot in earth with head and horn prepared 
 
 All foes to scatter to the winds of Heaven : 
 
 And lion-like each man, a monarch stands. 
 
 Contempt for danger ; foi the foe foul scorn ; 
 
 In Providence shall trust with powder dry. 
 
 ' Twas not one Dragon Ship the Britons feared, 
 
 It was the thought — the blistering, burning thought, 
 
 An enemy with foot upon our shore ! 
 
 And every rocky creek, each sandy ba}"-, 
 
 By women and devoted men were watched. 
 
 At night bright beacon fires were all aglare, 
 
 And Dunkery, Penarth and Garth blazed bright 
 
 To other mountain beacons, far and wide. 
 
 The threatened danger : brave recruits came in 
 
 From every quarter of the Channel shores. 
 
 The Dragon was well found ; each man a brave ; 
 
 No future Viking held his life less cheap. 
 
 But danger shew them, then — as one man — all. 
 
 To fight, despite of fate, incentive found. 
 
 66
 
 Lithe, light and agile as the mountain fox, 
 
 Half naked bodies ; arms of pointed flint ; 
 
 Spear, bow and arrow — stout, tough bull -hide shield, 
 
 Inured to hardships ; hearts as true as steel ! 
 
 Such were the Britons ere the fight began. 
 
 But not a Briton shewed unto the foe — 
 
 Well planned surprise had been, perchance, devised. 
 
 Bold Seafoam, calmly, with the flowing tide. 
 Straight in for La'rnock race the Dragon steered ; 
 The pass essayed between some island rocks. 
 But when within a bow-shot's length he sailed, 
 The air grew dark with arrows' deadly flight ; 
 While every jutting crag an archer hid. 
 The Dragon's crew, in vain, the fire returned ; 
 Against the rugged rocks their arrows struck. 
 Then harmless fell into the Channel tide. 
 
 Well clad in coat of mail, and under shields, 
 With view to land, the Dragons plied the oar. 
 But pebbles showered down gave death and wound, 
 A skilful move alongside laid the ship 
 Betwixt two caves : when up young Leon sprang — 
 (Myfanwy all secure he first had placed 
 Within a cabin, where, with harp in hand — 
 The Golden Harp — she sweetly played and sang, 
 Unconscious of the turmoil on the rocks)— 
 And led the way the Britons to dislodge ; 
 But woe the day ! For every step he fought 
 With his brave men, a Briton did dispute. 
 Bare bodies, recklessly, ' gainst armour clad ; 
 Club, flint-spear, javelin and hammered sword, 
 ' Gainst battle-axe — ' gainst keen Damascus blade. 
 
 ^7
 
 But agile were the Britons climbing rocks ; 
 Beyond the Dragon's reach like goats they sprang, 
 Rock fragments downward hurled upon the foe, 
 And, laughing, while retreating, lured them on ; 
 Until exhausted with the fray and fight. 
 The mail clad Dragons stopped, their breath to gain. 
 
 Stout Seafoam led a score of Dragons on 
 To feign attack, the Britons to surprise 
 In flank, or rear ; and Leon, looking down, 
 Saw them beat backwards — saw them stricken down- 
 Saw Rhydry pass them o'er and lead his braves 
 In overwhelming masses, victory flushed. 
 On to the Dragon's deck ; through cabin door ; 
 And then he heard a scream — he heard no more. 
 
 Down, down, from rock to rock, he leapt — he flew ; 
 
 With welded axe all opposition smashed. 
 
 Fierce Rhydry by the throat he seized, but he, 
 
 As squirrel nimble ; slippery as eel ; 
 
 Eluded grasp, and scampered up the rocks. 
 
 His black hair streaming — 'twas a raven's flight ! 
 
 Within a cave the Dragon ship now swang. 
 
 And Rhydry overhead by giant strength, 
 
 Or lever power, a hanging rock dislodged 
 
 On Seafoam and his men ; it thundered down, 
 
 As avalanche from ice-clad mountain top, 
 
 The Dragons crushed like lobsters in their shells. 
 
 Smashed them to pulp and hurled them to the sea. 
 
 Some fragments struck the Dragon's well built hull : 
 
 Their weight so great, of such a size were they. 
 
 They tore her bulwarks down to water's edge ; 
 
 68
 
 And Leon with sad heart, the Dragon ship 
 With difficulty backed and pulled away, 
 His father leaving and one-third his crew 
 Slain on the rocks ; or by the sea engulphed ; 
 And so fell Seafoam, with his dreams of gold. 
 To dream no more within the yellow sea ! 
 
 The Britons, cheering, coracles put out. 
 Like angry wasps provoked from ravaged nest 
 Not fearing what the ravager might be, 
 The beaten ship to capture by the board ; 
 Were beaten off ; and met their death by scores. 
 But others pressed ; their frail skin crafts exposed, 
 By missiles from the ship were sunk, or smashed : 
 Until the Dragon's hull got well in stream 
 And seemed to sink from view beneath the waves. 
 Whether she foundered there, or floated thence, 
 A well fought victory the Britons won. 
 
 From La'rnock to the Holms ; to high Brean Down ; 
 
 The British cheers were heard and heard again 
 
 Reverberating through the mighty rocks. 
 
 They scared the screaming sea-birds from their nests. 
 
 Until the night closed in, when Beacon fires 
 
 Victorious signals flashed from hill to hill 
 
 And all around elated with the sight 
 
 Knew that their country-men the fight had won. 
 
 And Bards sang songs by day and night 
 Of fierce green-dragon put to flight 
 By Britons brave in La'rnock fight. 
 One gave it that in sorry plight 
 The Dragon foundered in his sight. 
 
 69
 
 Another version one gave quite, | 
 
 He saw her sail past Cold-Knapp height. 
 
 Tradition holds there tvas a fight 
 
 Which gave a theme for bardic flight. 
 
 But valiant Rhydry, oh ! his pangs were sharp, 
 
 Where were Myfanwy and the Golden Harp ? 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 70
 
 VII. 
 THE CAMP ATTACKED. 
 
 The Wentloog Camp concealed from outer view, 
 Lay in a hollow bottom in the fen, 
 Or basin, rimmed with constant blooming gorse ; 
 With mountain ash, and scrubby birch, and broom- 
 Topped by a straggling melancholy yew, 
 Waving its sombre boughs high o'er the fen ; 
 Flanked by a treacherously moving moss 
 On which nor man, nor boat, could walk or float. 
 Where ripe, red cranberries in plenty grew. 
 And bitter buck bane — prized as tonic — thrived ; 
 And with the western sea-breeze strung the nerve 
 And made the marsh endurable to life. 
 
 The only entrance was o'er pool, or moat. 
 Protected by a solid well built dyke, 
 Lined with huge pebbles from the channel shore. 
 To serve defensive, or offensive, need. 
 To hurl on coracle, or swimming foe, 
 Who dared the dreaded marsh-camp to attack. 
 From distant mountain heights the fen appeared 
 An uninhabitable wilderness. 
 And none would dream that in its bounds it held 
 Rich fertile meadow land from foemen safe. 
 With goats, and game, and herds and beasts for use,: 
 Hundreds of fearless, daring, warlike men ; 
 Hundreds of women — children — who preferred 
 Freedom in death to slavery in life. 
 Within the stony breast-work's shelter rude 
 Stood human habitations, strangely formed — 
 A colony of caves and wattled huts. 
 
 71
 
 Fragments of wreckage ; figure-heads of ships ; 
 
 Boats-bottom upwards— carved from sohd logs ; 
 
 Coracles upturned — oft utilized as roofs, 
 
 Weapons of war, from many distant climes, 
 
 Brought through that world's highway — the Severn Sea. 
 
 For, since a Briton was created free, 
 
 Who can believe he feared to cross the wave ? 
 
 As well may we contend the earth is flat, 
 
 Or that our La'rnock fossil-rocks are false. 
 
 Fierce dogs, and weapons for the chase ; and nets, 
 
 To snare the finny tribes from channel tide. 
 
 Stout shaggy-ponies too, kept well in hand ; 
 
 Each knew its master's voice, and, roaming free, 
 
 Would come, or go, at call, or whistled sign. 
 
 Up on the ancient yew tree's sombre top 
 
 The jackdaw, with Imp Karrack, chatter'd loud ; 
 
 Below, men, women, children, old and young. 
 
 In groups assembled picturesquely strange. 
 
 In Rachel's home the chiefs a parley held — 
 
 Something momentous threatened Wentloog Camp ! 
 
 Elated by success at La'rnock fight 
 The Druid chief and warriors council held. 
 And then resolved to carry on the war 
 By storming Wentloog and its fen fringed camp. 
 But each man, shuddering, felt inward fear ; 
 Before him living, human foes put up 
 And life he'd give, or take, without demur ; 
 But here were gruesome witch and goblin vile. 
 With evil spirit's power to grapple with — 
 And demon influence its might unknown. 
 Well reinforced by enemies unseen. 
 The Wentloog Camp ! it was a fearful thing. 
 
 72
 
 Souls from the wildest-fiercest-beast transferred, 
 From vilest reptile, or most venomed snake. 
 To occupy the Wentloog foes were known ; 
 To war with these meant war with horrors dire ! 
 
 By bitter jealousy, and hate, inspired, 
 Fierce Rhydry burned for conquest, or for death : 
 To seize and capture Wentloog Camp resolved — 
 Myfanwy dreamt of, and the Golden Harp. 
 And fondly hoping that the Dragon ship 
 To Wentloog fen would try to force its way, 
 He pressed for war, for fire, for sword, for blood I 
 Advice his hearers were not loath to take. 
 And so an army gathered on the heights 
 Extermination to the camp to bring. 
 And goblin Karrack in the yew tree top 
 Uncouthly jabber'd of the coming foe. 
 
 Now Rachel leaves her hut, with footstep firm, 
 
 And Oueen-like stands beside her husband's grave ; 
 
 Attendant chiefs respectfully throng near. 
 
 " My children, know ye aught of war ? " saith she, 
 
 " What cruel men for captives have in store ? 
 
 Your hearths laid waste ; your wives, your children slain ; 
 
 Your cattle slaughtered, and your household gods 
 
 Unto the wanton winds of Heaven strewn ? " 
 
 As with one voice the people groan—" We do." 
 
 " And know you that the cruel foe hath sent 
 
 A messenger of mercy to our camp, 
 
 To offer peace and liberty to all ? " 
 
 " The terms ! the terms ? " excited voices ask— 
 
 For none believed that peace could come unbought. 
 
 73
 
 " If ye deliver unto them the witch — 
 
 So me they call — but why I never knew — 
 
 And now I go to yield to them my life, 
 
 In hope that life may purchase for you peace," 
 
 As one the people wildly all exclaim, 
 
 " No, never, mother dear ! ' twere bitter shame 
 
 To give up thee, our Queen, to tyrant hands. 
 
 Whom hast thou wronged ? or where hast thou not been 
 
 When fever, famine, death, have smitten most ? 
 
 Beside the suffering thou hast night and day — 
 
 More like a Goddess than a woman weak — 
 
 Been ever with us : taught r.s how to pray. 
 
 And, oh ! Myfanwy ! " 
 
 " My children, name her not, my child, my life. 
 Whether the fiends have slain her, or, oh, God ! 
 Whether she wanders starving on the rocks 
 The Lord of Hosts ! The God of Israel knows : 
 And He will guard her well — But she is gone ! 
 And here her father's bones amongst you lie — 
 We are but shadows ! — memories !— I — go ! " 
 
 She falters : but the people, all resolved, 
 
 " Oh ! in our hour of need, desert us not ? 
 
 With thee, man, woman, child, aye ! household dog,^ 
 
 Will fight the foe like heroes all, or die." 
 
 "And this ye have resolved ? This your free choice ? 
 
 And should I here remain, and if we drive 
 
 These cruel wolves away from these our doors. 
 
 On your allegiance will you mercy shew 
 
 Unto the vanquished foemen ? Promise this ? " 
 
 " We do," all cry—" We will obey thee still. 
 
 And cling to thee in truth while life shall last." 
 
 74
 
 " Then," Rachel answers, " I will lead you on, 
 And God protect us and our hearths and homes." 
 
 Short is the truce— Imp Karrack, on the tree, 
 Makes uncouth signs — "The foe is on the march." 
 Adown he climbs, and, diving in the moat. 
 Is soon lost in the fen-reeds on its banks, 
 The Jackdaw o'er him flying as he speeds 
 Both seemingly elated with the strife. 
 
 The men, all warriors now, arm for the fray, 
 March various routes and safe in ambush hide. 
 The women don foul rags and tangled locks, 
 And those most beautiful in youthful bloom 
 Present themselves in horrid witches' guise— 
 Defiance shouting to the coming foe. 
 Whose wolf-like howls are now heard o'er the fen. 
 And Rachel calmly waits the onset dire, 
 Directs each movement with experienced eye. 
 
 How many goblin Karrack tripped and brained 
 Was never known ; but, as each Briton fell, 
 And Karrack eased him of his trinket spoil. 
 The Jackdaw, with its wicked roguish eye. 
 Jumped, hopped and flew, and chattered with delight. 
 Then as a critic on some twig, or bough, 
 Eyed goblin Karrack with approving glance 
 While Karrack, safe in cover, trapped more foes. 
 
 The prologue this — the Britons reach the moat. 
 
 And, unopposed, anticipating gloat ; 
 
 Then plunging in the wave approach the camp ; 
 
 75
 
 But view, with horror, crawling o'er the dyke, 
 No warrior armed, or trace of mortal man. 
 But throngs of witches in such fearful guise ! 
 Such hag-like faces ! such wild whoops and shouts ! 
 With maledictions hurled, and well aimed rocks — 
 Death, panic, fear and terror, strike the foes. 
 Who, such as can, retreat without a blow. 
 
 Then from the maze and bush, outside the moat, 
 On flank and rear the Wentloog warriors rush, 
 (Imp Karrack's rude devices proved success 
 And drew the Britons into ambush foul). 
 And slay the foemen almost to a man ; 
 Pursuing stragglers to the fenny verge 
 From whence they started on the fatal fray. 
 
 And, wounded sorely in the dire mishap. 
 In agony groaned Rhydry for revenge. 
 And then they carried him to Rachel's hut. 
 And not a wounded Celt was further hurt 
 But each was nursed like brother in distress. 
 
 And Rachel on her knees within the camp, 
 Her children all around her, praises God — 
 *' The victory is the Lord of Hosts' not ours ! " 
 
 And goblin Karrack, high on yew tree top. 
 With Jackdaw friend, rolls eyes in wild delight 
 Upon the tinsel treasures he has won. 
 
 Fierce Rhydry was by tender Rachel nursed 
 Through i aging fever ; and she heard him rave, 
 And writhe, and groan, and terror stricken shriek ~ 
 " Myfanwy, 'twas not thee I sought to kill I 
 
 76
 
 No — no— 'twas he — the Dragon Sea King — he ! " 
 
 And then, exhausted, drooped and muttered low 
 
 Of fair Myfanwy and a Golden Harp — 
 
 Of her departure in the Dragon ship — 
 
 Of tender glances on a j^oung Sea King. 
 
 And, O, 'twas horror then to see his face 
 
 Lit up by hatred — by revenge — despair 1 
 
 And sometimes, waking up in wild alarm, 
 
 He spake of La'rnock and the Dragon fight — 
 
 Myfanwy dying on the Dragon's deck : — 
 
 And these things Rachel treasured in her heart. 
 
 Recovered, Rhydry dark and sullen grew ; 
 
 Would not disclose why he Myfanwy's feet 
 
 Had guided to the rocks on Severn shore, 
 
 Instead of to her Mother in the fen. 
 
 Or how Myfanwy spurned his loathsome love 
 
 And rushing from him climbed the rugged rocks 
 
 With purpose to find safety or win death. 
 
 And not a crumb of comfort would he give 
 
 Or word of gratitude to Rachel speak. 
 
 Each question, fenced with, from the mother's heart 
 
 By cynic smile at fever uttered words. 
 
 And left the camp in churlish, jealous mood, 
 
 The Wentloog strength and weakness noting well — 
 
 And thoughts unholy nurtured in his heart. 
 
 77
 
 VTII. 
 LEON and MYFANWY. 
 
 As La'rnock fight was fought Myfanwy lay 
 
 Unconscious of the battle or its cause. 
 
 The roaring sea, the winds, the Dragon's creak, 
 
 The warrior's shout, the battle-din, subdued. 
 
 But, when her cabin was invaded, then 
 
 Myfanwy startled by fierce Rh3'dr3''s cry 
 
 Rose from her couch of skins, a dagger drew, 
 
 And like a lioness glared on the Chief, 
 
 Then, weakened by her wound in Barry Bay, 
 
 She, fainting, fell upon the Dragon deck. 
 
 But, quick as thought flies through the human brain, 
 
 Sprang Leon on his foes, who fighting flew. 
 
 Then cry, and crash, and groan ; then silence came. 
 
 And Leon stained with blood, with heated brow, 
 
 Returned and took Myfanwy in his arms. 
 
 Bade her not fear but rest awhile in peace, 
 
 And for the first time kissed her forehead fair. 
 
 And then a blush of love her face suffused 
 
 As pure as maiden blush on scented rose. 
 
 Then laid her, ah ! so gently, down again 
 
 Upon the furs, and sent to her the Leech — 
 
 Her chief attendant since she came aboard. 
 
 Like tender mother was the good old man. 
 
 He loved Myfanwy with a grandsire's love. 
 
 And then such chiefs, as lived, returned on board, 
 And then Myianwy heard the gallant ship 
 Strain hard to float as if endowed with life, 
 But none felt fear of danger to the craft. 
 
 78
 
 The Dragon drifted down the ebbing tide, 
 
 With crippled hull and rudder out of gear ; 
 
 But skilful seamen, so the Dragons were, 
 
 They sculled her on by plunge or stroke of oar : 
 
 Threw overboard superfluous ballast rocks, 
 
 Baled out the water and so kept afloat 
 
 Until they reached a cosy sandy bay 
 
 By rugged rocks concealed which touched the sky, 
 
 Near that sweet ' prill ' of living waters pure 
 
 Which flowed into a tiny fern-clad pool, 
 
 In Christian times known as St. Mary's well, 
 
 And famous for its properties to heal, 
 
 Long swept away and by the sea engulphed. 
 
 'Tis represented now by tiny rill, 
 
 Which tumbles o'er a cliff on La'rnock shore. 
 
 The ship they stranded on a soft sand bed, 
 By roller, lever, and stout muscle power. 
 Raised her above the highest spring-tide wave, 
 Then laid their wounded in a sheltered cave. 
 A cave, near that in which the wounded lay, 
 The soft south faced and o'er the channel peeped ; 
 This Leon fitted for Myfanwy's bower. 
 But as he inward peered, a young bear-cub 
 With gaze grotesque like some sage critic peeped. 
 And then its mother, from her den disturbed, 
 With awkward gait and deep defiant growl. 
 Her head thrust out ; but arrow, dart and spear 
 Despatched her and her mate who all too late 
 Possession of his den came to dispute. 
 The curious cub fell down the rocks — was speared, 
 And so the Dragons were supplied with flesh. 
 Which, with the shoals of fish from channel wave, 
 Their wants supplied till something better came. 
 
 79
 
 Another bear- cub, hidden in the den, 
 Was ta'en ahve, and pelted by the crew, 
 Who named him " Romp," and on the maintruck oft 
 Of mast head high, he, knowing look-out kept : 
 The crew amusement giving day by day. 
 (In later days when Romans Britain held, 
 Fenarth — or Bear's Head — so historians hold — 
 For Roman circuses exported bears). 
 
 The bear den, cleared and cleansed, was lined with furs. 
 
 And then Myfanwy, with the Golden Harp, 
 
 In state installed, looked like a Fairy Queen. 
 
 And Leon flushed and pale down on his knees 
 
 In fondest adoration on her gazed — 
 
 Then fell upon his face in death-like swoon. 
 
 A grievous wound beneath his mail concealed 
 
 Had drained his life-blood to-the last sad drop 
 
 Which human nature could exude and live. 
 
 Ah, me ! ah, me ! Myfanwy, woman true, 
 
 The wound was near brave Leon's lion heart ; 
 
 The spear-thrust was fierce Rhydry's — murder meant : 
 
 Hurled with a jealous arm. 'Twas well for him 
 
 His coat of mail was staunch and weapon-proof, 
 
 Or with his sire afloat in Severn Sea 
 
 The youth had found a restless resting-place. 
 
 The Leech, experienced he in healing wound, 
 
 Myfamvy's love and Leon's youthful strength, 
 
 A loving life to keep — all needed now — 
 
 And so they bore the warrior in the cave. 
 
 The Dragons to provide against surprise 
 With rocks soon masked the entrance to the bay — 
 To outward eye it seemed like virgin rock. 
 
 80 
 
 .
 
 And every nook and wave-worn avenue 
 Was made a point to look out from, or fight. 
 And then, the Dragon's treasure made secure, 
 Her hull was stripped all bare within, without ; 
 A harmless shell she lay upon the sand. 
 Then on a rude shaped cradle she was placed 
 Stern on to Severn's tide to launch at will, 
 And every part repaired and made secure, 
 'Gainst human enemies, and wind and wave. 
 And time flew on, and on the shipwrights toiled — 
 For every man of this famed Dragon crew 
 Could build, repair ; could work upon her hull. 
 In their own land each man a trade was taught ; 
 An idler, or a drone, was there unknown. 
 
 And then a cruel Arctic winter came 
 
 Which bound the rock)' coast in adamant. 
 
 Snow-ice and snow : around, above, below ; 
 
 It froze the land, the river, and the lake ; 
 
 It silvered o'er the rocks to far Brean Down ; 
 
 It froze Taflf, Ely, Severn, Wye and Usk ; 
 
 It froze the Rhymny and the Wentloog fen ; 
 
 It froze the Avon on the eastern shore ; 
 
 It froze till bridge of ice joined channel shores ; 
 
 It froze the bird to death upon the wing ; 
 
 It froze the fish in river, lake and brook ; 
 
 It froze all water but St. Mary's well. 
 
 And there the deer came down with beasts of prey 
 
 To drink, or lap, and slake their burning thirst — 
 
 And so the Dragons unmolested lay. 
 
 Inured to frost as well as burning sun 
 Their Arctic furs and shoes the Dragons donned, 
 And in thick skins of bears killed by the pole 
 They roamed as polar bears the country round, 
 Astonished Cymry thought the world had changed. 
 
 8i
 
 Some, bold as heroes, chased the polar bears. 
 Who one day trailed a red deer by the heels. 
 Let fly their arrows and the bears feigned death ; 
 But when the Celts their carcases had seized 
 Up sprang the bears and killed them to a man. 
 And so the Dragons, bear-like, scared the foe. 
 And ' Romp,' the antic bear-cub, in the chase 
 The white bears followed with apparent zest, 
 And thus the Dragons passed the winter time. 
 
 But ah ! poor stricken Leon ! how fared he ? 
 
 Death fought with life : by turns fate smiled and frowned, 
 
 But victory bestowed her wreath to life. 
 
 His father's death ; his wounds ; his weakened frame ; 
 
 Made Leon feeble as a little babe. 
 
 And, oh ! the depth and strength of woman's love I 
 
 Myfanwy. like an angel, in the huts 
 
 Had nursed the fen-folk through disease and wound, 
 
 But here love rose her up to seraph height. 
 
 And Leon worshipped her with idol-love. 
 
 And for the first time in his heart felt fear — 
 
 For sweet Myfanwy and her precious life. 
 
 Signs now that winter frost to melt was doomed, 
 The ice creaked, cracked and groaned, the waters roared, 
 Ice-floes rolled down from upper Severn's stream — 
 The gaps blocked up between the Island Holms. 
 The valleys looked like lakes for miles around. 
 Then, 'twixt back-water and a tidal wave, 
 With crash the mighty waters broke the bar, 
 The sound, like thunder, causing terror round. 
 Huge rocks and ice-drift, scattered by the tide, 
 The passage widened 'twixt the Island Holms 
 And made a gap through which a fleet might sail. 
 
 82
 
 Dread winter then was followed by sweet spring 
 And sunshine smiled 'tween fertilizing showers. 
 And birds sang songs and flowers sprang around. 
 And Leon and Myfanwy roamed abroad, 
 And gaining strength the bloom came to their cheeks, 
 Like two twin-lambs they innocently strayed. 
 And morn and evening on the Golden Harp 
 Sweet music made and sang fond loving lays. 
 
 83
 
 TX. 
 LAYS of the GOLDEN HARP. 
 
 And first, when Leon rose, the Dragon crew 
 
 Assembled, sang a sad and solemn dirge 
 
 For their brave dead they silently had mourned. 
 
 REQUIEM. 
 
 Bluff Seafoam of death his brave soul had no fear, 
 And each comrade that fell left in life no compeer. 
 And though fate in the conflict denied them a grave. 
 They repose on the wave like the valiant and brave. 
 
 O, never lament for the death of the brave ! 
 Though their bodies may float on the cold restless wave, 
 In their deeds they shall live till the world cease to roll, 
 And their valour throw lustre on fame's sacred scroll. 
 
 The ocean their empire, their home the wild wave, 
 No quarter they asked and no quarter they gave. 
 On land every coward dishonours a grave. 
 But on land, or on sea, the grave honours the brave. 
 
 Though our warriors are gone, yet their courage shall give 
 In the deeds of their comrades, renown that shall live, 
 And though fate in the cold earth denied them a grave, 
 They repose on the wave. like the true and the brave. 
 
 This done, the Dragons Leon made their chief ; 
 
 Obedience to him pledged in weal or woe. 
 To prosecute bluff Seafoam's search for gold. 
 
 Or to avenge his death on savage foe. 
 And where he led, or whatso'er he planned, 
 They'd follow him to victory or death. 
 
 84
 
 MYFANWY. 
 
 O, tell me if my Leon was born 
 
 Of a sunbeam shining at early morn, 
 
 In an orange-grove by the Golden Horn ? 
 
 Ah ! surely thus my Leon was born ! 
 
 LEON. 
 
 My father was a monarch free, 
 And fleets and legions brave led he. 
 But, sick of trick and treachery, 
 He took, for freedom, to the sea. 
 
 To the sea - to the sea— the deep dark sea, 
 
 To the restless, bounding, rolling sea. 
 
 A sea-king's life, he cried, for me ! 
 
 Then he sailed away on the roaring sea. 
 
 My father left rich gems for me. 
 Of priceless value, too, they be ; 
 I'll give them all, my love, to thee — 
 Then come, Myfanw}-, come with me ? 
 
 To the sea, &c. 
 
 I'll build for thee a palace bright 
 On some wild, vine-clad, mountain height, 
 The sweet deep, deep, blue sea in sight, 
 And none shall dare dispute our right. 
 
 To the sea, &c. 
 
 And, gazing one day in Myfanwy's eyes, 
 He sang enraptured this sweet tender lay :- 
 
 85
 
 MYFANWY'S BIRTH. 
 
 Tliere were storm and cloud ere Myfanwy's birth, 
 
 But her first sweet smile 
 
 On earth's wintry soil, 
 Bade the snowdrop adorn the flowerless earth. 
 
 There was dearth of love ere Myfanwy's birth, 
 
 But the barren earth 
 
 Courted love and mirth, 
 And pure love was re-born at Myfanwy's birth. 
 
 This simple lay recalled a mother's love, 
 And thus of Rachel sweet Myfanwy sang 
 
 MY MOTHER. 
 
 She led me to the path of duty, 
 She taught for others first to care, 
 
 She told that wealth and youth and beauty 
 With selfishness were but a snare. 
 
 Her first care was a care for others, 
 
 Their sorrows and their joys she shared. 
 
 Her people were her sisters — brothers, 
 And to be ingrate no one dared. 
 
 My mother ! O, my sainted mother ! 
 
 Thy angel face though lost to me. 
 No power the burning love can smother, 
 
 The deep fond love, I bear to thee. 
 
 86
 
 In child-like innocence and ' fancy free ' 
 
 They tuned the harp and sang by channel side, 
 
 As nature's own adopted orphan child, 
 
 Each as the fond heart prompted said and sang. 
 
 And Leon pledged Myfanw)- to restore 
 
 Her mother, Rachel, or to lose his life, 
 
 And then of Seafoam thought, and thus he sang 
 
 MY FATHER. 
 
 He taught me to be true and brave. 
 He taught me to despise all fear, 
 
 He taught me danger courage gave. 
 To suffer pain without a tear. 
 
 He taught me to be leal in love, 
 
 He taught me to live pure and free, 
 
 He taught me — thank Eternal Jove ! 
 He taught me to be true to thee. 
 
 Then Leon thus told of: — 
 
 THE GOLDEN HARP. 
 
 My mother was a princess fair, 
 My Father— ah ! thrice happy pair. 
 They lived on love and knew not care, 
 But fell into a serpent's snare. 
 
 A Caitiff Prince, with motive vile. 
 He sowed sedition through our isle ; 
 Mis-led the children of the soil. 
 My father tangled in his (oil. 
 
 87
 
 To quell the strife my father tried, 
 And thousands fell on either side. 
 My mother in the conflict died, 
 The traitor prince slain by her side. 
 
 My mother, pure as virgin snow, 
 Had spurned the vile and loathsome foe, 
 My father heart-broke by the blow, 
 He laid his princely palace low. 
 
 Aye, like a Lion roused he flew 
 Upon the tyrant's coward crew, 
 And with a true and faithful few 
 The tyrant's myrmidons he slew. 
 
 My father gave this Harp to me. 
 Which from the conquered prince won he. 
 It was the crown of victory — 
 This Golden Harp I give to thee. 
 
 MYFANWY. 
 
 My Leon, my own one, the joy of my life, 
 O, come thou away from the world and its strife, 
 O, come thou with me, Ah ! thou life of my life. 
 Haste let us away from the world and its strife. 
 
 Away from the cold world, oh ! happy release, 
 O, come thou, my dearest, to where there is peace, 
 Where trouble and sorrow and bloodshed shall cease. 
 Oh I let us depart to some haven of peace. 
 
 88
 
 LEON. 
 
 Myfanwy ! my sweet one, O, come thou with me, 
 My thoughts shall be sleeping and waking of thee. 
 Our Golden Harp tuned on life's pure golden sea, 
 Its theme shall be always, aye, always of thee. 
 
 Myfanwy ! while love-light shall beam in thine eye, 
 Ah ! never shall sorrow, or anguish come nigh. 
 Our Golden Harp's strains 'neath life's bright golden sky^ 
 Shall soothe thee to sleep without sorrow or sigh. 
 
 LEON— M7FANWY. 
 
 They wandered down a vista fair, 
 
 A waning moon's soft light shone there ; 
 
 And Venus shot indignant glare. 
 
 At Jupiter's bold brazen stare. 
 
 A silver birch caressed the moon. 
 And waved its graceful bough festoon. 
 And Leon, brave, — poor love-struck loon ! 
 Felt bold, yet feared, to beg the boon. 
 
 They wandered on by channel side. 
 Till faltering by the dancing tide, 
 He stammered — " Wilt thou be my bride ? " 
 "Yes — Leon — yes " — Myfanwy sighed. 
 
 She looked like Ruth of old, and Leon said — 
 His fervid soul soared high above vile earth, 
 Prophetic paraphrasing holy writ — 
 "Myfanwy, dearest ! thy God shall be mine. 
 
 89
 
 Thy people shall be mine, my people thine ; 
 Wliere one doth go, there shall the other be, 
 Where one exists, there shall the other live. 
 Where one shall die, there shall the other die, 
 And in one grave we both will lie in peace." 
 And so, thenceforth, as one, their loves confirmed. 
 Their hearts in unison beat as if one — 
 Each was the other's idol — all in all ! 
 
 qo
 
 X. 
 THE DRAGON RE-LAUNCHED. 
 
 Behold the Dragon now, a gallant ship, 
 
 Re-built, re-armed, and ready for her home, 
 
 Her cradle riding like a living thing ; 
 
 Like greyhound, straining madly on the leash. 
 
 Like snorting war-horse, trembling for the charge ; 
 
 Her colours gaily floating on the breeze — 
 
 The tide, expectant, flowing up the bay, 
 
 All obstacles removed, her crew await, 
 
 All jubilant, ecstatic, wild with glee ! 
 
 In sympathy the sunshine gaily smiles. 
 
 The bear-cub on the mast-head gravely waits ; 
 
 Myfanwy— Leon, smiling, pace the deck. 
 
 The Golden Harp puts forth entrancing strains, 
 
 And at a sign from Leon, someone strikes 
 
 The last impeding wedge that holds to shore. 
 
 Stern foremost ghdes the Dragon on her way. 
 
 Momentum adding impetus to speed ; 
 
 Like arrow shot by strong arms from a bow. 
 
 Her cradle scattering reckless in her wake — 
 
 As if inebriate with liberty. 
 
 She plunges madly through the splashing brine, 
 
 On— through and over— each obstructive wave. 
 
 Like sportive whale in element elate ; 
 
 Until, her force expended, she makes pause ; 
 
 Like something living to reflect and breathe. 
 
 Then, yielding to the motion of the tide. 
 
 Her head she turns, and boldly breasts the wave, 
 
 Obeys her helm — is ready for the sea. 
 
 91
 
 A steady stiff breeze and a flowing tide 
 Impel the Dragon in her onward course ; 
 Her crew's wild cheers re-echo o'er the sea, 
 As,for the widened gap between the Holms, 
 She gallantly and steadily makes way. 
 
 But from the giddy height of La'rnock rocks, 
 By sentinels espied, war signals fly, 
 And though the vessel safely clears the Holms, 
 And rounds Penarth, and sails to where the Tafl* 
 The channel joins— where Cardiff now appears 
 In proud pre-eminence to wondering world, 
 A noble monument to Princely Bute— 
 From forth the British fortress near the shore 
 (Where Cardiff Castle now its proud head rears) 
 A shoal of coracles and rude shaped boats 
 With warriors in them, fierce for foe and fray, 
 Oppose the Dragon, and the struggle comes. 
 
 The frail craft's motley crew defiance shouts. 
 Like hailstones, hate-aimed, arrows pelt the ship, 
 And as they close, sharp javelin and spear 
 Are hurled by nervous arms in purpose firm. 
 The Dragon shields not always safety give, 
 For stinging wounds are felt, and blood-stains seen, 
 And missiles from the Dragon crush and kill. 
 And frail boats by the Dragon prow are sunk. 
 And shot-like pebbles, from old La'rnocks shore. 
 Thrown from her deck crash down on British foe. 
 But as they fall, or sink, fresh Celts press on 
 Of life regardless ; grapple with the oars ; 
 Are shook off in the wave to swim or drown. 
 And brave Celts wrestle with the rudder's frame. 
 
 92
 
 And one bold chieftain with his spear of flint 
 
 The rudder jams up and its action stops. 
 
 Then numbers tr^- to board, are beaten down ; 
 
 Fresh Celts rush up in crowds ; with thrust and groan 
 
 Are beaten off, and sink to rise no more. 
 
 But as the Dragon crew too tired to fight, 
 
 Or lift an arm, or even breathe a breath, 
 
 Give up offensive fight in hopeless plight, 
 
 The breeze was followed by a fearful gale, 
 
 So fierce it raged that coracles and boats 
 
 Were swamped, capsized and scattered as if chaft ; 
 
 The Dragon drifting ofT a helpless wreck. 
 
 The winds like great guns roared o'er Severn Sea, 
 The crested waves to frightful fury lashed ; 
 The Dragon drifted on the flowing tide 
 Past Rhymny's mouth towards the Wentloog fen. 
 And wave on wave rose high and bore her on ; 
 And threw her on the beach, like stranded whale. 
 Then lifted her o'er reed-bed, bog and pool. 
 And hurled her in the moat of Wentloog Camp. 
 The fen-folk wild with terror and affright 
 Beheld the monster plunging in their midst, 
 In terror prayed upon their bended knees ; 
 But Rachel, calm, like goddess, Heaven inspired. 
 Saw realized, false Rhydry's fever dreams. 
 And welcomed the good ship as bosom friend. 
 
 And in the moat the rescued Dragon rode 
 Though shattered sore by battle, storm and tide ; 
 And as the tempest lulled and waves assuaged. 
 Brave Leon with Myfanwy in his arms 
 A fond prayer breathed from overflowing heart. 
 
 93
 
 And Rachel madly scaled the vessel's side 
 
 And clasped Myfanwy tightly to her heart ; . 
 
 *' Oh ! daughter mine, my life, my world, my all ! " 
 
 " Oh ! mother ! mother ! dear ! " Myfaiiwy shrieked ; 
 
 And warriors and women sobbed like babes. 
 
 And then good Rachel saw the Golden Harp 
 
 And helpless fell upon the Dragon's deck. 
 
 Revived, brave Rachel wildly glared around 
 
 And Leon and Myfanwy succour gave, 
 
 And tenderly they raised her in their arms, 
 
 When, like a Pythoness, with rigid form 
 
 She stood erect, her eyes with madness fired. 
 
 No— 'twas not madness : 'twas a frenzied zeal ; 
 
 Her reason seemed to totter but remained. 
 
 Then thus : — " It is the Harp ! the Golden Harp ! 
 
 The Golden Harp of Israel's poet king, 
 
 'Twas played by Royal David— Lord of Hosts ! 
 
 O, Israel's might support me ! or I die — 
 
 The Harp my princely sires for ages held. 
 
 Here — see ! " she added — then a jewel drew, 
 
 Which she had kept securely near her heart, 
 
 " See whence this jewel came ! " she took the Harp, 
 
 The gem fixed in its setting in the frame. 
 
 " The sacred gem, thank Heaven, is now restored. 
 
 And — know ye all — the jewel with the Harp 
 
 Brings happiness to Rachel's royal race ; 
 
 United loves presageth — true as truth." 
 
 M3'fanwy — Leon — both upon their knees — 
 
 In Rachel's searching, sparkling eyes they looked. 
 
 Her crucial gaze they met like angels pure ; 
 
 And Rachel blessed and pressed them to her heart. 
 
 94
 
 And Rachel took Myfanwy to her bower — 
 None ventured on its precincts to intrude. 
 And Leon and his crew surveyed the ship, 
 Repaired her damages and made all taut ; 
 Then through the moat's embankment passage cut 
 To float the Dragon back to Severn Sea. 
 
 ^X^XK^X' 
 
 »5
 
 XL 
 THE CAMP DESTROYED. 
 
 And Rhj'dry in the sea-fight bravely fought, 
 Was beaten down, and, struggling, swam ashore ; 
 And tracked the Dragon to the Wentloog fen. 
 Commenced a crusade with the Druid priests 
 To raze the Wentloog Camp ; and seize the ship. 
 Told of the wealth the Dragon had on board, 
 Told of the jewels rare — the Golden Harp — 
 Foretold invasion on their sacred Wales, 
 And brought an army to the Wentloog fen. 
 
 'Twas such an army none had ever seen 
 On Severn shore. Of Priests and British chiefs, 
 And warriors numberless, and fierce and brave. 
 Pencarn ! the mighty ! of all foes the dread, 
 Appointed, he, to take the chief command. 
 Fierce Rhydry for his own right hand would fight. 
 And splintered arrow shafts were sent around, 
 And Celts from far off, north, south, east and west. 
 Came flocking in like locusts on the wing. 
 Extermination the Arch-Druid preached. 
 And wicker cages brought for captive foe — 
 To burn to ashes all the victims ta'en. 
 
 Meantime rejoicing in the Wentloog Camp, 
 A marriage feast was solemnly prepared ; 
 And Leon took Myfanwy for his bride. 
 With all the solemn rites that Rachel knew, 
 Learned in the temple in her maiden youth, 
 Ere her loved tribe was scattered far and wide ; 
 When she the God of Israel there adored, 
 
 96
 
 Rachel and Leon gold and jewel store 
 Of untold value, gave the blushing bride ; 
 And goblin Karrack and his tame jackdaw 
 Upon the festive scene gazed down in glee. 
 And Rachel — m her dark eyes tears of joy — 
 Made melody upon the Golden Harp, 
 All innocent of pending strife and war. 
 
 And Karrack, with his tinsel spoil adorned. 
 Shone like a Prince of darkness on the tree — 
 The admiration of the Dragon crew, 
 He added prestige to the marriage fete. 
 But, meantime, like a true and trusty scout, 
 Upon the hills a jealous look-out kept. 
 And while the marriage feast was at its height, 
 The goblin rolled his eyes, and warning gave ; 
 And well it was, for soon the danger came. 
 
 A sound like rustling leaves came on the wind, 
 Then smoke and tire ascended to the sky. 
 Then shout and cry ; then tramp of armed men. 
 And then, the flanking, moving bog seemed bridged, 
 And warrior figures marched as on dry land. 
 No child's play now with veteran Pencarn ! 
 The brush and reeds, and tangled grass were cleared, 
 The saplings into faggots firmly bound. 
 The rubbish burned, the land was left as smooth 
 As mountain bare, or field of hay-grass mown. 
 The sapling faggots thousands ten times told. 
 With rocks within, were tumbled in the bog ; 
 And, as they sank in, thousands more were piled. 
 And giving fen-folk little time to arm 
 The Britons took them by surprise in flank. 
 
 97
 
 The Dragons armed and put their ship in trim, 
 
 Myfanwy, Rachel and their train on board ; 
 
 Then rushed to help the fen-men by the bog, 
 
 And hand to hand the fierce affray went on. 
 
 And Karrack left the sable yew-tree top 
 
 And perched himself upon the Dragon's prow. 
 
 The Jackdaw flew like sprite from head to tail 
 
 Evincing satisfaction with the strife. 
 
 The Cub-bear " Romp " took his accustomed seat 
 
 Upon the main mast truck and fell asleep. 
 
 Meantime the shout and shriek, the groan and yell. 
 And screams of women, mixed with children's wails. 
 The fighting furies followed by the bog. 
 While fire ascending from the Wentloog bank, 
 By smoke half hid, was wind-blown o'er the camp, 
 And arrows came in storms like tempest hail. 
 And then Imp Karrack on the Dragon's crest 
 Gibber'd alarm and pointed to the moat, 
 Where coracles and swimming warriors came; 
 Like frogs within a pond in early spring ; 
 And then the Dragons came back to their ship 
 And fought like demons to defend her freight. 
 And last to leave the land young Leon stood. 
 Retreat cut off by Rhydry, fierce as fiend. 
 Then sword crossed sword, each fighting foot to foot, 
 One nerved by love, the other love and hate ; 
 And so they struck, and thrust, and madly sought 
 Each other's life ; but Rhydry stumbled foot 
 In fell red puddle, slippery with gore, 
 And failing so to guard a downward stroke, 
 Leon's sharp sword through helm, through chap and chin, 
 Clave Rhydry's head, and so he met his fate — 
 A warrior mad of unrequited love. 
 
 98
 
 On came the Britons, leaving in their rear 
 Their dead in piles : no quarter given there. 
 Their numbers still increased, the fen-folk crushed, 
 Till not a life within the camp was left. 
 But some poor stragglers taken in the fen 
 Were thrust within the wicker cages dire — 
 Consigned by Druid sentence to be burned — 
 Their cries and chants a Babel-babble made. 
 The camp was sacked, and burning torches plied, 
 And where mirth dwelt dread desolation reigned. 
 
 The thick of fight was now by Dragons held ; 
 
 The sea-kings fought, piled round with heaps of slain, 
 
 But nothing kept the valiant Britons back. 
 
 As comrades fell, more comrades filled the ranks. 
 
 And woe the day, the Dragons sought the fen ! 
 
 The tempting treasures now in touch of grasp. 
 
 The Celts redoubled blows like hell- sent fiends. 
 
 When, from the outskirts of the fen, arose 
 
 A rushing sound with loud dismaying cries, 
 
 And wave on wave, the Channel tide o'erflowed ; 
 
 One fatal tidal wave above the rest 
 
 Put out the Druid fires ; the Druids drowned. 
 
 Drowned man and beast ; drowned every creeping thing ; 
 
 Drowned jailer, captive ; v/arrior in the fight ; 
 
 And left the Wentloog fen a watery waste ! 
 
 The Dragon ship now, like famed Noah's ark, 
 Rose o'er the waters with her precious freight. 
 And reached the Channel on a friendly wave : 
 And in her element was safe and sound. 
 And then aloft the Golden Harp was tuned, 
 And for the last time heard on Severn Sea. 
 
 99
 
 'Tis thought that Leon unto Cornwales sailed, 
 
 And there bought vessels for such Wentloog friends 
 
 As safety found upon the Dragon's decks. 
 
 And with them sailed unto the far off East, 
 
 Where Seafoam's and good Rachel's people dwelt, 
 
 And there a Colony and Kingdom made. 
 
 And Rachel, and Myfanwy, angels both, 
 
 Made purity and virtue so beloved. 
 
 That sin and selfishness became abhorred ; 
 
 In them Prince Leon found more precious wealth, 
 
 Than all the gold his father's wildest dreams 
 
 Had conjured past the Isles of Severn Sea. 
 
 And Leon a great dynasty did found. 
 From which a line of Princes did descend 
 For wisdom and for virtue widely famed. 
 Until degenerated they became — 
 And then :— OBLIVION ! 
 
 Note. — in the old church at Peterstone a metal mark 
 shows the height of a tidal wave from Severn Sea, which 
 submerged and destroyed all in the Wentloog level. 
 
 lOO
 
 XII. 
 THE MODERN WENTLOOG. 
 
 Like hapless mortals, restless and self-willed, 
 
 A nation by experience wisdom wins, 
 
 And Britain was not ripe for Rachel's rule. 
 
 Years then to come, in land more civilized, 
 
 When full effulgence— her's but twilight ray — 
 
 Of Heaven's Light shone round : to sordid souls, 
 
 It lighted but one path— to Calvary ! 
 
 And Britain rich in germs of future good — 
 
 Courage, but superstition its blind guide, 
 
 Pure patriotism had to guard its homes 
 
 And what it thought it held of liberty. 
 
 Then Rome's stern legions, like an avalanche, 
 
 O'arwhelming Druid power, enslaved our land, 
 
 Supplanting right by her brute tyrant might. 
 
 Demoralized the Celt and passed away. 
 
 And Saxon savages with courage fierce. 
 
 With Norsemen's fetish valour — hell inspired. 
 
 All heathen, then half Christian, held their sway. 
 
 Then Norman, with rapacity refined. 
 
 In priestly fetters tied, played tyrant lord ; 
 
 And left to us in privilege and pride — 
 
 But honour, courage, patriotism unmatched — 
 
 Example his admirers to inspire. 
 
 And now live we in civil strife in peace. 
 
 Class wars with class, and as the few recede 
 
 The mass advances on its course to power — 
 
 May Providence protect and keep us right ! 
 
 There's nothing new : the phonograph itself — 
 And this God puts in every human brain — 
 
 101
 
 Repeateth voice and sounds to raptured ears 
 Of great men's sayings, doings, in the past. 
 And Rachel's Godlike teaching and good deeds 
 Let but a chord vibrate, from time to time, 
 And all's repeated — neither lapse of time, 
 Nor change of scene, obliterates the trace ; 
 Or withers the good seed. 
 
 te^ 
 
 And is't not seen within the Wentloog vale 
 
 That they whose lives are known by virtuous deeds 
 
 Feel sacred melody inspire their souls. 
 
 While God-sent sympathy the heart pervades ? 
 
 AEolian strains hear in the gentle breeze — 
 
 Seraphic choirs tuned in the whirlwind's voice. 
 
 Find notes enchanting in the lark's sweet song 
 
 And in the diapason of the thunder's roar ! 
 
 See beauty beam in every flower that springs. 
 
 Inhale sweet incense from the hawthorn's bloom. 
 
 See Love Divine in every sunbeam's smile — 
 
 Drink in the music as the Golden Harp 
 
 Of God, in Nature,tunes the rolling spheres ? 
 
 And truly happy is the Wentloog now. 
 
 Tredegar, famed in fight, with genial sway 
 
 Makes tenant rich and peasant feel at home : 
 
 Inhabiting fair farms and cottage hearths. 
 
 With fen-land drained and dyked and life secure. 
 
 With flocks and herds and pastures rich and green. 
 
 The fire-horse on his iron track flies by. 
 
 With more than lightning speed o'erhead thoughts fly 
 
 Thoughts without words, and spoken words as well. 
 
 And cruelty and superstition hold no sway. 
 
 I02
 
 $l)ake$peare. 
 
 [Ter-cmtenary Poem, ivrilteii 1864). 
 
 Thy genius to portray, behold yon mount 
 Snow-capped and lofty ; piercing through the clouds, 
 With granite cliffs fantastical in form, 
 The ravens' rude retreat ; the eagles' haunt ; 
 Round which the Hghtning flashes forks grotesque, 
 Bright as th}- wit midst clouds of mental gloom. 
 With awe approach the wrinkled mount, and see 
 Deep chasms yawn in magnitude immense, 
 Between whose jaws the fairest valleys smile, 
 Where grow the vine and flowers of sweetest scent, 
 With gossamer o'erhung — all dew be-gemmed ; 
 Fair fertile vales, where roams the happy elf, 
 With glowing fancy various as thine. 
 In emerald each hillock stands be-clad, 
 Reflecting gorgeous tints when sunbeams smile, 
 From choicest wild-flower blossoms studded o'er, 
 Rich as thy mind in soul refreshing charms. 
 As from some mountain chain the giant mount 
 Unrivalled stands ; dwarfing each frowning height ; 
 So stands thy fame ; of those most wise, most great ; 
 Who in their day aspiring to the prize 
 Of mental greatness, with undying hate, 
 Fell ignorance fought manfully —and won ! 
 As summer clouds their gauzy curtains spread, 
 DistiUing dew-drops on the mountain heights. 
 Which, percolating through the hoary rocks, 
 Become a trickling runlet, then a pool ; 
 The pool o'erflowing pours a tiny stream, 
 The stream rejoicing, danceth on its path, 
 
 I07
 
 Augmented by each tributary source, 
 
 Until beneath the mount a river runs ; 
 
 Dewdrops and runlet, stream and rivers flow. 
 
 Pregnant with particles of mountain rust, 
 
 Convey alluvium to each vale beneath, 
 
 A source of good unbounded. On they bear 
 
 Deposits to enrich the valleys fair ; 
 
 On, onward to the restless rolling sea. 
 
 Thus ceaseless, to a world dispensing good ; 
 
 So doth thy genius on the stream of time 
 
 Flow on resistless, and in all instils 
 
 An influence benign ! Th}- placid eye, 
 
 Like to some lake in calm of summer eve. 
 
 Reflecting from above the blue serene, 
 
 Unfathomably deep, unto the crowd 
 
 All unobservant seemed ; whilst all around 
 
 Was on its surface mirrored. Thus with thee — 
 
 Thus on thy soul were actions photographed, 
 
 Retained and treasured up in that vast store — 
 
 That precious mine of thought — where nature plied 
 
 Her subtlest chemistry ; where reason held 
 
 Supremest sway. And thence each act, each thought, 
 
 As if by genius Divine, inspired. 
 
 Came forth remodelled — so renewed — 
 
 That to the wondering crowd thy master mind 
 
 Ubiquitous did seem. Each saw himself, 
 
 His follies, foibles, aye, his secret thoughts, 
 
 Fully exposed to universal gaze. 
 
 Like Flora's sweets profusely scattered round 
 
 In full blown prime thy soul-gems were outspread 
 
 With lavish hand : not caring who might cull ; 
 
 Nor did'st thou heed the shadow, fools call fame, 
 
 104
 
 Hence are thy priceless jewels sometimes set 
 In vilest dross, by clumsy craftsman's hand. 
 But who amidst the garbled trash can fail, 
 If he have soul, to see what Shakespeare thought. 
 To feel what Shakespeare felt with raptured glow, 
 And who would not his humble homage pay 
 Immortal Shakespeare on his natal day ? 
 
 G: 
 
 lO!
 
 Cl)c ujiiiUinQS oT ibe Wpe» 
 
 When the summer sun is shining 
 In the dazzHng deep bkie sky, 
 
 Ah ! 'tis bliss to dream, redining, 
 By the windings of the Wye. 
 
 When rich autumn's golden splendour 
 Tints the woods and charms the eye, 
 
 Ah ! what heart would not surrender 
 By the windings of the Wye ? 
 
 When wild, wintry storms in beauty 
 O'er the Windclifif's summit fly. 
 
 Then to love — it is a duty — 
 B}'- the windings of the Wye. 
 
 But in spring time's merry season, 
 When each mortal's heart beats high, 
 
 Then, to love not — it is treason — 
 By the windings of the Wye. 
 
 Then, two hearts, as one, o'erflowing, 
 Swell'd with love, while glance and sigh 
 
 Told with warmest ardour, glowing. 
 By the windings of the Wye. 
 
 Then two hearts — the scene beguiling — 
 Scann'd the past with tearful eye ; 
 
 Viewed the coming future smiling 
 In the windings of the Wye. 
 
 ic6
 
 "SARN HELEN, 
 
 A LEGEND OF 
 
 THE STEEP HOLM ISLAND,* 
 
 (BRISTOL CHANNEL). 
 
 Period— NORMAN CONQUEST. 
 
 DRAMATI5 PERSON/E :— 
 
 Cymro Goch 
 Edwy 
 Baby Boy 
 
 Sarn Helen 
 
 GWYTHA ... 
 
 GUNHILDA 
 GWYNNY. 
 
 \ A young Welsh Warrior, Grandson 
 I of Sarn Helen. 
 
 A Boatman of Watchet. 
 
 j Sarn Helen's Grandson — Gvvynny's 
 ' j child. 
 
 1 A demented Welsh Lady, nick- 
 ' I named " Sarn Helen." 
 
 I Earl Godwin's Widow — Mother of 
 ( King Harold. 
 
 Gwytha's Pious Daughter. 
 
 Sarn Helen's Widowed Daughter. 
 
 French Captain and Saxon Ladies. 
 
 • Most authorities give the Flat Holui Island as the refuge of 
 the Royal Saxon Ladies. The Steep Holm Island for 
 obvious reasons is preferred. 
 
 107
 
 Scene !♦ 
 
 Stkep HohM— Exterior of ragged tent, on rocks. 
 
 Weird twilight, rough sea, dense fog arising. 
 
 Ounhilda^Gwytha and starving Ladies tviih hafids behind their 
 ears listening in affright : — 
 
 Voice (from the sea-depths). 
 
 "In surging Severn's sullen gloom 
 
 The sea-birds' home — the Vi-Kings' tomb 
 
 Accursed Saxons ! ye are doomed — 
 
 King, and Earl, and churl entomb'd." 
 
 GUNHILDA. 
 
 That voice hath bodeful sound, my mother dear, 
 But if there's danger there is naught to fear. 
 Listen to me : — 
 
 GUNHILDA SINGS. 
 
 God is here, and God is there, 
 He is present everywhere. 
 He from danger keeps us free, 
 Bless His Name, and bend the knee. 
 
 What have we on earth to fear ? 
 God is present — ever near. 
 Loving Father ! Saviour dear ! 
 Condescend our praise to hear. 
 
 Sinful mortals, in our woes. 
 Hungry, cold, without repose ; 
 Dreading ever watchful foes. 
 We dare not our eyelids close. 
 
 T08
 
 Dangers worse than death are near, 
 Hence we cry with souls sincere ; 
 Without Thy protection here 
 We must die of craven fear. 
 
 If we live with God in prayer, 
 
 In the desert no despair 
 
 Can outweigh His loving care, 
 
 God is Heaven — and Heaven is there^! 
 
 Voice ijrom the sea). 
 "Misery ! ye Saxon swine, 
 Famine, fever, chills combine. 
 Hover over, birds of prey, 
 Show no mercy — none had they." 
 
 GWYTHA. 
 
 What dreadful voice is that we hear ? 
 Now in the distance ; now quite near ; 
 It presages some ill, I fear, 
 It tells me we must perish here. 
 
 Voice. 
 
 ''Accursed Saxons ! doom'd ! doom'd ! doom'd ! " 
 
 {Dies away on the gale; sea-birds \toss\ wildly - 
 screaming and flying over rocks). 
 
 GwYTHA {shouts frantically). 
 
 Foul demon ! I defy thee ! — Hence ! 
 
 GUNHILDA. 
 
 Be calm, my mother ■ — be at rest, 
 Rest thy dear head upon my breast. 
 Mother ! when Exeter's strong towers 
 Fell down, and were no longer ours ; 
 
 109
 
 When life for us seem'd all but o'er, 
 
 Methought, above the battle's roar ; 
 
 I heard a voice in high command, 
 
 ('Twas God's good Providence at hand) 
 
 Cry, " Halt ! ye bloodhounds, cease your strife ; 
 
 Molest not mother, maid nor wife." 
 
 And then— my mother — we came out, 
 
 God brought us through the rabble rout ; 
 
 Inspir'd good Edwy without doubt, 
 
 From Watchet's rocks to row us out. 
 
 God brought us safely — safely — here, 
 
 Then trust in Him and banish fear. 
 
 GWYTHA. 
 
 Yes, 'twas Duke William grim whose voice was heard, 
 And every myrmidon did tremble at his word. 
 Would I had died, my child, ere J came here, 
 Better have graced the Conqueror's sad train, 
 Than die, unseen, without a pitying tear, 
 A loathsome death of starving, lingering pain. 
 
 Voice, 
 
 "Accursed Saxons ! doom'd ! doom'd ! doom'd! 
 
 In barren Island all entomb'd. 
 
 And as the Holms are lash'd by waves. 
 
 So Normans lash their Saxon slaves." 
 
 [G IV ytha faints. Gimhilda Jmeels andprays). 
 
 no
 
 Scene IL 
 
 Rocky Cave. Penarth Head, Torchlight. 
 
 (Cave glislens with stalactites and gypsum bands). 
 
 Sarn Helen and Cymro— (loq). 
 
 {Gwynnij nursing habe and singing). 
 
 LULLABY. 
 
 Slumber sweetly, precious little baby, 
 Dearest little baby, God-sent little baby. 
 Lullaby, my only, only baby, 
 Lullaby, lullaby, lul-lul-a-by ! 
 
 Dreams of bliss console my precious baby, 
 Comfort little baby ; happy little baby ; 
 
 Lullaby, my smiling little baby, 
 Lullab}', lullaby, lul-lul-a-by ! 
 
 Angels hover o'er my sleeping baby ; 
 
 Darling little baby ; smiling little baby ; 
 
 Lullaby, my precious little baby, 
 Lullaby, lullaby, lul-lul-a-by. 
 
 Gentle Jesus ! guard my little baby ? 
 
 Bless my little baby ? bless my little baby ? 
 Lullaby, my precious little baby, 
 Lullaby, lullaby, lul-lul-a-by ! 
 
 GwYNNY (laying babe on couch of skins). 
 
 Sleep thou in peace, no harm shall come to thee 
 While mother watches o'er thy little bed. 
 
 I II
 
 See mother ! Cymro ! what an Angel's smile 
 Lights up my darling's face ? 
 
 Cymro. 
 
 Harm come to him ! no, not if this strong arm 
 Which Providence hath given to me to use 
 Can ward it off. But see our mother speaks 
 In tones foreboding some sad painful thoughts. 
 
 GWYNNY. 
 
 O, mother, why this wild distracted voice 
 Wil't thou not rest and calm thy troubled soul ? 
 Here's food for thee, I pray thee to partake. 
 
 Sarn Helen {distractedly). 
 
 Queen Aldyth cannot live ! and yet she must not die, 
 Until I wring her very heart of hearts, 
 And Royal Gryffydd shall not unaveng'd 
 Lie in his bloody grave on Penmaen's height. 
 Oh ! how he lov'd her. She, devoid of love and heart ! 
 Or loyal feeling for our King. I've seen him start 
 With quivering lip and moisten'd eye, the Lion Prince, 
 Breast heaving — sighing like a moonstruck boy — 
 While she, with upturned face and look of scorn 
 Thought of her Saxon Harold. He, forsooth ! 
 Whom she did love — even when Gryffydd's Queen. 
 
 Cymro. 
 
 Mother ! thou think'st too deeply — 
 
 Sarn Helen. 
 
 Peace, boy. Thou wert about the Saxon King ; 
 Perchance his honied smile made thee forget 
 Thy murder'd Prince — thy bleeding country. 
 
 112
 
 ') 
 
 Cymro. 
 
 No ! by Heaven ! no ! Thou knowest well when Gryffydd 
 
 fell 
 Beneath the treacherons blows of kinsman's blade, 
 My spear transfixed the murderer on the spot. 
 When Gryffydd's eye caught mine, the last fond look 
 It gave to man before he life resigned, 
 Oh ! that look ! that loving, fascinating gaze. 
 
 {sobbing), 
 
 Sarn Helen. 
 
 Aye, weep, boy, weep ; it does me good to see 
 Thee weep ; for thou must weep, and act, and do ! 
 Aye, well might Gryffydd eye thee with a look 
 Of love, thou, who wert his — his — 
 
 Cymro. 
 
 His what ? speak further ; for suspense is death. 
 
 Sarn Helen. 
 
 Not yet, boy ; no, not yet, not yet. Aldyth 
 Must first be met with — must be confronted— 
 My boy — my mad fit comes — I — I am crazed. 
 
 Cymro. 
 
 Let me comfort thee ! 
 
 Sarn Helen {ijazing ivildly). 
 
 In frays 'twixt Penmaenmawr and Penarth Head, 
 My husband, my five sons, have perished. 
 Their bones on battlefields unburied lie. 
 
 113
 
 Our homes razed from the valley's smiling face, 
 One daughter broken-hearted, dead and gone, 
 The other with her babe, here, widow'd, lone ; 
 And nothing left to hope for, but revenge ! 
 And now — ah ! ah ! the Saxon race is doom'd. 
 King, Earls, and lusty churls all — all — entomb'd I 
 This does my heart good, and I've that to tell 
 Will make thy heart within thy bosom swell — 
 But not yet — it is too soon — not yet. 
 
 Cymro. 
 
 Content not satisfied— thy time I bide, 
 
 In hope : but just now, thou spak'st of Harold, 
 
 Thou know'st that after Gryffydd's murder, 
 
 I went in Aldyth's train at thy behest, 
 
 And much I saw of Harold — Earl and King ; 
 
 He was a Royal Prince in every sense. 
 
 And had he not been Saxon I had fought 
 
 To death beneath the flag of such a man, 
 
 But Saxon blood and blood of Cymro 
 
 Can no more mingle than can oil and water. 
 
 Sarn Helen. 
 
 In that thou speakest well, my noble boy, 
 But we to-morrow will take boat again, 
 With Gwynny and her babe to yon rock isle, 
 And meet Queen Aldyth face to face — to face ! 
 
 Cymro. 
 
 Why risk the lives of Gwynny and her babe ? 
 
 114
 
 Sarn Helen. 
 
 Of Gwynny and her babe, quotha ? 
 
 Cymro. 
 
 Yes, mother dear, thou knowest what a tide 
 We had but yesterday, when La'rnock race 
 All but upset our boat. 
 
 Sarn Helen. 
 
 No matter what may happen, they shall go 
 And gloat upon Queen Aldyth in her woe. 
 
 lExit. 
 
 ns
 
 Scene IIK 
 
 The Steep Holm Island. 
 
 GwYTHA {gazing from loftiest rock). 
 
 Alas, these river Islands, fatal spots ! 
 
 Here thousands of my countrymen once starved, 
 
 Surrounded by victorious Saxon foes, 
 
 Who gave no quarter to the conquer'd Danes. 
 
 Now Dane and Saxon, friendly, bleed alike ; 
 
 And, side by side, meet Norman steel with steel. 
 
 No sail ! No hope of rescue ! Hopeless, I 
 
 Starve upon this barren rock — I, even I, 
 
 Who once thought I fair England ruled ; and own'd 
 
 The richest acres of the Saxon shore : 
 
 Living in Royal state, with six fair sons. 
 
 Brave as the bravest in the land. Belov'd 
 
 Was I, by Godwin, England's proudest Earl. 
 
 We doted on our valiant sons : — Poor Sweyn, 
 
 By love and superstition ruin'd. Harold ! 
 
 Royal Harold ! noblest son and Monarch 
 
 England e'er produced. Tostig — the lovely — 
 
 Fierce and revengeful boy— but now, no more ! 
 
 Gurth, the sturdy giant ; Gurth ! heroic Gurth ! 
 
 And Leofwin, with his loving, constant smile ; 
 
 And oh ! sweet Wolnoth, fair, but feeble child, 
 
 I lov'd thee with a m.other's heart of hearts ; 
 
 But thou art Norman in thy habits — tastes. 
 
 And saw our Harold trick'd with those dry bones, 
 
 With which cowl'd mountebanks did so blaspheme, 
 
 That back'd by superstitious, shameless curse. 
 
 And Norman William's ruthless, cruel hordes, 
 
 They were endow'd with most pernicious life. 
 
 ii6
 
 And fixed on English necks a foreign yoke — 
 Our turn, perchance, ma)?^ yet return — and then 
 
 Voice {from the sea). 
 
 "Accursed, hateful Saxons ! doom ! doom ! doom ! 
 The deadly nightshade on your graves shall bloom." 
 
 GWYTHA. 
 
 That bodeful voice — 'tis like the cry of fate ! 
 See, how the sun shines on the Severn Sea ! 
 As with a glory lighting Alfred's coast 
 From Bristol down to classic Athelney. 
 Ah ! there great Alfred was in plight as poor 
 As Godwin's widow on this barren rock. 
 And — yet — his fortune smil'd and smil'd again. 
 And wh}^ not mine ? 
 
 Voice {from the sea). 
 
 "Accursed Saxons ! doomed ! " 
 
 {Gust of wind howls past, followed by piercing shrieks from 
 the sea-depths helow. Gwytha, retiring^ sees Edwy the Boat- 
 man, followed T)y Saxon women rushing to the waier^s edge. 
 Edwy returns hearing an old woman'' s body which he deposits 
 in front of tent). 
 
 GwYTHA, 
 
 Speak, Edwy, what hath happened ? 
 
 Edwy. 
 
 A boat capsized, and, clinging to her keel, 
 This woman whom I brought away as dead ; 
 Others appeared as struggling in the sea. 
 But those I could not reach. I fear they're lost. 
 
 117
 
 GWYTHA. 
 
 Gunhilda and her woman will attend 
 To that poor woman's wants if she hath life, 
 So far as famine stricken friends may serve, 
 Meantime canst thou inform me of the fleet ? 
 
 Edwy. 
 
 Of what fleet, lady ? 
 
 GwYTHA. 
 
 Of that from Ireland which the princely boys command. 
 
 Edwy. 
 
 Lady, alas ! none but the Norman fleet 
 Floats freely on the Bristol Channel now ; 
 On every rocky cove, inlet and creek, 
 A cat-like watch is kept, and no strange sail 
 Can pass the Norman vigilance. Torture, 
 Murder and mutilation stalk along 
 Uncheck'd : and coast, and country, desolate ; 
 War- wasted ; tenantless as a desert 
 Is become. 
 
 Gwytha. 
 
 Is there no hope ? 
 
 Edwy. 
 
 Our hope is that some ship in trader guise 
 By friends advised may visit this lone isle. 
 My knowledge of the coast hath guided me 
 Without detection past the Norman ships. 
 
 ii8
 
 But yesterday, my boat hauled on the rocks, 
 Myself well-hidden on the shingly shore — 
 Beheld a Norman prow appear in sight 
 With noble Saxons chain'd unto the oars 
 Beaten with whips all dripping Saxon blood, 
 It made my blood run hot and cold. 
 
 GWYTHA. 
 
 Great Heaven ! what then ? 
 
 Edwy. 
 
 The craft a dangerous current did attempt 
 To them unknown, but I did not know it well, 
 It drifted on the rocky combes and split — 
 The Normans clinging to the sharp edg'd rocks, 
 The Saxon's chain'd securely to the oars. 
 And then the noble, drowning Saxons sang 
 Till all were lost and by the sea engulph'd ; 
 Norman and Saxon in one seething waste — 
 The Saxon's singing as if at a feast. 
 Their song of Liberty ! while chain'd like slaves 
 Oh ! 'twas an awful sight ! aloft, the rocks 
 Fantastical in form shut out the sky. 
 The foaming sea by tempest's fury lash'd 
 Commingled air and water, rock and wreck 
 While " Liberty ! " was shouted from the deck. 
 The sea-birds and the Norman s wildly shriek'd. 
 But louder rang the dying Saxons' song, 
 Which thus fell on my ears : — 
 
 119
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 O liberty ! O liberty ! 
 Who would not gladly die for thee ? 
 Though chain'd as slaves, our souls are free^ 
 
 And death will give us liberty, 
 
 O liberty ! O liberty ! 
 By England lost through treachery, 
 Heroic in her bravery, 
 
 She must — she will— have liberty, 
 
 O liberty ! O liberty ! 
 Old England's sons shall yet be free, 
 Through throes of death and agony, 
 
 Old England will win liberty. 
 
 O liberty ! O liberty ! 
 See, see, their so-called chivalry, 
 The ship-wreck'd Normans crouching lie, 
 
 Like murderers of liberty. 
 
 O liberty ! O liberty ! 
 A life is worthless without thee. 
 Life is not life in slavery, 
 
 And death will give us liberty. 
 
 O liberty ! O liberty ! 
 We welcome death to welcome thee ; 
 Rocks, waves and tempests, set us free. 
 
 Thrice welcome death and libert3^ 
 
 GWYTHA. 
 
 O Saxons, brave, when roused by duty's call, 
 Too well I know of what they're capable. 
 But come, and see Gunhilda and her charge. 
 
 lExit 
 
 120
 
 Scene IV» 
 
 The same Tsland—hy the ragged tent— women soothing Sam 
 Helen^ who awakes to partial consciousness. 
 
 Sarx Helen. 
 
 Ye are Saxons ! tell me where I am, and 
 Who ye are ? and let me see Queen Aldyth ? 
 Where is my daughter ? where my noble boy ? 
 Gwynny and Cymro, and where my daughter's babe ? 
 Are ye all mad ? ye look so wild and wan. 
 Or am I mad ? Yes, I will be avenged ! 
 Revenge ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! 
 
 (sobbing hysterically). 
 1st Woman. 
 
 Take comfort, sad one, we will tell thee all : 
 
 Or Gwytha — who comes here— she shall explain. 
 
 A babe upon the rocks was found— but — 
 
 {Enter Gwytha and Edivy). 
 
 Sarn Helen. 
 
 'Tis she, the Queen, accursed Aldyth ! 
 
 And I will tear her with these withered hands. 
 
 {staggers). 
 Come, let me grasp thee, hateful Saxon, come ! 
 
 {falls). 
 Edwy. 
 
 Mad woman ! 'tis the Danish lady, Gwytha, 
 Godwin's widow— Royal Harold's mother. 
 Queen Aldyth (with her sons) holds Chester's walls, 
 And there defies the Norman with her Welsh, 
 Determin'd all to conquer or to die. 
 
 121
 
 Sarn Helkn. 
 
 Ye lie, say woman, doth he not He ? 
 
 GWYTHA. 
 
 It is the solemn truth he speaks. 
 
 Sarn Helen. 
 
 And I, deceived, was told of Aldyth here, 
 
 And I have watched this island day and night : 
 
 Surrounded it with curses on her head ! 
 
 Mercy ! alas ! my brain reels. I am weak — 
 
 Where is my daughter, my noble boy — the babe ! 
 
 The boy ! the boy ! the Royal, Princely boy ! 
 
 {Women conduct her io Ihe ledge of a sheluij rock, ivhere 
 dead body of bale lies covered tvith wild Jloivers ; o'er 
 which Gunhilda sings. Sarn HeUn sivoons). 
 
 GUNHILDA. 
 
 THE BABE. 
 
 How like the babe in Bethlehem, 
 
 Which sainted Mary bore ; 
 'Twas Jesus sent this cherubim 
 
 To lead us from eaith's shore. 
 
 O lovely babe, in death's deep sleep. 
 Thou wear'st an Angel smile ; 
 
 With joy 'twould make an Angel weep 
 To see thee saved from guile. 
 
 Thou art not dead but freed from earth, 
 And like a snow-drop shriven. 
 
 Pure as pure snow thou buddest forth. 
 To point the way to Heaven. 
 
 122
 
 {Sam Helen, recovering, throws her arms around the 
 hale, and screams for her daughter ; ivhen enter Captain 
 and a ship's officer with Cymro Ooch, pale and faint. 
 Sam Helen lays doion hale, and embraces Cymro). 
 
 Sarn Helen. 
 
 His wrong'd and widow'd mother thou'lt avenge, 
 And live, like me, but for — revenge ! revenge ! 
 Tliou, Prince ! son of my daughter and my King. 
 
 Cymro. 
 
 Gr}^fydd ? Father } what bliss ? what misery ! 
 
 Sarn Helen. 
 
 Aye, King Gryfifydd : my child was put aside 
 For Aldyth to make way ; for state reasons— 
 So twas said — but my brain burns, my daughter, 
 The babe ! dead ! dead ! dead ! 
 
 {she sinJcs exhausted). 
 
 Cymro. 
 
 Another motive for a wild revenge. 
 
 Which must have rein, or my sad heart will burst. 
 
 GwYTHA {interrupting). 
 
 But how, young chief, didst thou come to this isle ? 
 Speak, I entreat thee ? 
 
 Cymro. 
 
 Distraction dulls my memory— yet I 
 Will try to tell thee how it came about. 
 When our frail boat capsized, and hurl'd us out, 
 I saw no more, but fought with rock and wave. 
 In 'hopeless phght, till lest to consciousness. 
 
 123
 
 When I awoke, 'twas on this Captain's deck, 
 For he, brave fellow, pluck'd me from the waves, 
 And offer'd me to sail to France with him ; 
 Aye he, though French, hath got a tender heart. 
 And when the Saxon ladies' fate I told, 
 He to this island brought me, and intends 
 To rescue you from your captivity. 
 
 GWYTHA. 
 
 Thank Heaven ! thank thee ; aye, on my bended knee, 
 Thanks — thanks — a thousand thanks ! 
 
 GuNHii.DA (fiings). 
 
 If we live with God in prayer. 
 
 In the desert no despair 
 
 Can outweigh His loving care, 
 
 God is Heaven, and Heaven is there ! 
 
 Cymro. 
 
 This is the teaching of an Angel pure ! 
 O lady ! but that I hunger for revenge — 
 
 Sarn Hklen {starts up — dimes long laufe from her girdle^ 
 and glaring at Cymro). 
 
 Revenge ! revenge ! 'tis all thou livest for. 
 For every widow's sigh and bitter groan ; 
 'Tis thou that must avenge ; aye, thou alone ! 
 List to the words our Bards have prophesied, 
 Aye, prophesied of thee, great Cymro Goch — 
 
 124
 
 Sarn Helen {chants). 
 
 CYAIRO GOCH. 
 
 On mount, with head in clouds \vith foot on sea, 
 In every Castle's deadly breach he stood. 
 On moorland wild, in valley — on the lea — 
 For Cambria there was he, and shed his blood. 
 
 '1 
 
 In fiercest fighting with the alien knights 
 Great Cymro Goch in hottest of the frays, 
 Struck harder than his comrades in all fights, 
 And Bards shall sing his fame to latest days. 
 
 Sarn' Helen {furiously Ircmdishing hii/e). 
 
 Revenge ! — Thou must shed blood ! blood ! aye, blood ! 
 
 GWYTHA. 
 
 Peace, crazy one ; and thou, O brave young chief. 
 
 One word with thee, for our stay must be brief. 
 
 Ah ! ponder well on whom thoud'st seek revenge. 
 
 For what ? on whom ? and whom thou would'st avenge ? 
 
 Thy father died not by a Saxon brand. 
 
 And Saxon now and Cymro hand in hand 
 
 Meet the dread Norman in unequal strife, 
 
 Fighting in vain for country — kin — for life ! 
 
 Come then with us awhile to sunny France ? 
 
 Thy valour there will Cambria's fame enhance. 
 
 And when the time for action here is ripe, 
 
 Return inured the common foe to gripe, 
 
 A nervous hand arm'd with a well-prov'd sword 
 
 Would make thee monarch o'er a savage horde. 
 
 12S
 
 Cymro. 
 
 Lady, alas ! thy counsel seems most wise — And — I — I — 
 
 Sarn Helen. 
 
 Take counsel with the Saxon ! traitor vile I 
 Dost thou falter ? this hand shall with this knife 
 At once deprive thee of thy worthless life ! 
 
 CvMRo (hesitating). 
 
 Mother ! who doubts my courage ? would'st thou have 
 
 Me act the murd'rous ruffian without cause ? 
 
 Sarn Helen. 
 
 Revenge ; I'd have — aye, nothing but revenge ! 
 
 GuNHiLDA {to Cymro). 
 
 Yet, prithee, hear me ere thou stoop'st to crime ! 
 GuNHiLDA (sings). 
 
 FORGIVE. 
 
 If man would but forgive, 
 And love his erring brother ; 
 
 How sweet the lives we'd live, 
 Forgiving one another. 
 
 O man, thou hast not time 
 To waste in doing evil ; 
 
 Revenge means crime for crime, 
 And would debase a devil. 
 
 If erring man would turn 
 Repentant to his brother. 
 
 Then friend and foe would yearn 
 All angry thoughts to smother. 
 
 J26
 
 If he whom God made strong 
 Would help his weaker brother, 
 
 Then strong and weak, no wrong 
 Could do to one another. 
 
 If strong to strong were strong, 
 
 Unselfish love to cherish. 
 No nation dare do wrong, 
 
 And enmity would perish. 
 
 O man, thou dar'st not pray. 
 Or even hope for Heaven, 
 
 If this thou disobey — 
 Forgive, and be forgiven. 
 
 Cymro (to Gunhilda). 
 
 Ah ! lady, if my worthless life were all 
 
 That stood between my country and her weal, 
 
 How gladly would I shed each drop of blood 
 
 For one bright gleam of sunshine on her head, 
 
 But now, distraction ! no clear aim in view : 
 
 Blood cries for blood, and valour stoops so low 
 
 That rapine, midnight murder — hand in hand 
 
 With fire and famine stalk throughout our land, 
 
 Whether to stand, or in what path to fly. 
 
 Whether to fight, or in despair to die — 
 
 ! wilt thou counsel me ? I would be just. 
 
 S.VRN Helen {drawmg knife and rushing on Cymro). 
 Thou coward ! poltroon ! here dead at my feet, 
 Thy corpse shall lie ! but — 
 
 {dropping knife)- 
 
 1 cannot kill thee — son of my daughter. 
 Darling of my heart — I cannot kill thee. 
 
 127
 
 But I — will die — will leave thee — I will die. 
 The old must die — I am called — I — J — I — 
 
 {Totters to verge of roclc — removes lier head-gear — 
 stretches out arms seaward— shrieks). 
 
 Come, storm ? come, wave ? 
 
 Within your bosom lei me find a grave ? 
 
 GUNHILDA. 
 
 Save — save her ! see ! she rushes to the verge 
 Of that dread rock. It topples ! she must fall ! 
 
 {Cymro rushes to Sam Helen — seizes her — his weight 
 
 overbalances rocJc, and hoth are hurled with it deep 
 
 down into the sea). 
 
 Sarn Helen {screaming) — 
 
 " Revenge ! " 
 
 Cymro {shouting) — 
 " Despair ! " 
 
 {Ladies gaze down seaward^ with horror, clinging 
 to each other). 
 
 GUNHILDA. 
 
 Our God, in love, a pitying Angel sent 
 To take him hence whilst he was penitent. 
 And she of reason's guiding star bereft 
 A world of sorrow and despair hath left. 
 
 Edwy. 
 
 Nay, marvel not at this sad spectacle, 
 
 Indeed, 'tis not uncommon in these parts 
 
 To see the crumbling rock roll from the heights 
 
 And splash in fragments through the angry waves — 
 
 But we must haste to sea or miss our chance. 
 
 128
 
 GWYTHA. 
 
 Yes, let us haste away to sunny France. 
 
 GUNHILDA. 
 
 But we must Christian burial give the child. 
 
 The Grandam, Mother, Chief, within the wild 
 
 And wolfish waves must now, alas, await 
 
 The day when seas give up their deadly freight. 
 
 And I with solemn masses — earnest prayers — 
 
 Will crave that Heaven's Kingdom may be theirs ; 
 
 And in fair France will dedicate my life 
 
 To prayer and vigil, far from scenes of strife. 
 
 lExU, 
 
 129
 
 Bleak nKre» Salop. 
 
 IN DENSE FOG. 
 
 Spirit of the Mist. 
 
 " Noiseless and formless I, yet I o'erwhelm — 
 
 Yea, strip the sturdy oak and stubborn elm. 
 
 I am the spirit of the misty mere ! 
 
 I am the spirit of the forest drear ! 
 
 I am the spirit of the leafless woods 1 
 
 I am the spirit of the trackless floods ! 
 
 1 am the spirit of the oozy waste ! 
 
 I hide the present and the dreamy past I " 
 
 Mortal. " Sad spirit, though thy form I may not see 
 Submissively I listen unto thee." 
 
 Spirit of the Mist. 
 
 "Presumptuous wanderer, what brings thee 
 Within this solitude so bleak and drear, [here 
 Art tired of health ? or art thou one who sees 
 Companions fit amongst these lifeless trees ? " 
 
 Mortal. " My heart is sadly torn, my visage blear, 
 
 And I in solitude have wander'd here ; 
 
 My soul is full of anguish, full of doubt ; 
 
 And from my wretched self I would be out. 
 
 So weary, I, in my perplex'd estate, 
 
 That here I would anticipate my fate. 
 
 Yet rev'rently would pray, " To me be given 
 
 The path to find : that path which leads to 
 Heaven." 
 
 Spirit of the Mist. 
 
 " See these gnarl'd oaks, all now so dank and 
 drear. 
 
 Grim sentinels of a departing year, 
 
 130
 
 Cold are my mists which o'er their summits 
 curl, [pearl ; 
 
 Gemming their branches sere with strings of 
 Exuding sympathy with friends forlorn 
 In glist'ning tears hung on the lonely thorn ; 
 What scenes beneath their skeletons I've seen ? 
 No mortal dare to look on them, I ween ! 
 And 'tis my function but to breathe a breath, 
 And hide from view as 'twere these forms of 
 death." 
 
 Mortal. " Speak on, thou spirit of soul chilling gloom — 
 Type of the dim repose in silent tomb — 
 Speak ? spirit, speak ? foi I demand to know» 
 What of my future ? what of weal or woe ? " 
 
 Spirit ok the Mist. 
 
 " Poor mortal ! for, alas, I see thou'rt one, 
 Would'st virtue cherish, yet to vice art prone, 
 Would'st wisdom gain, and yet to folly cling ; 
 Would'st grovel in a hut, yet be a King. 
 Should I to thee, thou fickle, timid wight. 
 Uplift m): veil ? Thy future hold to sight .'' 
 Dense as my mists upon yon liquid mere, 
 A mystery thy future must appear. 
 If too much joy, or sorrow, make him sad, 
 To know his fate would drive a mortal mad ! " 
 
 Thus spake the spirit, solemnly severe, 
 Then sailed in curls across the misty mere. 
 And sighing sadly through the soughing wind 
 Left but a ' mournful melody ' behind — 
 The chilling mist engulphed in one dull sea 
 The liquid mere, the forest and the lea. 
 
 131
 
 Rebuk'd, chap-fallen, the poor mortal stayed, 
 Yea, shudder'd in the mist as one afraid ; 
 Till something like a whisper caught his ears, 
 ' A still small voice ' to dissipate his fears. 
 A something like a meteor light above, 
 A touch as one of sympathetic love. 
 Something awakening in his sad plight, 
 It was — ah, yes ! the spirit of the light. 
 And so the light upon his darkness brake, 
 And thus the spirit of the light out spake : — 
 
 Spirit of the Light. 
 
 " Poor erring mortal ! thy immortal soul. 
 
 Obscured by moral mists that round it roll, 
 
 Is like the landscape which we know exists, 
 
 But cannot see when hid by wintry mists — 
 
 Wants but a glow of Heaven's pure sunny light 
 
 To make it burst a landscape fresh and bright. 
 
 With birds of paradise and blooming flowers, 
 
 With pearly streams, cool grots and leafy- 
 bowers. 
 
 Then banish gloom — enlarge thy moral scope 
 
 Refuse in darkling, doubtful mists to grope ; 
 
 With superstitious terrors fearless cope. 
 
 Keep doing good, and rest in perfect hope ! 
 
 So keep thou doing ; do not rust or brood, 
 
 In idle selfishness or misty mood. 
 
 For superstition weaves its spider-nest 
 
 From the deep dingle to the mountain crest. 
 
 Yea, it doth often even go so far 
 
 To float in sunshine as the gossamer. 
 
 And, once entangled in its fatal skein. 
 
 Few mortal souls do e'er get out again. 
 
 132
 
 'Twas superstition led thee into fear, 
 'Twas superstition brought thee to the mere. 
 ' Tis superstition's most accursed blight 
 Makes fiends of men — turns daylight into 
 
 night, 
 Obscures life's morning ere its day's begun, 
 Creeps as it were between our earth and sun. 
 Gives us dead idols for a living God. 
 Makes man a grovelling — a soulless — sod. 
 Turns woman from her true protector, man ; 
 Love interdicts by placing like a ban 
 A trespasser between a man and wife. 
 By ' moral ' force creates immoral strife. 
 Divides the parent from the trustful child. 
 The spring of pure love makes a fount defiled. 
 By every Godlike impulse then resist 
 Fell superstition's fatal poison mist." 
 
 133
 
 PiollpPann 
 
 Nor care nor want at Pwll y-pant 
 Should ever make man fret, 
 
 For care and want at PwU-y-pant 
 As yet have seldom met. 
 
 The sun askant o'er Pwll-y-pant 
 Gilds Rhymny's rock-paved stream, 
 
 And Rhymny runs past Pwll-y-pant 
 Romantic as a dream. 
 
 The rocks are rent o'er Pwll-y-pant — 
 Woods topple from the steep — 
 
 And busy Ants by Pwll-y-pant 
 Now bore the valley deep. 
 
 'Tis coal they want from Pwll-y-pant, 
 
 And Mammon and his tiain, 
 Have found a haunt in Pwll-y-pant 
 
 And — to lament is vain I 
 
 Mammon, avaunt ! poor Pwll-y-pant 
 
 In thy oppress'd estate, 
 It is not cant sweet Pwll-y-pant 
 
 That makes me mourn thy fate. 
 
 Fever, and filth, at Pwll-y-pant ! 
 
 Squalor, and crime, and want ; 
 Disease bring death to Pwll-y-pant ! 
 
 Avaunt ! foul fiends, avaunt 1 
 
 134
 
 tbe Cambrian fRatUcn*$ Praper, 
 
 {Temp. : Hen. II.) 
 
 Where Morlas, all sparkling, glides swift past the moun- 
 The heather gives sweets to the wandering bee ; [tains, 
 
 And pure flow the rills from the grey, rocky fountains, 
 And dear are the wilds of rude Cambria to me. 
 
 Where sunbeams kiss gently the vale roving rivers, 
 
 That mirror the mountain and ivy-clad tree, 
 
 Where the breeze breathes of love, as the aspen leaf 
 quivers, 
 
 Oh, there, with my true love, full fain would I be. 
 
 Alas ! 'tis all vain, in the land of the stranger, 
 
 I sigh, as the Morlas meanders the meads ; 
 And brings, from my home, but dread whispers of danger. 
 
 All bodeful of strife, and of blood-thirsty deeds ; 
 Oh, God of my country ! her misdeeds deploring, 
 
 To Thee, in my sorrows, for refuge I flee, 
 With soul full of trouble, and humbly imploring, 
 
 Redress Thou the wrongs of my country and me. 
 
 135
 
 CDe Cot bp Sullp isk. 
 
 The princely chief of Cardiff may, 
 
 Beneath his castle towers, 
 Be pleased when worldlings homage pay 
 
 To wealth and worldly powers ; 
 But I feel happier far than he 
 
 If I but win a smile. 
 When putting back— or off to sea, 
 
 From the Cot by Sully Isle. 
 
 When morning breaks on Severn Sea 
 
 And silvers La'rnock's crest, 
 What rapture 'tis to dream that she 
 
 Sleeps peaceful as the blest. 
 And though yon twinkling lighthouse Hght 
 
 Makes home-sick seamen smile, 
 A brighter light guides me by night. 
 
 To the Cot by Sully Isle. 
 
 May all those blessing which the blest 
 
 In paradise surround. 
 In her pure bosom find a rest, 
 
 In her sweet Cot abound. 
 And I will fortune's victor prove, 
 
 For oh ! that loving smile 
 Foretells a paradise of love. 
 
 In the Cot by Sully Isle. 
 
 136
 
 Pollp of Peiiartb* 
 
 When sailing in and out of port, 
 And rounding Penarth Head, 
 O, don't I make my " Siren " snort — 
 Enough to wake the dead. 
 For there is not a girl so smart 
 Twixt Penarth Head and Garth 
 As she who stole away my heart 
 Sweet Polly of Penarth. 
 
 My ship, a crazy collier tramp, 
 
 Sails like a lump of lead ; 
 
 She's leaky — always wet or damp— 
 
 And I must earn my bread. 
 
 But there's no girl so taut and straight 
 
 Twixt Penarth Head and Garth, 
 
 As she who makes my life so bright 
 
 Sweet Polly of Penarth ! 
 
 And when I've made a iew more trips 
 
 Across the stormy sea, 
 
 ]'ll sail no more away in ships 
 
 But live on shore with thee. 
 
 For go, or come, abroad, or home, 
 
 Twixt anywhere and Garth ; 
 
 There's not a girl 'neath Heaven's Dome 
 
 Like Polly of Penarth. 
 
 137
 
 Che firsr Snowdrop, 
 
 Child of the blast, 
 
 Ere winter stern drifts past, 
 "While howling furies of the raging storm, 
 
 On land and wave. 
 
 With passion wildly rave, 
 I greet thy graceful, chaste and peerless form. 
 
 What gave thee birth 
 
 On this bleak, cheerless earth ? 
 Did Flora, weeping, drop thee as a tear ? 
 
 E'en so T greet 
 
 Thy form in accents sweet, 
 Thou choicest love-gift of the virgin year. 
 
 Thy stay so brief — 
 
 Down-drooping as in grief — 
 Fair Flora's guerdon rich in hopeful joy ; 
 
 Emblem that bliss — 
 
 All human, earthly bliss — 
 And even hope is not without alloy. 
 
 Joys of the past. 
 
 Like thee too pure to last, 
 True friendship gave to life a transcient charm. 
 
 Joys, joys, long fled, 
 
 Like thee in summer dead, 
 Like thee 'midst storms return the soul to warm. 
 
 Child of the storm ! 
 
 Fondly I greet thy form, 
 Thy advent and thy requiem tempests sing. 
 
 In mournful song. 
 
 And I in joyful song, 
 Thou harbinger of budding, blooming Spring. 
 
 138
 
 Spring. 
 
 Spring is coming, winter's going, 
 Slumbering wildlings now awake ; 
 
 Violet sweet and modest primrose, 
 Mantle mossy bank and brake. 
 
 Spring is coming, winter's going ; 
 
 Winter with its icy chill. 
 Stifling fogs and storms, and darkness, 
 
 Winter's dying— ring its knell. 
 
 Winter's going ; spiing is coming, 
 Ushered in by gentle showers, 
 
 Flowerets sweet and warbling voices, 
 Verdant meadows - leafy bowers. 
 
 Winter's going ; spring is coming. 
 
 Hark ! the south wind's soothing sigh ; 
 
 Breathing soft and gentle breezes 
 Winter's going, spring is nigh. 
 
 Spring is coming, winter's going ; 
 
 Snowdrops, scared by Sol's rude eye, 
 Their modest faces turn aside, 
 
 Drooping, fade away, and die. 
 
 Hawthorn sweet, will scented blossom 
 Strew 'mongst cowsHps o'er the plain ; 
 
 And on fruitful earth's fair bosom 
 Countless gems will shine again. 
 
 Tuneful choirs, unnumbered voices ; 
 
 Insects, birds, in wood and glen, 
 Witness bear how earth rejoices, 
 
 Gentle spring is come again. 
 139
 
 >IUtUI11IU 
 
 I heard the autumn evening breeze 
 Rustling through the ragged trees ; 
 Mourning o'er the scattered leaves ; 
 And sighing, deep, like one who grieves^ 
 
 I strolled when eve dark shadows cast, 
 Chilling winds blew lierce and fast ; 
 Crisped leaves flew rustling past. 
 Hastening from the withering blast. 
 
 I heard a mournful voice, which said — 
 " Summer's waned and summer's sped ; 
 Summer's flowerets bloom is shed. 
 And summer's sweetest joys are fled." 
 
 A mighty chestnut waved its top, 
 Slender branches rudely cropped ; 
 Tender leaves untimely lopped, 
 And withered leaves, like tears, it dropped. 
 
 And anxious whispers passed between 
 Vagrant leaves that scoured the green — 
 Startled fays did say unseen 
 " Dread winter's coming cold and keen." 
 
 And then, methought, a gentle gale 
 Breathed a fond delusive tale 
 " Summer lingers in the vale " 
 Alas — 'twas summer's dying wail ! 
 
 140
 
 tbe Senescbal* 
 
 A grim and gloomy Seneschal 
 
 For years held rule in Sir Bertram's Hall ; 
 He sickened and died, 
 In the cold earth was laid, 
 
 But still the sullen Seneschal 
 
 Doth keep his watch in Sir Bertram's Hall. 
 
 Since then no other Seneschal 
 Did ever rule in Sir Bertrams Hall ; 
 For still at his post 
 Sits the Seneschal's ghost. 
 And all avoid his haunted chair. 
 For well 'tis known that he still sits there. 
 
 Each child within Sir Bertram's Hall 
 Still dreams of the sullen Seneschal ; 
 And hideth his head 
 'Neath the clothes on his bed. 
 When fear portrays the gloomy Hall 
 With the spectral shade of the Seneschal. 
 
 This grim and gloomy Seneschal, 
 When living had pilfered pelf from all ; 
 
 In the haunted spot 
 
 Lie the riches he got ; 
 And hence his mean and sordid soul 
 Can find no Heaven but Sir Bertram's Hall, 
 
 141
 
 Baraoea ntwi 
 
 The lambkins skipped on Darran Hill ; 
 
 The mill stream murmured by Bargoed Mill ; 
 
 As Curly Will, with rustic skill, 
 
 His love song whistled within the Mill. 
 
 And the clattering wheels of Bargoed Mill 
 
 Sang — Lusty Will, 
 
 And— Trusty Will, 
 
 The dusty Miller of Bargoed Mill. 
 
 Up yonder sky-capped rock-strewn hill, 
 A maid sighed over a sparkling rill, 
 Her day dreams centred on the Mill 
 Where light of heart whistled Curly Will. 
 
 And the clattering wheels, etc. 
 
 Then moonlight came and all was still 
 And Will came merrily up the hill, 
 And by the fern-framed sparkling rill 
 Her troth she plighted to Curly Will. 
 
 And the clattering wheels, etc. 
 
 And love-sick maids from dale and hill. 
 With grist-bags hurried to Bargoed Mill, 
 And sighed in vain for Curly Will, 
 Who loved sweet Shanny of Darran Hill. 
 
 And the clattering wheels, etc. 
 
 But by the wheels of Bargoed Mill, 
 The life was crushed out of Curly Will ; 
 And broken-hearted up the hill, 
 Poor Shan in sorrow mourned Curly Will. 
 
 And the clattering wheels, etc. 
 142
 
 Neglect and want and treatment ill, 
 Made Shanny homeless on Darran Hill, 
 And wintry winds blew fierce and chill, 
 And killed the Widow of Dusty Will. 
 
 And the clattering wheels, etc. 
 
 As Shan lay stretched on Darran Hill, 
 
 Her babe clutched tightly in death's cold thrill ; 
 
 Sweet pity, outraged, wept her fill 
 
 For Babe, and Widow on Darran Hill. 
 
 And the clattering wheels, etc. 
 
 A collier, black as raven quill, 
 Pick'd up the Orphan of Curly Will, 
 And nursed and nurtured it with skill, 
 In his humble cottage on Darran Hill. 
 
 And the clattering wheels, etc. 
 
 God bless his black face ! for the will, 
 To shield the Outcast of Darran Hill ; 
 And guard from want and winter's chill. 
 The hapless Cherub of Curly Will. 
 
 And the clattering wheels, etc. 
 
 A viaduct from Hill to Hill, 
 Spans over the wreck of Bargoed Mill, 
 And the *Cefl Tan shrieks wild and shrill. 
 The tragic story of Shan and Will. 
 
 And the clattering wheels, etc. 
 
 • " Fire Horse," iu Kuglish. 
 
 H3
 
 Dick Spot 
 
 \The Rev. W. Bingley, B.A., F.L.S. (St. Peter's College, 
 Cambridge) , in his " Tour round North Wales" — J79S, 
 mentions Dick Spot as a celebrated conjurer or fortune- 
 teller\(Oszvestry) who zvas consulted by neighbours, etc., 
 on matters supernatiiral^. 
 
 When the winter wind roars, 
 Shaking rafters and floors, 
 Of the crazy old Cot — 
 Then look out for Dick Spot I 
 
 When the owl's eldritch hoot 
 Scares the wild-duck and coot, 
 And they splash as if shot — 
 Then look out for Dick Spot ! 
 
 In the country church tower 
 At the dread midnight hour. 
 The old Sexton's first thought — 
 Is, look out for Dick Spot ! 
 
 As he tolls the death bell. 
 And it rings through the dell. 
 Its faint murmur is fraught 
 With the fame of Dick Spot ! 
 
 When the dog in his dreams 
 Twitches, nervous, and seems 
 By his whines all distraught — 
 Then look out for Dick Spot ! 
 
 When the cat on the hob. 
 Blinking at the hot cob. 
 Dreams of mice yet uncaught — 
 Then look out for Dick Spot ! 
 144
 
 When the cock in the pen 
 Crows at night o'er the hen — 
 And she can't see what's what — 
 Then look out for Dick Spot ! 
 
 When the hog in repose 
 Dreams of butcher-like foes — 
 That the water is hot, 
 Then look out for Dick Spot ! 
 
 When the cow all forlorn 
 Dreams her bull-calf unborn ; 
 The fierce butcher-man bought — 
 Then look out for Dick Spot ! 
 
 When the little pigs' tails 
 Grow as straight as tinn'd nails, 
 And the sow grunts — " wliat^ ivliat! " 
 Then look out for Dick Spot 1 
 
 When the mare drops her foal. 
 Stiff and blind as a mole, 
 Hodge's face grows red hot, 
 As he swears at Dick Spot ! 
 
 When the cows wont yield milk. 
 Though their coats shine like silk. 
 And good herbage they've got — 
 Then look out for Dick Spot ! 
 
 When the milk in the churn 
 Unto butter wont turn. 
 And the maid mourns her lot — 
 Then look out for Dick Spot ! 
 
 145
 
 When the wheat smuts to chaff, 
 And the cow picks her calf, 
 When potatoes all rot — 
 Then look out for Dick Spot ! 
 
 When the batch will not heave, 
 And the house-wife doth grieve 
 That her oven's too hot — 
 Then look out for Dick Spot I 
 
 When the tinder is damp, 
 
 And — you laugh, you young scamp I- 
 
 And a light can't be got — 
 
 Then look out for Dick Spot ! 
 
 When old dad burns with ire 
 Just because without fire, 
 His first meal can't be got — 
 Then look out for Dick Spot ! 
 
 When poor Jack's aching tooth 
 Makes him foam at the mouth, 
 And he roars like a stot — 
 Then look out for Dick Spot 1 
 
 When poor Phoebe looks old, 
 Her skin yellow as gold, 
 For the jaundice she's got — 
 Then look out for Dick Spot ! 
 
 With his conjure and charm 
 He can will every harm ; 
 You believe it ? if not — 
 Then look out for Dick Spot I 
 
 146
 
 With his conjure and charm 
 He can cure every harm ; 
 You believe it ? if not — 
 Then look out for Dick Spot I 
 
 If Dick Spot is your foe, 
 Look for sorrow and woe ; 
 Yours will be a sad lot, 
 If you anger Dick Spot ! 
 
 But Dick Spot, my dear friend, 
 Said success should attend 
 All those born in the Cot 
 Which had sheltered Dick Spot ! 
 
 And I, sad and forlorn, 
 In that cottage was born ; 
 Aye, in that awful spot — 
 Once the home of Dick Spot 1 
 
 x\ye, and many a night. 
 Dumb with terror and fright, 
 I have shrunk in my cot — 
 At the thought of Dick Spot ! 
 
 Now, Dick Spot had shrewd sense, 
 While his neighbours were dense, 
 Hence it fell, the dull lot 
 Knuckled down to Dick Spot ! 
 
 In our own modern time 
 Superstition is crime ; 
 But our cultured, in lots, 
 Kneel to owl-eyed Dick Spots ! 
 
 M7
 
 **n2ap** and December, 1900* 
 
 December brought a precious toy 
 
 To smiling May — a little Boy ! 
 
 December dark, and sunny May, 
 
 One chilling frosts. One flowers so gay, 
 
 Have nothing in them to agree ; 
 
 Yet this stale paradox we see 
 
 Exception to a rule doth prove — 
 
 December yields a flower to love ; 
 
 And binds two parents with a link 
 
 Of purest gold which cannot shrink. 
 
 What though the cowslip cannot yield 
 
 Its fragrance to the snow-clad field ? 
 
 The Holly and the Mistletoe 
 
 Shine brightly in the Yule-log's glow. 
 
 The year and century grow old, 
 
 Expiring in the winter cold, 
 
 But May's sweet Baby's tiny Head, 
 
 Like snowdrop peeps from pillow'd bed, 
 
 And as old memories depart, 
 
 Imparts hope's sunshine to her Heart. 
 
 May both their lives be blithe and gay, 
 
 December merged in flowery May, 
 
 And trouble's storms through life's long day, 
 
 With care and sorrow fly away. 
 
 And, if affliction come, remember. 
 
 The flower that bloomed in dark December. ■ 
 
 A humble type of holier birth, 
 
 That spread glad tidings o'er the earth, 
 
 Coincidence dispelling fear — 
 
 Bright omen of a bright career. 
 
 148
 
 ZH Usk* 
 
 Let me wander at dusk 
 On the banks of the Usk, 
 When the stars brightly shine 
 With a lustre divine ! 
 When the Nightingale thrills 
 With sweet soul stirring trills. 
 Ah ! who would not stray- 
 On an evening in May, 
 When the Hawthorn's sweet bloom 
 Casts a gleam on the gloom ; 
 While the night-bird's shrill shout 
 Mocks the splash of the trout. 
 In the sweet leafy glade 
 Neath the wood's grateful shade ; 
 When the moon-rise reveals, 
 As it noiselessly steals 
 Like a calm peaceful dream, 
 Meadow, mountain and stream ; 
 While the mystic mists spread 
 Over Usk's river bed. 
 Oh ! it soothes the sad soul 
 As the pure waters roll, 
 Then to wander at dusk 
 On the banks of the Usk ! 
 
 149
 
 Rcr First Christmas Dap, 1893, 
 
 Sweet slumbering cherub, darling mine ! 
 
 Calm as the Prototype Divine, 
 
 Who lowly in a manger lay, 
 
 On His first earthly natal day. 
 
 Thou smilest as pure angels smile, 
 
 No earth stain mars : no trace of guile : 
 
 As from thy ruby lips, oh ! bHss, 
 
 I cull thy first sweet Christmas kiss. 
 
 O, world of care, O, world of strife, 
 I would not pray for length of life ; 
 Would be contented with my lot 
 To fade away — to be forgc't — 
 But thy bright gossamer-like chain 
 Creates a longing to remain, 
 To guard thy girlhood's thorny way. 
 To guide, encourage and to pray. 
 
 Whate'er my darling may endure, 
 God ! keep thee virtuous and pure. 
 And may good will and peace and bliss, 
 Follow thy first sweet Christmas kiss ; 
 May angels bright thy footsteps tend, 
 Blessings like dew from Heaven descend, 
 Thy charity with patience blend. 
 And Heaven receive thee at life's end. 
 
 ISO
 
 Babp Grab (i ymr ou). 
 
 Ethel ! no, 'tis Baby Grab, 
 Locomotion like a crab. 
 On the carpets ; on the floors ; 
 Crawling, queerly, on all fours. 
 Backwards — sideways — here and there, 
 Wriggling, creeping, everywhere. 
 Not an elf of famed Queen Mab 
 Plays more tricks than Baby Grab. 
 See her little chubby face, 
 Twists and knots like Venice lace ; 
 Laughing, cooing, chuckling on — 
 Lips like rose-buds in the sun, 
 Dribbling dew-drops bright and pure — 
 Toddling footsteps insecure. 
 Cherry cheeks with down of peach, 
 Fat fists clutching all in reach. 
 Of golden sheen her auburn hair, 
 Complexion, as the wild-rose fair. 
 Toothy-pegs as pure as pearls, 
 Paragon of baby girls ! 
 Not an instant free from harms 
 (Even in her mother's arms.) 
 Leg of table — rail of chair — 
 Mischief— danger — everywhere. 
 Brigand, robber, pirate— she — 
 Unscrupulous as all the three. 
 Scissors, bodkin, needle, pin ; 
 Open, mouth, and stuff them in. 
 Colours crimson, russet, drab, 
 All the same to Baby Grab ! 
 North, or east, or west, or south, 
 All go to her little mouth. 
 Active brain and bright blue eye 
 Missing nothing passing by. 
 
 151
 
 Voice like Turtle Dove's coo-coo, 
 
 Ever musical and new. 
 
 And timid as a little mouse, 
 
 She's like bright sunshine in our house, 
 
 And when the sun-beams warmth departs, 
 
 Her smiles are sunshine to our hearts. 
 
 Co a Babp 6irl {hom Ut June). 
 
 Sweet little blossom of a rosy morn 
 I dedicate this rose-bud unto thee, 
 
 And pray that thou may this fair earth adorn 
 From canker, care and sorrow ever free. 
 
 May sunshine ever light thy path through life. 
 Thy presence like the rose, as welcome be ; 
 
 And when thou leavest this great scene of strife, 
 Thy memory as the rose as fragrant be. 
 
 jVntik Dorori)P« 
 
 Oh ! our Dorothy has such forget-me-not eyes 
 From the violet a tone, with a tint of blue skies, 
 Her dark auburn hair is a mass of bright curls, 
 And her pearly teeth sparkle like purest of pearls. 
 She crows and she chuckles, she laughs and she clucks, 
 And believes when she's told she's the dearest of ducks I 
 Her limbs plumply rounded and mottled with blue, 
 With white and pink mingled are lovely to view, 
 And Dorothy never performs aught by halves, 
 Whether squealing or smiling or " feeding her calves." 
 And as Dorothy's tongue tries to say " Duck," says" Guck,'^ 
 She would serve as a model for mischievous Puck. 
 
 152
 
 Bik. 
 
 What a subject to rhyme on, 
 The time to beguile ? 
 
 The friend of one's bosom, 
 Is all gone to bile. 
 
 Once his laugh was so pleasant, 
 It lightened one's toil, 
 
 But, alas ! for the present. 
 It is soured by bile. 
 
 Once as bright as a river. 
 On which sunbeam's smile, 
 
 Now, alas ! through his liver. 
 It o'erflows with bile. 
 
 He's a wife to caress him, 
 Fair daughters whose smile 
 
 Leaves naught to distress him. 
 But still he's all bile. 
 
 He's a Garden of roses, 
 
 His leisure to wile. 
 But this even loses 
 
 It's sweets through his bile. 
 
 Though his income is ample. 
 He needs not to toil ; 
 
 He's a shocking example 
 Of distempered bile. 
 
 ^S3
 
 Should a friend meet misfortune, 
 Through ill luck or guile, 
 
 He knew it must happen, 
 He saw it through bile. 
 
 If a friend have good fortune, 
 
 His welcoming smile 
 Is sad and sardonic — 
 
 Distorted by bile. 
 
 Yet judge not unkindly, 
 His great heart awhile. 
 
 His affections are only 
 Be-devill'd by bile. 
 
 "X^K5) 
 
 /--^ 
 
 >54
 
 €tDel. 
 
 In love, in life, we live anew, 
 With Ethel and her eyes of blue. 
 Young love's pure day-dreams we renew 
 In view of Ethel's eyes of blue. 
 Our hves are brighter, and 'tis due 
 To Ethel with her eyes of blue. 
 The violets gemmed with morning dew, 
 We see in Ethel's eyes of blue. 
 The summer sky's deep azure hue, 
 Deepens in Ethel's eyes of blue. 
 Heaven's fairest cherub forms we view, 
 In Ethel and her eyes of blue. 
 Spring's song birds sing with voices new 
 When smiles light Ethel's eyes of blue. 
 Spring's sweetest flowers spring anew, 
 In Ethel and her eyes of blue. 
 Aye, all that's loving, pure and true, 
 We see in Ethel's eyes of blue ! 
 
 IS5
 
 Patitpffpnon 
 
 (Selattyn). 
 
 Thou pure Nature's mirror, in thee is no error, 
 
 The frame that surrounds thee in natural grace 
 
 In wild flowers and mosses, shews free from care's crosses. 
 
 From trouble-traced wrinkles, thy unruffled face. 
 
 Ah ! pure Pant-y-ffynon, three score years have run on 
 Since thou did'st reflect my smooth face when a child ; 
 Again I behold thee, my arms they enfold thee, 
 But vainly I seek for the face of the child. 
 
 Oh ! sweet Pant-y-ffynon, thy waters have gone on 
 All calmly and peaceful along the green glen. 
 Whilst I chose the city — alas, more the pity — 
 To carve a career in the harsh haunts of men. 
 
 Ah ! pure Pant-y-ffynon the sun never shone on 
 A mirror more lovely, more truthful than thou ; 
 And in thy sweet water is mirror'd the slaughter. 
 The health-killing city hath made on my brow. 
 
 And dear Pant-y-ffynon thy bright stream will run on 
 While I, like those crumbling in yonder churchyard. 
 When life's fight is foughten, shall He all forgotten, 
 No friend to remember and none to regard. 
 
 156
 
 Cu)ni George 
 
 (By Dinas Powys.) 
 
 A Norman Knight was he, 
 A proud Earl's daughter she ; 
 Sir Rous for her long leagues had marched 
 Till limbs were stiff — till tongue was parched- 
 And he lay 'neath a fern-fringed tree. 
 
 A bird trilled on the tree 
 
 A bodeful symphony. 
 When, as if stung by serpent fang. 
 Or tiger roused, the bold Knight sprang 
 To his feet 'neath the fern-fringed tree. 
 
 " Ah ! what is that I see ? 
 Her proud Earl sire," said he, 
 ** By Mabel's side the Prince of Gwent ! 
 Who gloats as if on love quest bent — 
 
 By St. George ! but this shall not be." 
 
 The Norman cried " stand ye " ! 
 
 His trusty brand drew he. 
 And he of Gwent, without one word. 
 From scabbard tore his glittering sword. 
 And his eye flashed fire for the fray. 
 
 The old Earl with his spear — 
 He knew not craven fear — 
 Sprang 'twixt them with an angry eye 
 And swore the first that struck should die, 
 As he stood 'neath the fern-fringed tree. 
 
 157
 
 The Norman fearlessly, 
 A valiant Knight was he ; 
 " Come, maiden, to my castle fair 
 For I am Lord of all that's there 
 
 Lady, say, wilt thou come with me ? " 
 
 " Old Battle Abbey's roll 
 And Crescy's deathless scroll 
 Are blazoned with my sires' fair fame, 
 And, if thou wilt be mine, sweet dame, 
 My renown shall eclipse them all." 
 
 The young Prince, tenderly, 
 " O, if thou'lt wed with me, 
 Come, dear one, to yon mountain home 
 Where free as birds of air we'll roam, 
 
 And thou Queen of my soul shall be." 
 
 No frowning walls," said he, 
 " Shall prison thee or me ; 
 But free on meadow, mount and moor. 
 As thou breath'st love — I will adore ! " 
 
 " Lady fair, wilt thou come with me ? " 
 
 " That Norman popinjay — • 
 A thing of yesterday ! 
 If he breathe aught in thy dispraise. 
 His Castle to the ground I'll raze— 
 
 For as Princess thou shalt sway ! " 
 
 The stout Earl laughed with glee, 
 " By Hercules ! " cried he, 
 " In lists ye both shall wage fair fight. 
 And Mabel wed the bravest Knight, 
 If her heart be in thrall or free." 
 
 158
 
 The lady, with a groan, 
 Sank down in death-Hke swoon ; 
 Her blue eye pierced the azure sky, 
 And from her lips came whisper'd sigh — 
 
 '* I will join thee in Heaven mine own ! " 
 
 " My heart is his," said she, 
 
 " A gentle Bard was he — 
 We loved : in yonder sweet wild wood 
 For liberty he shed his blood ! " 
 
 Then she died 'neath the fern-fringed tree. 
 
 The bird trilled on the tree, 
 
 In mournful sympathy ; 
 And that sad song is echoed still. 
 By rock and rill, o'er vale and hill, 
 
 From a bough of the fern fringed-tree. 
 
 ^"^ 
 
 159
 
 Sona: **tDe Colonel/' 
 
 [The subject of this song was a dear friend of the Author. 
 A Ship Captain at 21, he spent most of his life at sea, 
 and some of his 'yarns ' are embodied beloiv. He ivas an 
 enthusiastic Volunteer Officer, and his nautical knowledge 
 made him a valuable sea-port magistrate]. 
 
 For our brave Colonel give three cheers, 
 
 As he sits upon the Bench, sirs, 
 "With sympathy for erring tars. 
 
 And an eye for a comely wench, sirs, 
 To say he smokes cigars in Court 
 
 Would be to lie like " TRUTH," sirs. 
 But the Colonel still loves fun and sport. 
 For his eye beams as in youth, sirs. 
 
 With a puff! puff! puff! 
 And a hearty hurrah 
 For a good cigar ! 
 
 Now, picture the bold Colonel 
 
 As he appeared of yore, sirs. 
 While hunting Bengal tigers, 
 
 Or chasing rough wild boars, sirs. 
 With sombrero upon his brow, 
 
 With pistol, sword and rifle ; 
 And bowie-knife between his teeth, 
 
 'Twould be dangerous to trifle. 
 
 With a puff, etc. 
 
 O, when he took aim with his gun, 
 
 To bag the bristly boar, sirs, 
 The wild boar charged between his legs, 
 
 And tossed the Colonel o'er, sirs. 
 " How shall I get him to my ship ? " 
 
 Had muttered the bold Colonel. 
 But the boar thus answered for himself, 
 
 And the onset was infernal. 
 
 With a puff, etc. 
 160
 
 To see him proudly pace the deck, 
 
 With tigers, safely caged, sirs, 
 While hurricanes his ship to wreck, 
 
 The billows they enraged, sirs ; 
 The seamen all were blanched with fear. 
 
 The seas and tigers roared, sirs. 
 But the Colonel's trumpet voice o'erhead, 
 
 Prov'd all was taut on board, sirs. 
 
 ^Vith a puff, etc. 
 
 As Colonel of the Volunteers, 
 
 He proudly rode his charger. 
 The Cardiff love-struck ladies sighed — 
 
 " But they might have made him larger ! 
 And then the charger proudly pranced 
 
 Until he lost his wind, oh ! 
 And the Colonel urged him to advance. 
 
 But he backed through a shop window. 
 
 With a puff, etc. 
 
 To prove his men were staunch and true. 
 
 To fight for home and hearth, sirs, 
 The Colonel bravely marched ihem to 
 
 The battle of Penarth ! sirs. 
 The farmer's wife, with broom-stick arm'd, 
 
 Soon broke their lines and squares, sirs. 
 And drove the ' sogers ' off the field — 
 
 Shouting, " Come back if ye dare," sirs. 
 
 With a puff", etc. 
 
 On every sea, in every port, 
 
 The Colonel's fame is known, sirs ; 
 In peace and war, from wound and scar, 
 
 Good fortune hath him borne, sirs. 
 And may he long as Justice sit, 
 
 And rule upon the Bench, sirs. 
 Long may his shrewd and native wit 
 
 Protect the innocent, sirs. 
 
 With a puff, etc. 
 i6i
 
 Wbirrinatoii Castle^ 
 
 (SHROPSHIRE). 
 
 {Here King John lost temper and stritck Fitz Givarine over d 
 ^anie of chess, a7id the Knightly Lord of Whittifigton broke the 
 chess board on the King's Head}. 
 
 And rural Whittington, with happy homes, 
 With snow-white gables and with straw-thatch'd roofs, 
 With cosy, ivy covered Church and Tower, 
 And graveyard shaded by the solemn yew, 
 Within its bosom bears a crumbling wreck — 
 A ruined castle with dark frowning walls. 
 A ruined castle is a printed book ; 
 A volume, bearing on each leaf a tale 
 Of human misery : and each grey stone. 
 Each buttress and each towering turret. 
 Each ragged loop-hole in the crumbling wall ; 
 Each winding stair and crazy battlement ; 
 Each doorless portal and each rusty hinge ; 
 Each fallen mass beside the grass-clad moat ; 
 Half hidden by rank evergreens entwined. 
 Doth tell of tyranny, of strife and blood ! 
 Yes, here, amidst these silvan, peaceful vales 
 Of fair Salopia, lies a relic grim, 
 Of those fierce lawless times, when hapless Wales, 
 Torn by dissensions 'mongst her bravest sons. 
 Was rudely trampled 'neath the tyrants' heel. 
 Here from this lovely vale went cruel knights 
 To kill the Cambrian on his barren hills. 
 And that same tiny, purling, sparkling stream. 
 Which now but serves to fill the glassy pool 
 And mirror the old Castle's nakedness ; 
 
 162
 
 This tiny streamlet, with its crystal flood 
 
 Once filled the deep and wide surrounding moat 
 
 And gave to tyranny a strong defence. 
 
 Flow on, thou smiling stream, through grassy banks, 
 
 And lave the pretty flowerets' tender roots. 
 
 While leaping Trout expose their silvery scales 
 
 And splash in fairy circles on thy waves. 
 
 Flow on, thou laughing stream, flow gaily on ; 
 
 No longer shall the moat impede thy course 
 
 Or prison thee beneath the Castle Walls. 
 
 The Cambrian now, like thee, is free to roam ; 
 
 The moat is clothed anew in living green ; 
 
 The daisy blooms upon its grassy sod ; 
 
 And summer sees the rustic nymph and swain 
 
 Join in the merry dance beside the moat 
 
 And change the tender sigh and stolen glance. 
 
 ^>^-> 
 
 ^^-^> 
 
 163
 
 ZU SDortest Dap* 
 
 The shortest day is past, and let us sing 
 
 Of Flora, and the coming sunny spring. 
 
 Grim winter ! now assume thy fiercest forms ; 
 
 Come frost, come snow, come hail, come wildest storms ; 
 
 Your wrath we scorn ! and will exulting sing, 
 
 The budding, blooming, tearful-smiling spring, 
 
 Let Boreas bluster, till the mountains shake. 
 
 With violence the peerless snowdrop wake ; 
 
 She with the cheerful daffodil shall rise. 
 
 And fearless, point their lances to the skies ; 
 
 Though winter's wildest hurricanes may loom. 
 
 The modest violet shall thrive and bloom ; 
 
 The constant furze its blossoms shall renew, 
 
 And sleeping daisies shall awake anew ; 
 
 The wild anemone shall fill the glade. 
 
 And azure bluebells tint the forest's shade. 
 
 And then the primrose, and the cowslips' heads, 
 
 Shall fill the ditch-banks and the dewy meads ; 
 
 And with the lilac, and wild hawthorn pale. 
 
 Send sweetest fragrance on the tuneful gale. 
 
 Then let us, hopeful, wilh a holy mirth. 
 
 Await the day that gave our Saviour birth ; 
 
 And, in a pure and heartfelt carol, sing 
 
 His praise, who offers us Eternal Spring. 
 
 And, after a few years of wintery strife, 
 
 (And He gives sunshine to a worldly life), 
 
 In His own Bosom, with those souls we love. 
 
 Eternity of bliss, and peace, above ! 
 
 164
 
 tetrenball Wooa, 
 
 O, Tettenhall wood, in every mood, 
 
 I loved to gaze on thee ; 
 Thy fertile mound, with fir trees crowned, 
 
 Naught lovelier could be. 
 
 The Wrekin from his lordly height. 
 Upon thee may look down, 
 
 But nestling 'neath thy silvan veil, 
 
 Thou need'st not fear his frown. 
 
 Nor Sedgley, with its beacon hoar, 
 
 Nor Titterstone so fair ; 
 Nor Big Brown Clee nor Kinver Edge — 
 
 None can with thee compare. 
 
 O, Tettenhall wood, sweet Tettenhall wood> 
 
 I loved to gaze on thee. 
 In rosy morn, or sunset's glow, 
 
 Thy form was dear to me. 
 
 But when the pale moon's gentle beam 
 
 Did silver-tip thy crest, 
 When all the noisy world did dream, 
 
 'Twas then I loved thee best I 
 
 i6;
 
 £lanpmptiecb (1862). 
 
 Would'st thou renounce the cares of hfe ? 
 Would'st thou desert the town of strife ? 
 Would'st thou renew thy lease of life ? 
 Would'st renovate thy sluggish blood ? 
 Would'st have pure air and healthy food ? 
 Would'st make thy nervous system good ? 
 
 Come with me, 
 
 Aj'^e come and feast thy weary eyes, 
 Where yon sweet village peaceful lies, 
 'Midst fertile fields — 'neath cloudless skies — 
 Come, hasten to the Tanat's side. 
 Come, see the limpid Vyrnwy glide, 
 And take fair Tanat for his bride. 
 
 Come with me. 
 
 Come, see the joyful rivers meet, 
 And hear their rippling whispers sweet, 
 So softly sighing 'neath thy feet. 
 If harmless angling be thy forte. 
 Then wield thy rod, enjoy thy sport, 
 For here the tempting trouts resort, 
 
 Come with me. 
 
 Through meadows gemmed with flowers so gay. 
 
 Begirt with blossom-laden May, 
 
 All clad in Spring's own choice array, 
 
 'Midst thickets where wild tendrils twine. 
 
 While blooming cowslips fragrance join. 
 
 With briar sweet and gay woodbine, 
 
 Come with me. 
 
 i66
 
 Oh ! for the precious gift of song, 
 
 To join yon feathered warbHng throng, 
 
 And joyously the mirth prolong. 
 
 Of soaring lark at rosy morn, 
 
 Of sweet green linnet on the thorn, 
 
 And of the Redbreast all forlorn, 
 
 Come with me. 
 
 Come when the pale moon shining bright, 
 
 Smiles sweetly in the balmy night, 
 
 Ascend the mighty mountain's height ; 
 
 Survey the rugged face of Wales, 
 
 The fruitful, fertile, silvan vales ; 
 
 The rock-crowned crags, the wooded dales, 
 
 Come with me. 
 
 Muse on old granite Breidden's height, 
 All grim and black as shades of night — 
 A giant scowling in his might. 
 And on the boundless scene below, 
 Severn and Vyrnwy's ceaseless flow. 
 And sordid selfish thoughts forego. 
 
 Come with me. 
 
 Muse on yon camp which Romans bold. 
 
 Defiant held in days of old, 
 
 And tales of ages past unfold. 
 
 Whose hands were those that trenched the soil ? 
 
 Whose brain devised the strife and toil ? 
 
 And what did cause the dread turmoil ? 
 
 Come with me. 
 
 167
 
 Haste ! into by-gone ages sail, 
 
 And dash away Old Time's thick veil, 
 
 Look ! see yon figure clad in mail ! 
 
 It is a Roman Sentinel, 
 
 Who, gazing listless o'er yon dell, 
 
 Sees Vyrnwy into Tiber swell. 
 
 Come with me. 
 
 Hush ! did the Roman Sentry sigh ? 
 Did Rome before his soul pass by ? 
 Is that a tear within his eye ? 
 What means the heaving of his chest ? 
 The swelling of his manly breast ? 
 The nodding of his martial crest ? 
 
 Come with me. 
 
 Hush ! then, and read his thoughts, forsooth. 
 
 He sees himself a happy youth 
 
 Declaring vows of love and truth 
 
 Unto yon Roman maiden fair, 
 
 While zephyrs waft the balmy air, 
 
 Both happy, guileless, free from care. 
 
 Come with me. 
 
 He sees yon legion tramping by 
 Amidst the Romans' cheering cry. 
 While that sweet maid with tearful eye 
 Beholds him in the stalwart band, 
 Exulting march, with sword in hand, 
 To fight the foe in foreign land. 
 
 Come with me. 
 
 i68
 
 The Sentry sighs — " I now am old, 
 I've bartered love for fame and gold ; 
 Wounds, hardships borne — seen woes untold, 
 And if Petronius e'er reach Rome, 
 No loving voice will cry — /ie'.s C'>mfi^ 
 For strangers occupy his home." 
 
 Come with me. 
 
 Shipwrecked on Time's unsparing wave, 
 Forgotten is the legion brave, 
 And — here we have the Roman's grave. 
 At price of love, content and health, 
 What wretched woes are fame and wealth ; 
 Then all who value peace and health 
 
 Think with me. 
 
 <>iv;^^'S<>^ 
 
 e>i Kb 
 
 169
 
 £ill atsd Dot 
 
 Would you court a merry thought, 
 Crack a joke with Lill and Dot. 
 If you care dull care to kill, 
 Have a chat with Dot and Lill. 
 Dot is three and Lilly's five, 
 But their wits are all alive. 
 Lill has lustrous, hazel eyes. 
 Ditto Dot, just half their size. 
 The thoughtful gaze of Lill's deep eye 
 Shews she must know the reason why. 
 The twinkling, merry eye of Dot 
 Proclaims Dot does not care a jot. 
 Just like a kitten in the sun, 
 Wee Dot must have her play and fun. 
 Serious Lill first saw the light 
 On Finchfield's prett}' silvan height. 
 While Dot one sunny April morn 
 Went down to Compton to be born. 
 To " Brampa's " house at Druid's Grove, 
 And how can he e'er cease to love. 
 Morn and eve 'twixt " Brampa's " knees, 
 Lill and Dot come for their squeeze ; 
 Around his neck their little arms 
 Act like sunshine's cheering charms. 
 There they grip with loving squeeze, 
 Making " Brampa " grunt and wheeze. 
 Loving squeezes fit to kill 
 Any sprites but Dot and Lill. 
 With forefinger on nose shy Lill 
 Declares she's '' Brampa's Billain " still. 
 And, oh ! what love comes in unsought, 
 In one sweet " booty tiss " from Dot. 
 May sparkling sunshine ever fill 
 The sparkling eyes of Dot and Lill. 
 
 170 

 
 tDe Postman, 
 
 l^Written in i860 {ivhen Pi ovincial Postmen worked every 
 Sunday), in reply lo a friencV s complaint that a Postman 
 was impatient at being- kept 7vaitino;. Since that date the 
 Author experimented and fortmdated a scheme giving all 
 Provincial Postmen in England an alternate Sunday o£f 
 duty, zvhich, he rejoices to add, they noiv enjoy ; the scheme 
 having been sanctioned by Postmaster-General Raikes\ 
 
 As you ask me why he's angry ? 
 Why morose, and why so surly ? 
 Why impatient in his knocking ? 
 Why impetuous in his ringing ? 
 I make answer, thus I tell 3'ou : — 
 He bears news from every country, 
 Freights advancing ; markets low ; 
 News of joy, of weal and woe. 
 Of wars at end, of wars begun ; 
 From rising to the setting sun. 
 From hapless China's regions far ; 
 News of sanguinary war. 
 Of foul deceit ; of torture rife ; 
 Dearth of reason ; scorn of life ; 
 And from India's mystic empire, 
 News appalling, tidings dire. 
 Of nations roused to rampant riot ; 
 Oppressors and oppressed unquiet : 
 Of freedom tra;npled down by might ; 
 Of people struggling for the right ; 
 From far New Zealand's wooded Isles, 
 Where love of frcC'lom yet prevails ; 
 Where savage warriors we see, 
 Still unconquered, bold and free. 
 
 171
 
 From California's golden stores, 
 From New Columbia's rival shores ; 
 From famed Peru ; from Afric's strands ; 
 And great Australia's boundless sands. 
 And other countries far and wide, 
 And home uews mixed and multiplied ; 
 These the Postman bears along, 
 Nor brooks delay, from old or young ; 
 Early hours — unreasonable, 
 Find him trudging — ill or able. 
 He seldom rests on Sabbath day. 
 But struggles on from grave to gay. 
 Thus we find him drudffinff ever : 
 From his duty budging never. 
 Then at eve behold him tired, 
 Faint and flagging, wet and mired ; 
 Within his home, his humble dwelling, 
 Too often poverty repelling, 
 Kindly feelings — love's caresses ; 
 With all around him that depresses. 
 Begetting spleen, dejection, sadness ; 
 Suggesting misery ; aye, madness. 
 Thus I answer — thus I tell you. 
 Why he's angry ; why he's surly ; 
 Why morose in morning early. 
 Why impatient in his knocking ; 
 Why impetuous in his ringing. 
 Should you wish to kindly treat him, 
 With Christian courtesy to greet him. 
 Your ear give to a simple fact. 
 The means to take ; the way to act : — 
 An aperture cut in your door. 
 And fix a brass protector o'er ; 
 
 172
 
 Behind the door then place a box, 
 
 And do not fear the Postman's knocks. 
 
 By saving thus the Postman's labor, 
 
 Vou'll serve yourself and serve your neighbour. 
 
 Often on a Sunday morning, 
 
 Britons lie, all business scorning ; 
 
 In positions horizontal, 
 
 Some in visions transcendental. 
 
 On they doze with noses upturned. 
 
 Noses water-marked or grog-burned. 
 
 Brains fermenting foolish fancies. 
 
 Till the morning far advances ; 
 
 In their night-caps nonsense dreaming. 
 
 Blinding sunbeams on them beaming. 
 
 While the Postman knocks ! knocks ! knocks ! 
 
 Giving them electric shocks ; 
 
 Father dreaming — " Oh ! that bill 1 " 
 
 Mother — " Daughter's baby's ill." 
 
 Postman wishing it were Monday ; 
 
 Swearing at the tiresome Sunday. 
 
 Think of this, ye Sabbatarians — 
 
 Turning Postmen to barbarians ! 
 
 Britons, of assured conditions. 
 
 In undignified positions ; 
 
 Down the stairs in nightgowns tumbling — 
 
 Postman at the front door grumbling ! 
 
 Matrons stout, in costumes airy — 
 
 Cannot waken up Maid Mary — 
 
 On the steep stairs rushing down — 
 
 Postman waking half the town ! 
 
 Ye Britons, to prolong your snores, 
 
 Put apertures on all your doors. 
 
 173
 
 Then may you roost upon your perch, 
 
 And let the Postman go to Church. 
 
 The Postmen's Sunday wrongs redressing 
 
 Will surely earn the Postman's blessing. 
 
 With this plan, the sound and wheezy, 
 
 All may rest secure and easy ; 
 
 From the loud, impatient knocking ; 
 
 From the harsh, impetuous ringing ; 
 
 From the Postman once so surly 
 
 Ogre of the morning early, 
 
 Who, beneath the brass protector, 
 
 In your letter-box or bag, sir, 
 
 Without disturbing one of you. 
 
 Will pop therein your billet-deux. 
 
 If at Christmas you should hear, 
 
 In time of mirth, in time of cheer, 
 
 A repetition of the knock — 
 
 Of that too early double knock — 
 
 I do earnestly entreat you 
 
 To take a Christian — Christmas view. 
 
 Don't give way to indignation, 
 
 But cultivate an inclination 
 
 To act in manner orthodox. 
 
 And give him a good Christmas Box ! 
 
 174
 
 CDepstou) Casfle* 
 
 In Chepstow's ruined Castle walls 
 They shew you rust-clad cannon balls, 
 And one chained shot as knocker serves 
 To play upon the porter's nerves ; 
 These balls were Cromwell's drastic pills 
 Thrown in as cure for human ills. 
 As when poor patients nerveless feel 
 The Doctor gives them iron and steel ; 
 Or when depletion makes for good 
 The Leech resorts to letting blood. 
 Prescriptions rude were iron and steel 
 As physic for the common weal. 
 When patriot to patriot 
 Sends arguments in cannon shot 
 To prove his party ought to rule, 
 Such logic rouses up the school. 
 A strange protector was old Noll, 
 And when he opened up the ball. 
 Escarp and turret, wall and roof, 
 Had need be rendered thunder-proof. 
 Foundations founded on a rock 
 If earthquake-proof might stand his shock, 
 Yet his grim iron pills were known 
 To so improve the British tone. 
 That Cavaliers upon the Wye 
 Made up their minds to do or die ; 
 And as some failed to do — they died, 
 And with their blood dyed Wye's pure tide. 
 And Puritan and Cavalier 
 So fought for what they both held dear, 
 
 I7S
 
 That every time-worn moss-green stone 
 
 Might tell a tale — each stone its own, 
 
 Of cut and thrust, of shout and groan 
 
 For Liberty ! For King and Throne. 
 
 Now heavenly peace and love prevail 
 
 Within each lovely silvan vale, 
 
 No Cromwell harries Monmouth now : 
 
 No false King breaks a solemn vow : 
 
 The people glory in their hour, 
 
 They feel their mighty strength and power, 
 
 O may they walk where wisdom treads. 
 
 Avoiding where false glory leads. 
 
 And so if wanton war should come. 
 
 Freemen, alone, shall guard our home. 
 
 The WindclifF's watchfires now grown dim. 
 
 No longer shine on warriors grim ; 
 
 The WindclifF's grand heights do but serve 
 
 To grace the Wye's romantic curve, 
 
 Which like some siren's fair round arm 
 
 Doth form a line-of-beauty-charm ! 
 
 While choruses of woodland notes 
 
 Are warbled forth from wild-bird throats, 
 
 And myriads of sweet wild flowers 
 
 Add charms to Wye's umbrageous bowers. 
 
 And Chepstow, wanton, high and dry. 
 
 Her charms exposeth to the Wye — 
 
 Coquetting 'neath the deep blue sky. 
 
 And shimmering in the waves of Wye. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis enough to make one sigh 
 
 To live for ever on the Wye ! 
 
 17(3
 
 CDe Corn Field* 
 
 Blow, blow, blow, ye autumn breezes blow, 
 And mingle tuneful melodies as ye come to and fro. 
 A tiny Baby Boy once played 
 
 Upon an autumn morn. 
 Aye, happy light and free he strayed, 
 Into a field of corn. 
 
 Blow, blow, blow, ye autumn breezes blow. 
 And bring back childhood's dreams again as ye were wont 
 To cross a footpath through the corn, [to do. 
 
 He timidl}^ essayed. 
 And though it was a sunny morn, 
 Yet he felt half afraid. 
 
 Blow, blow, blow, ye autumn breezes blow, 
 And wake those mystic fears again as ye were wont to do. 
 The golden grain above his head, 
 
 Seemed towering to the sky. 
 And whisperings of something dread, 
 Each passing breeze bore by. 
 
 Blow, blow, blow, ye autumn breezes blow. 
 And bring back childhood's happy days so free from care 
 The little birds all were so gay, [and woe 
 
 The lark soared up on high, 
 
 He felt as happy then as they, 
 
 And hours rolled swiftly by. 
 
 177
 
 Blow, blow, blow, still fragrant breezes blow, 
 But he no more amongst the corn such happiness shall 
 At length amongst the corn he lay, [know. 
 
 And wondering viewed the sky, 
 Till tired with his stroll and play, 
 Sleep closed each weary eye. 
 
 Blow, blow, blow, ye autumn breezes blow, 
 O, let him revel once again in childish fancy's glow. 
 The soothing breeze came sighing by. 
 
 As he his nap did take, 
 No dreams disturbed his lullaby, 
 He dreamed most when awake. 
 
 Blow, blow, blow, ye autumn breezes blow. 
 Bring back that joy without alloy which children only 
 Had seraphs borne this Babe away, [know. 
 
 Up from the golden corn. 
 From dream-land into endless day, 
 An Angel had been born. 
 
 '^<^K?) 
 
 /•^ 
 
 178
 
 Cbe HRaia of y$rrail=n2pnac^ 
 
 In sweet Ystrad-ATynach's vale, 
 Stood a Maiden sad and pale. 
 Leaning on her milking pail, 
 As his voice rang through the vale. 
 
 * Chorus : — (Calling cows up.) 
 
 " Yah-a-hoo — Yah-a-hoo ! 
 Yah-a-hoo — Bwch bach ! " 
 
 And he had a handsome face, 
 And his step was full of grace, 
 Pity this poor maiden's case, 
 For his heart was false and base. 
 
 When the dew adorned the thorn, 
 This poor maiden all forlorn, 
 Met him often on the lawn — 
 Oft he fetched her cows at dawn. 
 
 And on mystic autumn eves, 
 'Midst the rustling of the leaves. 
 Love he whisper'd — she believed ; 
 Never dreaming he deceived. 
 
 Yonder graveyard's sombre shade. 
 Hides the wronged Glamorgan maid, 
 And poor love-sick maids afraid. 
 Dread the cry which haunts the glade. 
 
 * The elfect of this call in the vale between the high hills 
 was peculiarly plaintive, and suggested this little song. 
 " Bwch " signifies in English, cow; and "bach " little. 
 
 179
 
 Bessie of Barrp* 
 
 See Jack there's Porthkerry, push on, do not tarry, 
 And Barry, old Barry, is coming in sight. 
 
 And don't I fell merrj^ ? for when we reach Barry 
 My own darling Bessie '11 be with me to night ; 
 
 Before I left Barry she promised to marry, 
 
 And vow'd that to me she'd be constant and true, 
 
 And she said — " do not tarry ? " then sighed, "pray don't 
 hurry ? " 
 
 But lord. Jack, I knew what she wished me to do. 
 
 And when we set sail, Oh ! my heart it did fail, O, 
 
 Like our rotten old ship 'twas as heavy as lead, 
 To the water edge laden — and my poor little maiden, 
 
 J felt and I wished we were both of us dead ; 
 But now I'm returning, with lore's ardour burning, 
 
 And, O Jack, look out lad, what's that on our lee ? 
 Why, 'tis Bessie of Barry on the shore at Porthkerry, 
 
 ' Tis Bess ! bless her soul, and she's looking for me. 
 
 i8o
 
 tbe 6I0U) worm* 
 
 Some say the female Glow-worm doth attract and guide 
 Her mate and lover 
 In the night 
 By the light 
 Of her lamp so bright ; 
 While he, the prosy fellow, crawleth to her side 
 Safe 'neath the cover 
 Of his dullness. 
 
 And so the lovely maiden doth attract and guide 
 The ardent lover 
 Day and night 
 By the light 
 Of her eyes so bright ; 
 Till he, the happy fellow, maketh her his bride> 
 And then subsideth 
 Into dullness. 
 
 i8i
 
 Song—** FarciDell/* 
 
 I love thee truly, dear, believe me, 
 
 Nor o'er the raging billows go, 
 Thou canst not thus desert and leave me 
 
 And fill thy fond one's heart with woe. 
 For since thy face I first did see 
 
 I've kept thy form in heart and eye, 
 I cannot live apart from thee. 
 
 Nor can I say good bye ! 
 
 List ! darling list ! the winds are howling, 
 The thought doth break my bleeding heart. 
 
 The tempest cometh wildly scowling. 
 And now, alas, we both must part ; 
 
 Yet though in grief I say farewell, 
 I'll meet thee yet with tearless eye, 
 
 And I will with my own one dwell 
 
 No more to say good-bye ! 
 
 182
 
 l^alure. 
 
 Ah, nature sweet ! with all thy pleasing charms, 
 
 Entranced T view thee in thy every phase — 
 
 Save only one : and then from thee I fly, 
 
 With shuddering pang : most pitiless art thou ! 
 
 Thy smiles are cruel, and thy frown affrights. 
 
 The smihng season, all bedecked with flowers, 
 
 And now with fruits so lusciously matured. 
 
 The summer sun and winter's cruel rage — 
 
 Destro}^ ! In things inanimate I see 
 
 Perpetual strife displayed. The stronger stem 
 
 Shoots past the tender shoot, which droops and dies 
 
 Forgotten in the shade. The coarse broad leaf 
 
 Spreads out its wrinkled hands and kills the flower. 
 
 With living things an endless war is waged, 
 
 The stronger kills and preys upon the weak — 
 
 His life to save ; till something yet more strong, 
 
 The killer kills, and battens on the dead. 
 
 Not e'en the fairest, most angelic form 
 
 Can trip the green and daisy covered sod, 
 
 But in each tiny track, convulsed with pain. 
 
 The insect or the worm all quivering lies 
 
 In agonizing throes ! Death ! death ! all death ! 
 
 ' Tis he, alone, that reigns with tortures keen, 
 
 Exultingly I triumphantly ! he rides 
 
 Through Nature's bounds ! and hence the startled soul 
 
 For something merciful and tender yearns, 
 
 And finds perfection's charms in Thee alone. 
 
 Redeemer ! Pitiful^ Benign and Oood ! 
 
 183
 
 On (be Canat. 
 
 The summer sun o'er Berwyn's height, 
 In gorgeous splendours sank to rest ; 
 
 And darkness struggled with the light, 
 Until the moon upreared her crest. 
 
 On Breidden's brow then changed the frown 
 Unto a peaceful, heavenly calm, 
 
 And Llanymynech's ruddy brown 
 Was softened by an aerial balm. 
 
 The Tanat glided through the vale, 
 
 While moonbeams kissed the silver flood, 
 
 And mystic vapours threw a veil 
 
 Between the mountain and the wood. 
 
 'Twas such an evening that one sees, 
 In pleasing dreams, in slumbers light, 
 
 With soul soothed by some Heavenly breeze, 
 And all the world is lost to sight. 
 
 184
 
 Cbe despicable one. 
 
 Harsh, pompous, needy, greedy, vain : 
 
 Indifferent to human pain. 
 
 The alphabet unto his eye 
 
 No letter hath but letter " I." 
 
 Uncharitable, false and mean, 
 
 Unsympathetic, yet serene. 
 
 Of love for others guilty never. 
 
 He hath no ties of love to sever. 
 
 In love of self most constant ever, 
 
 To puff his pride is his endeavour ; 
 
 Inflated as an air-blown bladder, 
 
 He makes of every friend a ladder. 
 
 But when his selfish ends are gained, 
 
 He ne'er makes ladder for a friend. 
 
 To know this creature would 'st thou pry ? 
 
 He often comes within thine eye ; 
 
 But when thou think'st to speak his name, 
 
 Hush ! hold thy tongue for very shame ; 
 
 And would'st thou know the reason why ? 
 
 Well- put the question—" Is it I? " 
 
 I8S
 
 R I2ial)l-mare Dream, 
 
 A heav}^, troubled sleep his senses numbed, 
 And dark and dreadful thoughts upon him stole, 
 A dismal phantasy his brain o'erwhelmed, 
 And gloomy horrors crept into his soul. 
 
 A direful sense of evil overspread. 
 
 And hideous phantoms flitted round his bed. 
 
 He tried in vain to move, a barrier rose. 
 Impassable, and dense, and yet unseen : 
 A wilderness of fierce and gloomy woes. 
 In spectre-like succession glared between. 
 
 His blood seemed chilled, his sinews knotted wire, 
 His heated brain seem'd charged with liquid fire. 
 
 Something impossible to be attained ! 
 A gaping gulph was yawning everywhere, 
 And he in hopeless torture seemed enchained. 
 And naught seemed left for him but dark despair. 
 
 i86
 
 n Reoerie. 
 
 I'm growing stiff, and I'm growing old, 
 
 I'm growing white, and I'm growmg bald ; 
 
 My teeth and some friends are growing hollow. 
 
 And fate alone knows what may follow. 
 
 ['m often crabb'd, and I'm sometimes sick, 
 
 I'm growing, in fact, like poor Irish Mick ; 
 
 And Irish Mick's life is a life of strife. 
 
 And so is the life of Irish Mick's wife. 
 
 And fate is a fury to those who resist her. 
 
 And so is Pat's wife, who is Irish Mick's sister, 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding the frowns of fate. 
 
 The ' sneers ' of friendship, the ' smiles ' of hate, 
 
 I abhor like poor Mick real malice and strife. 
 
 And so do Pat's wife, and poor Irish's Mick's wife. 
 
 Of all life's pleasures, give us that of hope. 
 And Ave, unflinching, will' misfortune bear ; 
 
 With woes and ills of life we'll bravely cope. 
 And battle, boldly, with the fiend — despair. 
 
 itiaratUiiae. 
 
 Ingratitude was punisiied once by death ; 
 \Ve, wise and merciful, are now content 
 To let the criminal live and repent, 
 To let the crime be its own punishment. 
 
 Sweet, soothing sympathy, thou spirit bright. 
 With fond emotion let us breathe thy name ; 
 
 Thou solace in affliction's darkest night, 
 
 Thou source of pure affection's fervent flame. 
 
 187
 
 yestpn ap Giorgan, 
 
 (He Lost Fair Glamorgan.) 
 
 The story hath it that the Horse 
 By enemies attacked in force, 
 Asked man to beat his foes away ; 
 The man got on the Horse, astride, 
 Vanquished the foes but learned to ride ; 
 And rides the Horse unto this day. 
 
 So abject Yesiyn brought tlie pack. 
 Of Norman wolves on Gwentland's back ; 
 Pandered false Einion's love, or lust, 
 His wild revengeful ends to win, 
 And lost Morganwg kith and kin, 
 Then like a coward licked the dust. 
 
 The moral is that when in need. 
 Beware lest like the Prince and steed, 
 When held by enemies at bay. 
 Instead of striving for thy right, 
 Thou trustest to another's might. 
 And fall a slave to tyrant sway. 
 
 i88
 
 Cintern, on Wpe. 
 
 Should you ask a reason why 
 The pious people on the Wye 
 Rejoice in Tintern's ruined pile, 
 'Tis difficult, so wait a while. 
 If " Twelve Apostles " on the rocks 
 Do not suffice for Monmouth folks. 
 The " Devil's Pulpit" stands above, 
 And Beelzebub does all for love (?) 
 Hence waggish Wyemen laugh and say, 
 " We haven't got the devil to pay, 
 While Tintern Abbey up the vale, 
 Enables us to take blackmail," 
 " And that's the reason why, you know, 
 We make the sacred pile a show." 
 And this is one sad reason why 
 You're starved or fleeced upon the Wye. 
 And Wye-men in this see no evil, 
 For don't they try to dodge the Devil ? 
 But Nature, bountiful and fair, 
 Here lavishly beyond compare, 
 Spreads charms unmatched before the eye ; 
 And revels on the river Wye. 
 For here you view the Windcliff high. 
 With summit towering to the sky. 
 River and mountain, plain and wood, 
 Rich valleys, verdure clad, and flood ! 
 And, loving Nature's Handmaid — Art. 
 What man can check his beating heart, 
 While gazing from the rugged rocks, 
 He dreams of great old David Cox, 
 Whose wond'rous genius oft portrayed, 
 This glorious scene in sun and shade. 
 Sacred is any spot to me, 
 Where Cox's genius wandered free. 
 
 189
 
 Sacred the rock, the mountain height, 
 From which his fancy winged its flight, 
 And 'tis another reason why 
 I love thee — glorious river Wye ! 
 
 man. 
 
 O what a vapid whimful fool is man, 
 With all his boasted intellectual pride! 
 Give him the toy he covets for an hour, 
 Ere yet the gloss of novelty is dimmed 
 Possession cloys : yearning for some other prize 
 He throws the toy aside. Nay give him all 
 The fertile globe contains and he will pine- 
 Ungratefully for more. One thirsts for wealth, 
 His destiny cries — "^Vo." Another health ; 
 ^'- Impossible ^^^ cries fate. Give me but power 
 And slaves to do m}' will, ambition craves. 
 Ensure thy ruin ? "i\^o." Stern fate decrees. 
 Despite of fate or reason's wise constraint, 
 Each fool his whim pursues ; just like the dog 
 That first doth chase in playfulness his tail, 
 Which flying as he turns each effort mocks. 
 Allures him on in earnest in the round. 
 Till, whining, he exhausted breathless falls 
 Mourning his bootless chase. 
 
 190
 
 tbe old Roadman* 
 
 With a crack— crack — and a whack — whack, 
 The spHntering pebbles at every crack, 
 
 Once flew from my hammer of steel ; 
 Now my blow is feeble ; my arm is weak ; 
 And the sweat trickles down my wrinkled cheek, 
 
 As I thump for a scanty meal. 
 
 With a crack — crack— and a whack — whack, 
 A many long yed.v I have kept my ' plack,' 
 
 But the pebbles are harder now ; 
 And the sunshiny summer air is chill. 
 And I cannot get on, though I have the will — 
 
 And this comes very hard, I trow. 
 
 With a crack — crack — and a whack — whack. 
 With rheumatic racking my poor old back. 
 
 With my limbs all feeble and sore ; 
 I toil, and I moil, till my crazy bones 
 Ache — ache ! and each effort is heard with groans, 
 
 And — I cannot — thump any more. 
 
 With a crack— crack — and a whack — whack, 
 With tottering step and a crooked back, 
 
 I seek full of sorrow my door. 
 My ' owd 'ooman ' grumbles I do not get 
 Enough to find us in bread to eat ; 
 
 And — now — I can work— no more. 
 
 191
 
 With a crack — crack — and a whack — whack, 
 At the overseer and his paltry pack, 
 
 She rails with a garrulous tongue. 
 " To the Big House," said he, " we both must go," 
 " The work- house, say you, to be sundered^ no, 
 
 I'll work, wench, as if I were young." 
 
 With a crack — crack — and a whack — whack, 
 When the midnight fell, all sullen and black, 
 
 When the owl hooted over the moor, 
 A visitor came to the Roadman's Cot, 
 Who speedily changed the old man's lot — 
 
 It was Death — the friend of the poor. 
 
 192
 
 n SDropsWre ScDool, 
 
 (By Oswestry, 1836). 
 
 A straw-thatched cottage framed with oaken beams, 
 Rough dab and plaster in the rugged seams ; 
 A meadow in the rear— in front a brook, 
 Each gives a charm unto the rustic nook. 
 The garden, with its walnut clusters high. 
 Shews apples red, and damsons, to the eye ; 
 And, shading cot and thatch, a pear tree too, 
 Holds temptingly forbidden fruit to view. 
 A bee-bench, with fierce bees in wheat-straw hives, 
 Marauding youngsters from the pear tree drives ; 
 And from the flowers : the well fenced garden plot 
 Is held a mystic and a sacred spot. 
 That boy is bold who dares to thrust a nose 
 Between the wicket-staves to smell a rose. 
 The Cottage Door is free from painter's touch. 
 And opens with a home-made string and latch ; 
 And many a shivering child hath sobbed its fill 
 For some kind hand to lift it o'er the sill. 
 Such was the school, where, ere he scarce could walk, 
 The yokel learned to read, and " hmi'd to talJc.^' 
 And some declared in manhood's nervous prime. 
 They shrank with child-like terror of the time 
 They went to school to pass the cheerless day. 
 Too often motherless, and in the iimy. 
 Such, was the outward aspect of that school 
 Wherein " Owd Maister" reigned with iron rule. 
 Conveyed by memory through by-gone years 
 How vividly the rustic scene appears ! 
 Look ! see again the ruddy, merry boys 
 Desert the brookside and the meadow's joys : 
 
 193
 
 For each the " Mdi.ster's " loud bird- clapper liears — 
 Hastens to school beset by childish fears. 
 The fierce old man, full six feet in his clogs, 
 With whip in hand the straggling laggard flogs; 
 Then bangs, when all are in, the oaken door, 
 Glares on his scholars on the cold clay floor. 
 Each youngster trembling o'er his greasy book. 
 Surveys his " Alaister " with an askant look ; 
 Thinking perchance that searching cold grey eye, 
 His last sly trick, or secret fault may spy. 
 
 The '' Maister^s " face was furrowed, harsh and grim, 
 
 With toothless gums ; red nose becoming him ; 
 
 A grisly stubble grew upon his chin. 
 
 His " Yed " were bald but for the stray hairs thin. 
 
 Which here and there stuck fretful from his poll. 
 
 Loathing the scurf that held their roots in thrall. 
 
 Coarse horn-framed spectacles in snug repose, 
 
 Lay dormant on his forehead, or his nose. 
 
 The gums held clumsily within their gripe. 
 
 An oily, black, well-used tobacco pipe, 
 
 From which the smoke went forth at every whifF 
 
 In fleecy volumes for the nose to sniff. 
 
 His short frieze jacket, and his waistcoat too — 
 
 The latter yellow plush and striped with blue ; 
 
 Discoloured, greasy, coat at elbows worn. 
 
 Long of their nappy, plushy honours shorn ; 
 
 With patched knee breeches, o'er his stockings grey, 
 
 And shirt of check, completed his array. 
 
 When out, a diity, battered, low crowned hat. 
 
 Upon '* Oivd Maiater's Yed" and shoulders sat ; 
 
 Its brim upturned behind, well soaked with grease, 
 
 His collar fitted ' with familiar ease,' 
 
 194
 
 To go to Chapel, or with pig to fair, 
 
 He had a coat of royal blue to wear, 
 
 Duck-tailed, gilt buttoned, with a collar vast — 
 
 And moleskin buskins his great ankles cased. 
 
 " Oivd Missus,''^ too, a harsh and sullen dame. 
 
 Amongst the scholars shared " Owd Maisters " fame : 
 
 Her pursed up mouth and keen black flashing eyes, 
 
 Proclaimed she never stooped to sympathize ! 
 
 And from her face, of musty parchment hue. 
 
 The timid child instinctively withdrew. 
 
 " The children bin so naught and iviclced noiv^ 
 
 They mun he beaten — beaten well — I trow ! 
 
 IHl breaJc their spirits down, and make 'em fear^'' 
 
 Croaks forth '■' Owd Missus " with a cruel leer. 
 
 Charging her frightful nose with clouds of snuff. 
 
 And giving some young wretch a kick or cufF. 
 
 The school, ill-lighted by a lattice high, 
 
 And bell-mouthed chimney shaft, thro' which the sky — 
 
 The deep blue sky — is seen, like distant hope. 
 
 Through misery's dim mental telescope. 
 
 A table — one huge mass of wood on pegs — 
 
 Misnomer it would be to call them legs ; 
 
 From some huge ash-tree root, sawn in a block, 
 
 Cross grained and solid, as a granite rock. 
 
 Rude stools and benches —dresser made of oak ; 
 
 Three shelves, stained black by dust, by grease and smoke, 
 
 With pewter plate and wooden trencher blessed, 
 
 A corner cupboard, and a carved oak chest ; 
 
 In these behold, with two arm chairs, home-made, 
 
 The " Alma Mater " furniture portrayed. 
 
 The gruff old couple in the two arm-chairs 
 
 Tuitive labour each with other shares. 
 
 195
 
 Driving dull letters in each little " yed^^^ 
 
 '■'■Ah " meant for " «"; and uncouth " zod " for zed ; 
 
 Kneading some future orator in mould, 
 
 Who •' \\oiv\d " be a good scholar if he " co2t;ld." 
 
 But who, poor fellow, being somewhat dull, 
 
 Must have his " larning'' hammered through his skull. 
 
 But why this uncongenial task prolong, 
 
 Or make a cruel pair the theme for song, 
 
 Alas ! why memories of scenes retain, 
 
 Or let associations fill the brain. 
 
 Of stupid ignorance, in age austere ; 
 
 Its rule of tyranny, brute force and fear. 
 
 Which in the gentlest soul must inculcate, 
 
 Not Godlike love, but cruelty and hate. 
 
 The cottage still stands in its rustic nook. 
 
 And still glides on the ceaseless rippling brook ; 
 
 And spring still wakes the flowers and sleeping trees, 
 
 And still the summer zephyrs fan the breeze ; 
 
 And winter too, apart from fog and chills. 
 
 Braces the rustic nerves and health instils. 
 
 The fertile meadow, too, is green and fair ; 
 
 But now no trace remains of that old pair. 
 
 They died ; and swiftly to oblivion fled — 
 
 Without one tear of love, or sorrow shed. 
 
 The eldest son, an aged grisly man 
 
 Told 'twas in fear, he thought of them again ! 
 
 A moral from their lives we all may draw, 
 
 Who breaks the All-Benign Creator's law, 
 
 Blunting the finest feelings of the soul 
 
 With fear, alone the motive of control, 
 
 Shall live unloved, on earth a life forlorn. 
 
 And after death be thought of but with scorn. 
 
 196
 
 I>i$ Darling. 
 
 Oh, she was lithe and graceful, 
 
 As nimble as the fawn, 
 Her eyes so blue and peaceful — 
 
 He saw them every morn. 
 He saw them every morning, 
 
 As he was going to school ; 
 He met them every evening, 
 
 In the lane by yonder pool. 
 
 What dreams of joyful rapture, 
 
 As children they did feel ? 
 As each the other captured. 
 
 Like lambkins in the field. 
 He saw her every morning, 
 
 As he was going to school ; 
 He met her every evening. 
 
 In the lane by yonder pool. 
 
 And they adored each other. 
 
 Till childhood passed away, 
 And she, oh ! she grew lov'Iier 
 
 Than all the flowers of May. 
 He saw her every morning, 
 
 As when he went to school ; 
 He met her every evening. 
 
 In the lane by yonder pool. 
 
 As purest snows have melted. 
 
 As past years' flowers are gone, 
 So his sweet love departed — 
 
 To Heaven she hath flown. 
 Yet she doth smile upon him. 
 
 As when he went to school, 
 In moonbeams and in sunbeams, 
 
 As he passes yonder pool. 
 
 197
 
 tbe Orator. 
 
 Twas not on a platform, nor yet in a church, 
 'Twas not in the school of the great Doctor Birch, 
 
 Where the Orator got on his feet ; 
 Speaking gravely, aloud, to a wondering crowd. 
 
 And 'twas not to a crowd in the street. 
 
 'Twas not to the ' House ' that his words were addressed, 
 With Premier to make each grave question a jest. 
 
 And where Statesmen pretend that Umj feel ,- 
 But hearers of sense, who for shillings nor pence. 
 
 Nor for pounds to a Sovereign would kneel. 
 
 What the Orator spake of, you won't even think, 
 But 'twas not pump water, nor yet of strong drink ; 
 
 But to judge from the turn of his eye, 
 And the looks of surprise to which he gave rise, 
 
 His subject was far from being dry. 
 
 It might be a Parson, he might be a Judge, 
 
 Who when they get hearers will not let them budge, 
 
 But detain folk as long as they please ; 
 Till they handle their cash, or settle their hash, 
 
 And the church, or the lawyers, get fees. 
 
 The speaker proceeded — his hearers turned round, 
 Then looked at the speaker, then looked at the ground ; 
 
 And they nodded quite sagely their pates. 
 With heads turned aside, the great Orator eyed — 
 
 Yes, as if he foretold them their fates. 
 
 198
 
 Oh ! if 'twere their fates that the Orator told, 
 
 They would not — they could not— have been half so bold, 
 
 Nor have taken to listen such pains. 
 For 'tis sad to relate that each listener's fate 
 
 It was hanging — 'twas hanging — in chains ! 
 
 But who was the speaker ? my readers exclaim, 
 Now don't be impatient, dear sir, or fair dame. 
 
 And perchance just as soon it will out. 
 For patience d'ye see, even Parsons agree, 
 
 No poor Christian can well do without. 
 
 Approaching the speaker to judge for myself, 
 The subject I found was the Orator's self. 
 
 And he prated in accents full droll, 
 That's something to say for this present day, 
 
 Many speakers and subjects are dull. 
 
 There are no speakers now, as once used to be. 
 Few speakers, like mine, reach the top of the tree. 
 
 Like Sir Walter they fear they may fall ; 
 Cage-free, without fear, and in accents quite clear, 
 
 Mine exclaims from a tree — *' Pretty Poll ! " 
 
 Beneath a huge Turkey — just like the Grand Turk, 
 Looks round on his harem, with mind just as dark ; 
 
 For he can't understand it at all. 
 In terror — in trouble — he cries — ^'- gobble ! gobble! '' 
 
 And the Parrot repeats — '' Frettg Foil ! " 
 
 199
 
 tl)e Babe of Ston l>ilL 
 
 Sweet Bessie Bertha she laughs and she crows, 
 
 Bessie she chuckles and Bessie she grows. 
 
 Bessie she chortles and sprunts as she smiles, 
 
 Bessie has legions of sweet little wiles. 
 
 Bessie has fingers, and cannot she grab ? 
 
 She claws with those fingers like lobster or crab. 
 
 Bessie with droll little visage can pull 
 
 Smiles like a cherub or frowns like a bull. 
 
 Bessie has cheeks like the wild blooming rose, 
 
 And Bessie has got such a comical nose ! 
 
 And when not in counting her toes too intent. 
 
 She sucks her fat thumb with a smile of content ; 
 
 And as with her plump fist her fingers she points, 
 
 You find she has only got dimples for joints. 
 
 And oh ! what a pocket our Bessie has got, 
 
 Whatever she clutches as soon as 'tis caught, 
 
 Attractive or ugly, refined or uncouth, 
 
 She crams in that wonderful pocket — her mouth ! 
 
 Nurse says she is going to have ' white toosie-pegs,' 
 
 And that soon she will talk and stand up on her legs. 
 
 But our dear little Bess with her bright golden hair, 
 
 Her sweet hazel eyes and her wondering stare, 
 
 Her love our fond hearts fills with rapture at will, 
 
 She's the only wee baby on fair Sion Hill. 
 
 Her breath sweet as rose-buds or primrose perfume, 
 
 Her smiles like the sunshine illumine our gloom. 
 
 And Oh ! may our God-given Bessie still grow — 
 
 And through her may Heavenly graces o'erflow, 
 
 Her stature increase with pure virtue until 
 
 She attain to High Heaven's supreme Sion Hill. 
 
 200
 
 WiaDtu)ick mm 
 
 (South Staffordshirk Dialect). 
 
 O, Will and Kit, a blithe young paar, 
 
 Were lovers true and leal, 
 Her feythur farmed by Compton Clumps, 
 
 And his'n had Wightwick Mill. 
 
 On coming wum from Hampton Faar 
 
 The feythur s oft did brawl. 
 And Kit's owd feythur he did swaar 
 
 She shouldn't ha' Will at all. 
 
 But if his donkey, Jack, should fly 
 
 Right up into the aar, 
 He then might p'raps with favour eye 
 
 The wishes of the paar. 
 
 And Kit for Will did sigh and cry. 
 
 And Will did fret for she ; 
 And while the mill sails did whirl by. 
 
 None was so sad as he. 
 
 Upon one summer market day 
 
 Poor Will pined in the mill. 
 And not an aspen leaf did play. 
 
 The mill sails were all still. 
 
 He saw a donkey trotting by, 
 
 His Kit was on its back. 
 Upon a batch she sat awry, 
 
 Her saddle was a sack. 
 
 201
 
 Will laughed at Kit ; Kit blushed at he ; 
 
 Their hearts went pit-a-pat : 
 And all the world seemed then so gay, 
 
 There ne'er was time like that. 
 
 Will took the batch inside the mill 
 While Kit remained outside, 
 
 And to a sail, with halter stout, 
 Poor Jack she firmly tied. 
 
 What in that mill those lovers said 
 
 I never will explain, 
 But hours like minutes passed away, 
 
 Till sunshine turned to rain. 
 
 The wind did howl, but what cared they ? 
 
 Until it blew a gale ; 
 And found poor Jack, alas the day, 
 
 Tied fast unto the sail. 
 
 Round went the sails, poor Jack and they,. 
 
 How he did roar and plunge ! 
 But Jack was always, so they say, 
 
 "A devil for a ronge." 
 
 The neighbours all to see the sight. 
 
 Out of each cottage flew ; 
 And now poor Jack and now the sails 
 
 Alternate came in view. 
 
 And with each round the windmill sail 
 
 Did fast and faster go. 
 And wild and wilder blew the gale — 
 
 The halter snapped in two. 
 
 202
 
 And Jack 'tween water, earth and air, 
 Was from that windmill thrown, 
 
 But how he 'lighted, when or where, 
 Was never after known. 
 
 But all the country folks agreed. 
 Indeed the neighbours said. 
 
 They in their lifetime never seed 
 A village donkey jed. 
 
 At Tettenhall Church a happy pair 
 
 Knelt by the altar rail. 
 And Kit and Will were tied fast there, 
 
 As Jack was to that sail. 
 
 And happy were they many a year 
 Till children's children played, 
 
 And generations of them theer 
 Lie neath yon Yew Tree's shade. 
 
 203
 
 m a Farm : noriD Wales, 
 
 Holiday Time; after 17 Days' Rain. 
 
 I would I were a Duck, 
 
 A bubbling in the brook, 
 Or a chasing of a very big snail ; 
 
 Or I would I were a Drake — 
 
 With black e3-es and yellow beak. 
 And a coaxing little curl in my tail. 
 
 For both the Drake and Duck, 
 
 A flirting in the brook, 
 While the happy little pig grunts about ; 
 
 Are much better off than we 
 
 On this slobb'ring sloppy day 
 When none dare show or put our noses out. 
 
 I would I were a ' Cowt," 
 
 To jump and skip about. 
 In clothing that is never tailor-made. 
 
 Or I would I were a Frog, 
 
 To go wobbling in the bog. 
 To hop, to swim, to waddle or to wade. 
 
 I would I were a Trout, 
 
 Who's Ma don't know he's out. 
 Whose swimming comes more nat'ral than a trade. 
 
 Or I would I were a Tree ij 
 
 (But I know that cannot be) 
 To take the rainy ' pepper ' like a jade. 
 
 I would the sun would shine, 
 
 And dry up all the rain, 
 With drums and colours off we'd march with glee ; | 
 
 Over hills and far away, ■ 
 
 Where the sunbeams sweetly play — 
 And mountains roll like billows on the sea. 
 
 204 ij 
 
 /
 
 Cl)e Dooe. 
 
 Co-oo- co-oo— coo-coo ! sweet scenes adieu, 
 Thy song, poor Dove, so mournful, yet so sweet, 
 Telling of summer pleasures' swift retreat, 
 
 'Tis pain to hear. 
 And with thee 'midst the verdure's sad decline. 
 In solemn forest— nature's silvan shrine — 
 
 For summer drop a tear. 
 
 Co-oo— co-oo — coo-coo I sw^eet scenes adieu, 
 Thou, squirrel, skipping wild in frisky glee, 
 Nipping the ripe brown nut from bush and tree, 
 
 Suspend thy play. 
 Increase thy store : perchance the budding larch, 
 Or death, may be thy fare ere howling March ; 
 
 Advice then take to-day. 
 
 Co-oo— co-oo — coo-coo ! sweet scenes adieu. 
 Mere words, alas, with scorn Sir Squirrel hears, 
 Defiant w^hisks his tail ; he has no fears ! 
 
 Thou thoughtless beast ! 
 Such reveries to rouse, such dreams disturb, 
 We'll teach thee ill-timed levity to curb — 
 
 Despoil thee of thy feast. 
 
 Co-oo — co-oo — coo-coo ! sweet scenes adieu. 
 Up through the lofty hazel-bush I rise, 
 Boy-like and brisk to fetch the brown shell prize, 
 
 A bootless raid. 
 The prize is hid in disappointing leaves, 
 Like many more for which ambition grieves — 
 
 When mortals fate upbraid. 
 205
 
 Co-00— co-oo — coo-coo ! sweet Dove adieu, 
 Thy soothing song still fills the forest fair, 
 Melodious mingles with the balmy air, 
 
 And thus the strain : — [Bard- 
 
 " Mourn not the prize that's lost — thou would-be 
 For thy digestion it might prove too hard ; 
 
 And so th}^ loss is gain." 
 
 Co-00 — co-oo — coo-coo ! sweet scenes adieu. 
 But yesterday the spring all gladness smiled, 
 And later summer's joys the sense beguiled ; 
 
 And all was gay. 
 Oh ! for thy melody to tune a song. 
 To sing the mournful thoughts which throb and 
 
 Amidst this sad decay. [throng, 
 
 Co-oo— co-oo — coo-coo ! sweet scenes adieu. 
 But yesterday a bright boy skipp'd and laughed, 
 And here from Nature's fountains deeply quaffed 
 
 Her nectar bowl. 
 Here in the moonlight like some happy elf. 
 He had her secret joys by nature's self 
 
 Infused into his soul. 
 
 Co-oo — co-00 — coo-coo ! sweet scenes adieu, 
 Ye smiling landscapes and ye frowning hills. 
 Ye rolling rivers and ye rippling rills, 
 
 A fond farewell ! 
 Ye fading leaves in hues of varied sheen. 
 Your rustlings, bodeful of a winter keen, 
 
 Of Hfe's long winter tell. 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 306
 
 6ra!Uuae. 
 
 " Oh ! Doctor, he's dying, so come ? oh I do come ? 
 My brother is dying ! so please Doctor, come ? 
 I'd wilhngly pay your fee now if T could, 
 But, Doctor, we have not got money or food. 
 And food without money is not to be had. 
 But do come, dear Doctor, he's so very bad ! " 
 " And who is your brother, my poor little maid. 
 Come, speak up and tell me ? now don't be afraid ; " 
 The maiden of ten years replied with a sigh, 
 " My brother's an Actor, but donH let him die.'' 
 
 The good old Doctor cured the Actor, 
 And she adored his benefactor. 
 
 And years crept along, as is usual, by stealth. 
 The poor Actor-brother, he won fame and wealth ; 
 The good little sister a woman had grown. 
 Her name became famous in country and town. 
 At home and abroad, even Queens and great Kings, 
 And people exalted in all earthly things, 
 Took hold of her hands : some lovingly kissed her ; 
 Just as they would if she had been a sister. 
 Besides being famous, she also was good. 
 Too good to be guilty of ingratitude. 
 
 The good old man who cured the Actor, 
 She always loved as benefactor. 
 
 207
 
 She came to our Town in her zenith of fame, 
 
 T opay the good Doctor in charity's name, 
 
 And when she recited a sad tale of woe, 
 
 The story pathetic of poor ' Ostler Joe,' 
 
 I saw on her cheeks the big, hot, scalding tears. 
 
 Run down as she spake of Joe's sorrows and fears. 
 
 And purses were emptied in pure Christian love. 
 
 As if inspiration came down from above. 
 
 And the good old Doctor was more than repaid 
 
 For the goodness shown to the poor little maid — 
 
 For kindness shown to the poor Actor, 
 In pure love, by her benefactor. 
 
 (FV 
 
 -<% 
 
 208
 
 Sallp. 
 
 (she died— aged 3). 
 
 Our Sail}' was a sunbeam, 
 
 Her smile was ever bright, 
 
 Her ej^es were like the cloudless sky, 
 
 With noontide at its height. 
 
 Our Sally was a sunbeam, 
 And made our home so bright. 
 But shadows dark came over us, 
 And drove away our light. 
 
 And darksome is our home now, 
 
 And we are weary grown, 
 
 Since Death's dark shadow dimmed our light, 
 
 And claimed her as his own. 
 
 But Sally's still a sunbeam, 
 That shines in cloudless skies, 
 A soul so sweet our darling had, 
 It never —never dies ! 
 
 Bring the bud and bring the bloom, 
 Strew them on her tiny tomb. 
 For the canker-worm did come, 
 With the first blight on our home. 
 And the sweet bud ere it bloomed, 
 Thus untimely was entombed. 
 
 209
 
 Bring the bud and bring the bloom, 
 Strew them on her tiny tomb. 
 Though we may not — cannot — see her 
 As we saw her with us here, 
 Though her smile so soft and sweet, 
 Ne'er again our gaze uiay greet. 
 
 Bring the bud and bring the bloom. 
 
 Strew them on her tiny tomb. 
 
 Bud and blossom just the same, I 
 
 As we gave her when she came, j 
 
 Pretty prattler, to our side, ] 
 
 Not a week before she died. ! 
 
 Bring the bud and bring the bloom, 
 
 Strew them on her tiny tomb. 
 
 Sally ! dearest cherub, child, j 
 
 Shall we see thy face so mild, ] 
 
 Shall we hear thy angel voice. 
 
 With the Heavenly Choirs rejoice ? 
 
 210 
 
 1 I 
 
 i
 
 £np. 
 
 Here : Six brief summers of our care, 
 There : Dwells where the Eternal are ! 
 
 Come then with thy creative power 
 Fond hope revive this little flower ; 
 Let our fair Lily bud again 
 And in eternal bloom remain. 
 The fragrance of her beauty shed 
 Can never linger with the dead, 
 But only just to gild the gloom 
 And seeming slumbers of the tomb. 
 
 The tribute tear we all have paid. 
 And lingered where her form is laid. 
 And on the little sacred mound 
 The early snowdrop shall be found. 
 A shower of lilies there shall be 
 Sweet emblems of her purity. 
 And as these germs from earth arise, 
 We'll seek our dear one in the skies. 
 
 211
 
 moCDer. 
 
 If 'tis that Guardian Angels rove 
 And hover near the forms we love, 
 The mother will be doubly blessed 
 By those she fostered and caressed. 
 For there was that unbounded love 
 Entwined in them that nought could move ; 
 A spark of that celestial fire 
 Which all the great and good desire. 
 
 And as at dawn the stars of night 
 Fade dimly from our mortal sight, 
 Fade — only fade— they do not die, 
 But briefly lost to human eye. 
 So these lost dear ones in the skies, 
 But disappear from mortal eyes ; 
 Are lustred in His glory bright, 
 Absorbed in God's Eternal Light ! 
 
 Without them sunshine's a depressing cloud. 
 The world seems peopled by a stranger crowd. 
 
 i« 
 
 212
 
 i>er MM. 
 
 When in a troubled restless sleep 
 Feeling his bleeding heart must weep, 
 Invisibly a fair white hand 
 Came from the brighter, better land. 
 So soft and tender to the touch, 
 He seized it with an eager clutch. 
 Unto his lips the hand he pressed, 
 And clasped it wildly to his breast. 
 No form came, but that living hand — 
 No body, face, or form, he scann'd ; 
 Only the living arm and hand, 
 From yonder brighter, better land. 
 Aye, her fair-rounded living arm, 
 Soft to the touch, and smooth and warm. 
 Beautiful as in days of yore. 
 In days that can return no more. 
 The tender and the yielding clasp, 
 Returned his nervous, greedy grasp. 
 And, oh ! indeed it was his love's, 
 His faithful, true and tender dove's. 
 And in her touch was sympathy. 
 And love, and soul-tuned melody : 
 Sweet as a mother's lullaby 
 Borne on the south wind's zephyr sigh. 
 Sorrow pressed hard upon his heart. 
 And with that hand he could not part ; 
 That hand which often soothed his brow, 
 Where nothing seemed to sooth it now. 
 He held the hand, ah ! effort vain, 
 To drag her back to earth again. 
 It faded from his vice-like clasp. 
 Left nothing but a void to grasp — 
 Yes, softly, as night fades to day, 
 It disappeared and passed away. 
 
 213
 
 In ll^cmoriam. 
 
 It was under the wild-wood 'twixt Rhondda and Taff 
 That he first heard his lov'd one's sweet silvery laugh, 
 And her love vows were pure as the lark's tender tale 
 Which he sings o'er his mate on her nest in TafF's vale. 
 
 It was in yonder church above Taff' s rolling tide 
 That he led to the Altar his own darhng Bride, 
 And her blush put the blush of the rose-bud to shame 
 As she gave heart and hand and her name for his name. 
 
 Now his life's golden grain is, alas, turned to chaff, 
 For his darling she lies 'neath the church of Glyn Taff. 
 But the dream of her life's love, her sweet cheerful laugh, 
 Still unites them as stedfast as Rhondda and Taff. 
 
 Loving souls — ever constant — in realms beyond this 
 Re-unite when time endeth in consummate bliss, 
 And such nectar of love through eternity quaff 
 As in life ne'er was dreamt of by Rhondda or Taff. 
 
 214
 
 Quakers yard, Glamorgan, 
 
 BEARS ON A TABLP:T — 
 
 "Friends' Burial Ground, 1667." 
 
 In yonder cosy silvan nook 
 Where brawls the babbling Bargoed brook, 
 With joyous skip and leap and laugh 
 To join the dark and turgid Taff ; 
 Down where the mingling waters roar 
 Loud as the tide on rock-bound shore : 
 Roaring and rattling down the rocks, 
 Creating dins like thunder shocks, 
 There lies a meadow fair and green 
 Glistening in emerald sheen ; 
 Reviving fresh and ever fair, 
 All redolent of mountain air. 
 So peacefully the meadow lies 
 Out-spread with graduated rise. 
 Up from the meeting of the floods, 
 'Neath shady lanes begirt by woods, 
 Leading unto a grass-green yard. 
 Which from a restless rustic Bard 
 Calls forth a sympathetic tear. 
 For lowly lying peaceful here 
 Within four ivy covered walls, 
 Sacred a spot as Llandafif's halls, 
 Beneath the hallowed grassy sod, 
 Biding the coming of their God, 
 Crumbling awaiting earth's release. 
 Rest bodies of the Friends of Peace ! 
 
 215
 
 How much unlike the now and then Ij 
 
 When first they lay in Bargoed Glen, ' ' 
 
 Fell war had over-run our land, 
 
 Cromwell had ruled with iron hand ; 
 
 The conquered bowed the head to fate, 'l 
 
 And neighbours nurtured sullen hate. 
 
 And Charles with Cavaliers gay 
 
 Had gloried in inglorious sway. ■ 
 
 Nor tyranny of Puritans, 
 
 Nor courtiers gay with wigs and fans, 
 
 When wars were rife, when wars did cease, 
 
 Demoralized the friends of peace. 
 
 The friends joined not in fight or fray 
 
 With conversation, ' Yea ' and ' Nay,' 
 
 Pursued amongst the grave and gay 
 
 The even tenor of their way. 
 
 And loving sighs and tender vows 
 
 Commingled with their ' thees ' and ' thous.' 
 
 But hearts that once with warmth did beat 
 
 Lie cold in this world's last retreat. 
 
 King Mammon on the mountain brow 
 
 Asserts his awful power now ; 
 
 Above, below, yea far and wide. 
 
 He bores below the mountain's side, 
 
 Exploring down each murky hole 
 
 To capture wealth from grim King Coal ; 
 
 Till Taff's fair stream is poisoned by 
 
 The reeking filth that passeth by. 
 
 But when old Mammon's reign is o'er. 
 
 And TaflF runs pure as once of yore. 
 
 The Kingfisher's bright dazzling blues 
 
 Again shall flash cerulean hues 
 
 216
 
 And azure tint the leafy shade 
 
 O'er TafF's pure stream and Bargoed's glade. 
 
 The speckled Trout again shall leap 
 
 'Neath waving bough and craggy steep. 
 
 The Salmon tribe again shall lave 
 
 Their silvery scales in Taff's pure wave. 
 
 And Nature in this fair domain 
 
 In glory once again shall reign. 
 
 And then perchance some moon-struck bard 
 
 Shall sing again of Quaker's Yard. 
 
 And good men preach and never cease 
 
 To promulgate a creed of peace. 
 
 And be it so till time shall end, 
 
 While Taff and Bargoed's waters blend, 
 
 That tyrant, rioter, or king, 
 
 No name shall find so sweet to sing 
 
 As that which captivates regard 
 
 In modest, peaceful Quaker's Yard. 
 
 217
 
 R« S« Bona. 
 
 Artist, of Bettws-y-coed, a life-long Friend. 
 Died 2IST January, 1886. 
 
 Snowdonia, wear thy pall of driven snow, 
 In thick ribb'd icy gloom — portent of woe ; 
 Ye cataracts of Conway rush and roar, 
 For he who lov'd your haunts is now no more. 
 Ogwen ! thy torrents wild shall foam ni vain, 
 Thy votary thou'lt never see again. 
 Llewelyn, Cader, Siabod, Glydder's height. 
 Your wrinkled faces hide in gloom of night. 
 Llanberis, Elsie, Capel Curig, say. 
 Who now your limpid mirrors shall portray ? 
 Shed tears, ye rolling clouds, on Dinas head. 
 Beneath its riven rocks poor Bond hes dead. 
 Dryads of Druid's Grove, of moor and fen, 
 Of Beaver Pool and fays of Fairy Glen ; 
 Spirits that sparkle in the tiny rills, 
 Skipping like sportive elves from moonlit hills ; 
 All " forms of fancy " join in mystic train. 
 Join in a solemn, slow and dirge-hke strain ; 
 Join in seohan music weird and wild, 
 And mourn a Poet— Artist, Nature's child. 
 Carnarvon's Towers ; Harlech's sea-storm'd walls, 
 Criccieth and Conway's now deserted halls ; 
 Ye straits of Menai ; Cardigan's wild shores, [roars, 
 
 Ormeshead's proud heights— round which old Neptune 
 Mourn, mourn, with me, a true warm-hearted friend. 
 Let grief and sorrow o'er his body bend ; 
 
 218
 
 Mourn, mourn, the shrouded form in yon lone yard- 
 Mourn him in anguish keen— your Artist-Bard, 
 Mourn him, ye nymphs of ocean's mystic caves ; 
 Mourn him, ye restless, wildly raging waves ; 
 Storm-cloud and sunshine, cease your mimic strife, 
 The eye, the hand, which, when endow'd with life, 
 Each wild effect could on the canvas spread. 
 No longer lives, but lies amongst the dead. 
 He painted not to please the fickle crowd. 
 And naught could ever tame his spirit proud. 
 But He who gave it : He who for wise ends 
 Sad trials and afflictions often sends. 
 In smiling sunshine and in solemn shade. 
 Bond worshipp'd God in that which He hath made. 
 Then may that spirit which, when here below. 
 Made God-made nature on the canvas glow, 
 Find all perfection in a Home above, 
 With Nature's God — the God of peace and love ! 
 
 •Xs>tK9^ 
 
 2IQ
 
 Cl)rl$titia$ Sons, 1861* 
 
 [IV f men ivhile the Lancashire weavers starved during the 
 Cotton Famine occasioned by the Civil War in America']. 
 
 Shall the weaver and spinner go short of a dinner 
 
 In old England on Christmas day ? 
 John Bull cries, " No, never, old England for ever, 
 
 Roast Beef and Plum Pudding — Hooray ! " 
 
 Soon Avill Jonathan's choler subside, and the dollar. 
 
 His dollar he'll sigh for in vain ; 
 Until calculating and expectorating. 
 
 He sends us his cotton again. 
 
 But in spite of his cotton, fat beef and prize mutton, 
 
 Plum pudding and plenty of beer. 
 My weavers and spinners shall have for their dinners, 
 
 Nor pine for their Christmas cheer. 
 
 Then beneath the green holly, come, let us be jolly, 
 
 And pray for a blessing to fall 
 On those who contribute, and freely distribute 
 
 Their bounty at charity's call. 
 
 And may miser or glutton, or gambler in cotton, 
 
 Who fails to contribute his mite ; 
 To give the poor spinner and weaver a dinner, 
 
 Feel poverty's bitterest bite. 
 
 NoTB. — The Author had the satisfactiou to feel that the 
 publication of the above considerably augmented the 
 Distress Fund. 
 
 220
 
 Km CoUOHt 1S6K 
 
 Sojfie ihotight the failure of (he AmericaJi Slave groivn cotton 
 would ruin England. It injured manufacturers and starved 
 poor operatives for a time, but it led to a wide extension of the 
 cultivation of cotton— and not by slaves. 
 
 Prisons strong and lofty built he, 
 For the needy — not the guilty. 
 Prisons high with mighty domes 
 Full of spindles — full of looms. 
 In those living tombs immured, 
 Britain's sons his chains endured. 
 Weary mothers, broken-hearted, 
 From their homes and babes he parted. 
 Prostrate at his feet the nations 
 Toiled and groaned for generations. 
 
 Victory ! the battle's foughten ! 
 Slave-created, greed begotten 
 Vanquished lies the tyrant — cotton. 
 
 Where the eagle holds dominion, 
 Ghastly bone and scatter 'd pinion, 
 Strewn upon the mountain hoary, 
 Tell the ruthless tyrant's story. 
 Where King Cotton ruled dominions 
 (Save his pamper'd greedy minions) 
 Living skeletons are glaring — 
 Bones are through each carcass staring — 
 Like the eagle soared King Cotton, 
 Gloating on his prey ill-gotten. 
 
 Victory, etc. 
 
 221
 
 Cities waste by battles direful, 
 
 Blasted by some despot ireful, 
 
 Shew deformed in limb and feature, 
 
 Man's once God-like form and stature ; 
 
 Cities where King Cotton flourished — 
 
 Where his birth and growth were cherished — 
 
 Shew degenerated creatures, 
 
 Stunted forms with God-like features. 
 
 With a tyrant-smitten nation. 
 
 His destruction means salvation. 
 
 Victory, etc. 
 
 O, ye victims of King Cotton, 
 Mourn not, let him die forgotten. 
 Spurn his crust, avoid his prison : 
 Meet his cunning with derision. 
 Though ye suffer at his down-fall, 
 God, who doth not let a hair fall 
 Without caring will provide ye. 
 And though oceans may divide ye 
 Go where health and plenty offer, 
 Save your children— scorn the scoffer ! 
 
 Victory, etc. 
 
 When afar let England's glory 
 Be your children's theme and story, 
 Let our country's grand traditions 
 Fire their souls with pure ambitions. 
 Liberty ! her watchword bear ye 
 To new homes beyond the prairie. 
 And in days when want's forgotten, 
 Tell your children how King Cotton 
 Made free-men slaves to clothe the world, 
 And how from power he was hurled. 
 
 Victory, etc. 
 
 222
 
 Jlprtl. 
 
 Fair April, tearful as the trembling eye 
 
 Of some young bride who weeps forth tears of joy, 
 
 While hope's warm sunbeams— radiating smiles, 
 
 Her tears absorb, and sadness bliss beguiles. 
 
 Harsh words to her, like winds of March to thee, 
 
 Bring to the soul a sense of misery ; 
 
 And loving-kindness like a breath from May, 
 
 A sympathetic touch and all is gay. 
 
 Sweet month of buds ! so deftly poised between 
 
 Wild tragic March and May's gay floral scene, 
 
 Thou seest impotent winter fume and fret. 
 
 While Flora mourns her fading violet. 
 
 And some three hundred years ago, as now. 
 
 Bright smiles lit up fair April's changeful brow, 
 
 Her showery tears to crystal dew transposed : 
 
 The bluebell, gemlike, in the dell disclosed, 
 
 Each tiny bud, each spray, each blade and bent, 
 
 Rejoicing wore a dewy ornament. 
 
 The Puck-ball mystic, sprang in peari-Hke mass 
 
 In fairy rings of freshest meadow grass. 
 
 Which fair Titania and her elves of fame 
 
 Beneath the moonbeams use in sportive game. 
 
 Each mossy hedge-bank teemed with primrose pale, 
 
 While love-struck warblers' protests did prevail 
 
 O, fitting month ! — of months most fit to be, 
 
 To British hearts, a month of jubilee. 
 
 In April Shakespeare's natal day was cast, 
 
 In April William Shakespeare breathed his last. 
 
 2J3
 
 tl)e Duke or Clarence and UDondale* 
 
 ( ll^as to be married sjth February. Died I4.th January, 1892) 
 
 But yesterday, bright hopes of earthly bliss : of love — 
 Now perfect bliss ! within the pearly gates of Heaven. 
 
 By heart-aches heralded, potent a world to move, 
 
 A world to move to tears : a world all-sorrow-shriv'n. 
 
 Here — ivith us — but a few week since — 
 
 When Cardiff, leal, 
 Pulsated with a loyal zeal. 
 
 Princely in feature, figure, action, form and face ; 
 
 In habits simple, earnest, frugal and discreet ; 
 Modest and diffident : endow'd with every grace. 
 
 With his devoted Grandsire's attributes replete. 
 
 At some not distant day, perchance, to be our King, 
 The King of mighty England ! now — all that is left — 
 
 O'er which heart-stricken millions requiems sing — 
 Ts that ' pale form of moulded clay,' of soul bereft. 
 
 Nay, 'tis not all :— perish the shallow, paltry thought ! 
 
 His life ; sad history of his love: his pure, sweet mind, 
 A lasting hold on British loyalty hath caught ; 
 
 And chords of sympathy his memory will bind. 
 
 High up, in our soul's firmament, a bright, lone star 
 Our Prince shall shine : and o'er-fond hearts that pine 
 
 At disappointed loves, in times yet distant far, [and grieve 
 As, with a light Divine, shall comfort and relieve. 
 
 Victoria ! Queen of broken hearts, thy widow'd state, 
 Seems to be special mark for venom'd shafts of fate, 
 With thee, dear Queen, and with the stricken parent pair^ 
 
 A wide world weeps in sympathy : which millions share. 
 
 224
 
 ROMANCE OF POWYSLAND, 
 
 WITH INCIDENTS OF THE 
 
 CRIMEAN WAR; 
 
 THE 
 
 BATTLE OF THE ALMA, 
 FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE at SCUTARI, 
 
 &c., &c. 
 
 225
 
 Part L 
 
 HAWTHORN. 
 
 Upon a dewy eve in May, 
 All nature hushed and silent lay ; 
 The sun had o'er the hills gone down, 
 The dark sky scowled a gloomy frown, 
 When Hawthorn sought a shady grove, 
 Where oftentime he loved to rove, 
 And ponder in the twilight dim 
 Why life should be so sad to him ; 
 Along the silent grove he trod. 
 While glow-worms wanton'd on the sod, 
 Emblazoning with magic light 
 Heraldic forms grotesquely bright. 
 
 He sat him down in thoughtful mood, 
 When from a bush beside the wood 
 Burst forth so exquisite a strain. 
 So sweet, yet sad, its wild refrain. 
 As if some fay with mystic power, 
 Enchanted with the soothing hour. 
 Of music, song and poesy, 
 The essence caught, and, full of glee, 
 Scattered it through the leaf-clad trees. 
 In melody upon the breeze. 
 The music filled the silvan vale — 
 It was the tuneful Nightingale 
 (Which seldom breathes Salopia's air, 
 But when he does, is worshipped there), 
 Whose charming love-notes' dulcet sound, 
 So chaste, so mellow, so profound, 
 
 226
 
 In plaintive cadence, soft and sweet, 
 
 With sympathizing echoes greet, 
 
 When rich in harmony he swells, 
 
 And trills amongst the leafy dells. 
 
 He heard, and could not leave the vale, 
 
 But lingered near the nightingale — 
 
 Still sweetly warbling in the grove, 
 
 Still trilling in the bush above — 
 
 Love-notes, soft, tender, rich and ripe. 
 
 As fabled flute, or magic pipe. 
 
 Heart-beatings through his swelling throat, 
 
 Thrown in each melancholy note 
 
 As perched above his little nest, 
 
 Forebodings filled his tender breast 
 
 As though he mourned his fledglings' birth 
 
 Upon a cruel, ruthless earth ; 
 
 Where danger, suffering, and death. 
 
 Awaited ere they breathed a breath. 
 
 And so his fears in song and sigh 
 
 Were warbled forth when none seemed nigh. 
 
 The night winds sighing through the trees 
 
 Afeolian strains upon the breeze 
 
 Symphonious sounds which Philomel 
 
 Inspired — re-echoed through the dell. 
 
 And thus was spent young Hawthorn's life. 
 
 In solitude, in mental strife : 
 
 Now musing in the silent wood. 
 
 Now planning means of doing good ; 
 
 Deserving merit's modesty. 
 
 Was sure of Hawthorn's sympathy. 
 
 And he was often pleased to find. 
 
 That someone, with a kindred mind, 
 
 227
 
 Whatever course of good he'd take, 
 
 Would follow closely in his wake. 
 
 With prescient sagacity 
 
 Would even often-time foresee 
 
 What Hawthorn thought to do alone, 
 
 And while he thought the good was done. 
 
 This emulous philanthropy 
 
 Inspired a generous rivalry, 
 
 And Hawthorn to himself confessed. 
 
 Whilst hope's bless'd impulse swelled his breast, 
 
 ^' These kindred feelings must portend 
 
 Some happy and auspicious end." 
 
 Endued with generosity. 
 
 To vulgar curiosity 
 
 Young Hawthorn's soul was never prone, 
 
 And he resolved to act alone. 
 
 *' And if," said he, " this secret friend 
 
 Anticipates my every end. 
 
 My firm resolve I pledge anew, 
 
 No easy task he'll find to do. 
 
 It long hath been my fervent hope 
 
 In some good cause the world to cope. 
 
 And now regardful Heaven hath sent 
 
 A test to prove my good intent." 
 
 Thus noble thoughts do fructify, 
 
 Thus good deeds— good deeds multiply 1 
 
 228
 
 part IL 
 
 DRUIDS' GROVE. 
 
 Beneath a clump of shady trees, 
 
 Whose waving boughs caressed the breeze, 
 
 A graceful rustic cottage stood 
 
 Half hidden by a sheltering wood, 
 
 Where freely coo'd the turtle dove 
 
 Secure in his abode of love ; 
 
 Where warblers gay, nor scared, nor harmed, 
 
 With unrestrained singing charmed 
 
 The ear, and made the echoes rise 
 
 In this their welcome paradise. 
 
 The grounds which did the cot enclose, 
 
 Designed for pleasure and repose, 
 
 Arranged and kept to nature chaste,. 
 
 Sprang like an Eden from a waste ; 
 
 Where nature had not done her part 
 
 In came her willing hand-maid art. 
 
 And both combined had given birth 
 
 Unto a paradise on earth ; 
 
 In which were rais'd with skill and care, 
 
 Plants, shrubs and trees, both choice and rare. 
 
 The cottage faced the sunny south. 
 
 And climbing plants of tender growth 
 
 Luxuriant up its trellis threw 
 
 Their leaves and shoots to drink the dew, 
 
 And o'er the latticed windows high 
 
 Their blossoms opened to the sky. 
 
 The clematis and passion flower, 
 
 With choicest roses, formed a bower, 
 
 239
 
 Round which tlie creeping sweet woodbine, 
 
 Commingled with the eglantine ; 
 
 In front were piled grey groups of rocks 
 
 Composed of rugged fossil blocks, 
 
 On which dwarf plants and mosses grew, 
 
 And glow-worms sipp'd the evening dew. 
 
 Through these a rugged, winding path 
 
 Led to a cool and cr3'stal bath, 
 
 In which 'mongst plants the gold fish swam, 
 
 A choicely stock'd aquarium. 
 
 With rare and curious shells encased, 
 
 Affixed and placed in choicest taste ; 
 
 Then passed a cool and shady spot, 
 
 In which was formed a lovely grot. 
 
 And thence the path would onward take. 
 
 Through wood and shrub, through fern and brake, 
 
 And fissured rock, and cavern dark. 
 
 Connected labyrinth and park : 
 
 Crossing a dell beside the grove, 
 
 In which young Hawthorn lov'd to rove. 
 
 Such was the Orphan's cottage home. 
 
 Round which alone he oft did roam, 
 
 A home once an abode of love, 
 
 And fitly known as Druids' Grove ; 
 
 A home raised by a father dear. 
 
 For whom the mourning widow's tear 
 
 And daily prayers were sent above. 
 
 Betokening undying love. 
 
 Her child, too, in her prayers had joined, 
 
 And thus was Hawthorn Woodbine trained. 
 
 But ere he came to man's estate. 
 
 His mother j-ielded life to fate. 
 
 2^0
 
 Part UK 
 
 ETHEL. 
 
 In one of Britain's fertile vales 
 
 Conspicuous from the hills of Wales, 
 
 Between where Ceiriog scours the rocks 
 
 And Severn's valleys fatten flocks, 
 
 The Baldwins lived from sire to son 
 
 Through many generations gone. 
 
 With gables quaint, by turrets crowned, 
 
 Their hall in sullen splendour frowned ; 
 
 Its walls the mantling Ivy climbed. 
 
 With other creeping plants entwined ; 
 
 The architecture, mixed and rude. 
 
 In stone, or Roman bricks, or wood. 
 
 The Saxon, Norman, Gothic brain, 
 
 Had left some time-worn quaint remain. 
 
 ' Succeeding squires had each improved. 
 
 To suit his whim, the home he loved.' 
 
 An entrance porch which one had raised 
 
 Throughout all Yokeldom was praised, 
 
 A pond'rous arch of massive stone 
 
 Held up a nondescriptive cone. 
 
 On which were sculptured figures rude : 
 
 Knights, mermaids, monsters, mailed and nude ; 
 
 But time the work had so eff'aced 
 
 That nothing clearly could be traced, 
 
 The more the antiquary pried, 
 
 The more the world was mystified ; 
 
 Theories more or less profound 
 
 In contradictions did abound. 
 
 And gargoyle forms grotesquely wild 
 
 Disturbed the dreams of many a child ; 
 
 High over all a crazy vane 
 
 Groan'd drearily in wind and rain, 
 
 231
 
 Beneath was hung an"oaken'door 
 With massive bolt-heads studded o'er. 
 The present Squire of Baldwin Hall 
 Possessed a frame robust and tall, 
 His florid face and eye of fire 
 Proclaimed him prone to sudden ire, 
 His anger all had learned to dread. 
 Who on his lands toiled for their bread. 
 He was to Tory colours staunch, 
 As Alderman is to his paunch. 
 And deemed all politics adverse, 
 Satanical, or something worse. 
 But why, he never could explain. 
 Still such was he, and would remain ; 
 His tenantry, it was his boast, 
 His ^prmciples^ had never crossed. 
 When 3^oung, the Squire to College went. 
 And there learned each accomplishment. 
 For which through life he had been famed- 
 The boxers he had bruised and maimed ; 
 The brushes he at hunting took ; 
 The hunters he had rode and broke ! 
 The splendid racers he had run ; 
 The stakes at races he had won ; 
 Full witness bore of his renown, 
 Which filled the shire and county town ! 
 To study he was not inclined. 
 So strength of frame and narrow mind, 
 The Squire employed in country sport. 
 Proud of his wealth and crusted port. 
 Round Baldwin Hall all did aspire 
 To emulate their worthy squire. 
 A magistrate profound was he. 
 And often points of law could see 
 Which cunning lawyers, learned and keen, 
 In vain had looked for — never seen. 
 
 232
 
 Invidious pundits often jeered, 
 
 And at the Squire's justice sneered, 
 
 And that obnox ious ' Local Press ' 
 
 In keen satire would oft profess 
 
 The Squire's decisions to defend, 
 
 By arguments which must depend 
 
 For force on facts which ne'er occurred. 
 
 Which made the Squire appear absurd. 
 
 He vowed that this same local press 
 
 Had caus'd him much unhappiness. 
 
 Affairs of state would ne'er go right 
 
 If paltry scribblers thus might write. 
 
 The worthy Squire had lost his wife, 
 
 Long years ago, in early life. 
 
 She, dying, pointed to their child — 
 
 Commanding him, in accents wild. 
 
 Which chilled his blood, and made him start,. 
 
 For every sentence smote his heart — 
 
 " Aye, Oswald, for our Ethel's sake, 
 
 Your wayward life you must forsake." 
 
 " God bless you ! Oswald," then she sighed, 
 
 And with a smiling face she died. 
 
 Squire Baldwin's child, sweet Ethel, thrived, 
 
 And soon to woman-hood arrived. 
 
 And fickle nature did her bless 
 
 With unexampled loveliness. 
 
 Her sweet eyes rivalled Heaven's soft blue'; 
 
 Her features, it were bliss to view ; 
 
 Her flowing curls of flaxen hair, 
 
 A Saxon Queen might proudly wear. 
 
 Upon her cheeks a rosy blush 
 
 Was ever seen —a healthful flush ; 
 
 Her graceful form, nor tall, nor short. 
 
 Was rendered lithe by outdoor sport. 
 
 233
 
 As yet to know she did not care 
 
 How pass their hves the courtly fair. 
 
 Who, slaves to fashion's tyrant sway, 
 
 Make drowsy night of cheerful day, 
 
 With fashion's mandates to conform 
 
 Their souls and bodies do deform, 
 
 And at society's decree 
 
 Submit to untold t3'ranny. 
 
 So every morning's rising sun 
 
 Saw Ethel's busy day begun, 
 
 She comforted the sick and poor 
 
 Each day within some cottage door ; 
 
 And grateful peasants cried, " God bless ! 
 
 And give her every happiness." 
 
 She music lov'd, could knit and sew ; 
 
 And many languages she knew. 
 
 But oh ! to see her on the lawn 
 
 Despising chills of early dawn. 
 
 Before the rising sun woke up 
 
 The daisy and the buttercup, 
 
 Before the purest breath of morn 
 
 Had dried the dew-drop on the thorn ; 
 
 ' Twas then sweet Ethel oft would stroll. 
 
 Full often, to a shelvy knoll, 
 
 And gaze upon the scene below 
 
 All cheerful in the sunbeam's glow. 
 
 And there perchance her e3^es would rove 
 
 And scan with rapture Druid's Grove, 
 
 O'er which the woodlark soaring high 
 
 Would sing his morning melody ; 
 
 While underneath, in brake and bush 
 
 The blackbird and the speckled thrush 
 
 Each other's song strove to excel 
 
 In notes that echoed through the dell. 
 
 234
 
 And raised a thousand kindred throbs 
 
 In Baldwin's woods, and scented shrubs, 
 
 Where each sweet songster's warbUng voice 
 
 In wildest chorus would rejoice. 
 
 Nor coldest chills that winter sent 
 
 Could Ethel's exercise prevent. 
 
 On horse-back, at her father's side, 
 
 She crossed the country, far and wide ; 
 
 And when she followed up the hounds, 
 
 Her daring spirit knew no bounds. 
 
 The Squire's heart with pride would swell, 
 
 Enraptur'd he would often dwell, 
 
 In telling of some daring leap 
 
 Which Ethel and her mare held cheap ; 
 
 While many a bold, admiring swain, 
 
 In fear and trembling drew the rein. 
 
 Though hunting Ethel never loved, 
 
 Her gentle heart was ever moved 
 
 To hear the hounds' exultant yell 
 
 Ring forth the wretched fox's knell. 
 
 But Ethel fondty lov'd her sire ; 
 
 And oft when longing to retire 
 
 Unseen, alone, in solitude, 
 
 Beside some silvan, shady wood, 
 
 Her dearest wish she would suppress 
 
 To cause her father happiness. 
 
 The Squire doted on his child — 
 
 To Ethel he was ever mild. 
 
 In her he saw his long-lost wife. 
 
 For her alone he clung to life. 
 
 Whate'er she said he never chid. 
 
 And all was right that Ethel did. 
 
 The Squire in nothing would persist 
 
 If Ethel wished him to desist. 
 
 In drawing, Ethel practised well. 
 
 In painting too she did excel, 
 
 235
 
 And with an eye to nature chaste 
 Combin'd with rare artistic taste, 
 She sketch'd the crumbHng ruin's gloom, 
 Or Flora's richest tinted bloom, 
 The tiny leaflets' varied form, 
 The sky in sunshine and in storm, 
 The wooded landscape spreading wide, 
 The distant mountains, Cambria's pride, 
 The winding river's pebbly track, 
 The foaming, splashing cataract ; 
 And in her choicest works she strove 
 To introduce sweet Druids' Grove ! 
 Its picturesque and cosy view 
 In many a rustic sketch she drew. 
 Now fixed at some rude mountain's base,. 
 Now placed in some wild-woody chase ; 
 Aye, ever some romantic spot 
 To Druids' Grove she would allot. 
 And it was whispered, wrong or right. 
 That poetry she loved to write, 
 Telling of blissful rural charms. 
 Of love's delights, regrets, alarms ; 
 With pathos, warmth and fervency, 
 She sang of woman's constancy. 
 And ever, when she wrote of love, 
 She always thought of Druids' Grove. 
 In temper she was meek and mild. 
 Aye, artless, simple as a child, 
 Her mother's virtues she possessed ; 
 Her mother, long a saint at rest ! 
 But when injustice roused her ire 
 She was the daughter of her sire ! 
 
 236
 
 Part IV- 
 
 THE SATCHEL. 
 
 Grim winter's king asserts his sway, 
 
 While nature frowns in stern array ; 
 
 A snowy mantle shrouds the lea 
 
 And clothes the leafless naked tree. 
 
 The sun his feeble rays hath shed ; 
 
 The transcient day hath with him fled ; 
 
 A solemn stillness marks the hour, 
 
 As night sets in with gloomy power, 
 
 The stars, in clusters, brightly shine, 
 
 As if they borrowed light Divine ; 
 
 The frosty air is bracing, keen, 
 
 The horned moon hid 'neath a screen 
 
 Of hill and woodland, casts a gleam 
 
 Of light subdued — a feeble beam ; 
 
 Which serves to throw a denser shade 
 
 Upon a fir-tree sheltered glade, 
 
 Through which young Hawthorn wends his way 
 
 To end a lonely cheerless stray. 
 
 Across the bleak and pathless fields 
 
 His faithful " Zulu " at his heels. 
 
 He hurries homeward in the dark, 
 
 The nearest way through Baldwin Park, 
 
 And shapes his course 'neath fir trees tall 
 
 Towards the front of Baldwin Hall. 
 
 He enters now an open way 
 
 Through which the crescent moon's faint ray 
 
 Emitting forth a feeble beam, 
 
 Old Baldwin Hall shews like a dream. 
 
 237
 
 Old Baldwin's Turrets loomed in sight 
 Like sullen sentinels of night. 
 The frowning towers, in grim repose, 
 O'er-awed alike both friends and foes. 
 While on the wide expansive park 
 The frozen snow gleamed in the dark, 
 And made the ice-bound lake appear 
 A treeless landscape, bleak and drear. 
 Upon the wide waste naught was seen 
 Of life to animate the scene. 
 But here and there a hungry hare 
 In search of her poor frozen fare. 
 And save the wild drake's grating quack. 
 Which poised on wing, the lake forsook. 
 To seek some running spring, or brook, 
 The solemn silence naught had broke. 
 As Baldwin Hall young Hawthorn passed, 
 He on it hasty glances cast, 
 With feelings of respect and awe. 
 For there a graphic page he saw 
 Of Britain's history portrayed. 
 The sluggish Saxon there had made 
 A home which the fierce Cymry view'd 
 With savage hate, not yet subdued ; 
 And thence the Norman Baron proud 
 Drove forth the Dane and Saxon crowd. 
 There Henry rode in sorry pUght, 
 Away from Ceiifog's bloody fight, 
 And there encamped his motley host. 
 Ere Wales her independence lost. 
 Ere warlike Owen bravely fought 
 The forces which the Norman brought. 
 
 238
 
 There fierce Glendower, with savage pride, 
 
 Refreshed his hordes, and Percy's bride ; 
 
 En route to witness Shrewsbury's fray — 
 
 To valiant Hotspur, fatal day ! 
 
 And Baldwin's Squire from thence did hie 
 
 To capture Buckingham or die. 
 
 And there when Charles from Cromwell fled, 
 
 He found a shelter for his head. 
 
 These scenes through Hawthorn's mind did pass, 
 
 And inwardly he sighed, alas ! 
 
 That naught should fill our histor3^'s page 
 
 But tales of blood, of war, and rage. 
 
 Just as the sigh escaped his breast, 
 
 " Zulu" his master's feet caressed. 
 
 "Back, Zulu," back," young Hawthorn cried. 
 
 His master's charge the dog obeyed. 
 
 But disappointedly he whined. 
 
 And followed Hawthorn close behind. 
 
 How arrogantly man is wont 
 
 His own proud eminence to vaunt ? 
 
 An animal himself, he lords 
 
 O'er all the rest the world affords. 
 
 But though he claimeth for his kind 
 
 A higher place by force of mind, 
 
 How signally his reason fails, 
 
 When baser instinct oft prevails. 
 
 Approaching now the chapel tower, 
 
 The solemn bell proclaimed the hour, 
 
 Disturbing Hawthorn's reverie, 
 
 And made him speed more hurriedly. 
 
 And when he passed the old Park wall, 
 
 He thought no more of Baldwin Hall. 
 
 239
 
 To be first at the Cottage door, 
 
 Old " Zulu " trotted on before. 
 
 And, as the door swung, in he popped, 
 
 And down an open satchel dropped. 
 
 " What's this, old ' Zulu ' ? " Hawthorn spake. 
 
 Old " Zulu " gave his tail a shake, 
 
 A pleasing, confidential wag. 
 
 Then placed in Hawthorn's hand the bag ; 
 
 And satisfied he'd kept his trust 
 
 Away he to the kitchen rushed 
 
 Hungry to seek some scrap or bone 
 
 Or anything to prey upon. 
 
 Young Hawthorn to his study went 
 
 Wondering what the satchel meant. 
 
 Night rolls along and fades away, 
 
 And sunbeams usher in the day ; 
 
 A day eventful, full of fate, 
 
 Which all, unconsciously, await. 
 
 An evil, or auspicious day 
 
 Falls into ev'ry mortal's way 
 
 Aye, whether rich, or great, or small, 
 
 Something portentious falls to all. 
 
 Though round our path fair roses bloom 
 
 And greet our sense with sweet perfume, 
 
 That child of Eve is yet unborn 
 
 Who culls the rose without a thorn. 
 
 240
 
 part V, 
 
 CAPTAIN TWIST. 
 
 Within a league of Baldwin Hall 
 
 Upon a verdant, shelvy knoll, 
 
 An ancient timber'd homestead stood, 
 
 Against a dense and statel}^ wood. 
 
 In which the Rooks, with croaks and caws, 
 
 Held quarrel with the chattering Daws ; 
 
 Its gabled roof and quaint old front. 
 
 Of time's attacks had borne the brunt. 
 
 And ghostly legends still will cling 
 
 Unto the site of Foxhill Spring. 
 
 Full fondly fancy doth return, 
 
 And eke with indignation burn. 
 
 When fond associations bring 
 
 To memory thoughts of Foxhill Spring ; 
 
 Where oft in childish sports T played, 
 
 Or round its cosy gables strayed. 
 
 And through its lawn, which then was seen, 
 
 Like some fair carpet richly green : 
 
 In widely spreading beechen trees. 
 
 Seeking amongst the shelt'ring leaves 
 
 The nimble squirrel's form to trace, 
 
 To start him thence and give him chase. 
 
 Then strolled beside the rippling flood. 
 
 Which burst from the adjoining wood, 
 
 To see the trout, with flashing eye. 
 
 Leap forth and catch the fickle fly. 
 
 Then in the dovecote oft-time crept, 
 
 Where flocks of doves were housed and kept, 
 
 241
 
 I 
 
 And with delighted ears had heard 
 
 The cooing of each love-sick bird ; 
 
 That snug within its safe preserve 
 
 Its secrets told without reserve. 
 
 But now, alas ! all, all, are gone. 
 
 All altered, ruined, preyed upon ; 
 
 By folly and iniquity B| 
 
 Old Foxhill Spring's antiquity. 
 
 And with it a respected race 
 
 Which centuries could backward trace, 
 
 A stainless name and title good 
 
 Have passed like bubbles on the flood. 
 
 And now the homestead and its name 
 
 Are hardly known to common fame. 
 
 Where once was seen the ancient Hull 
 
 Now stands a mansion trim and tall, 
 
 Upraised by modern builders' hand 
 
 At a rich cotton lord's command. 
 
 Sam Twist acquired great renown. 
 
 He went in trade with one half-crown, 
 
 At length twelve hundred thousand pounds 
 
 He proudly owned with house and grounds. 
 
 All these, he stoutly did maintain. 
 
 He won by labour and his brain. 
 
 Familiars told a different tale — 
 
 But envious folk will ever rail — 
 
 They said that all old Sam Twist's cash — 
 
 Malicious folk are ever rash — 
 
 Was made out of poor Cuddy Crane, 
 
 Who hatched inventions in his brain. 
 
 Poor Cuddy notions had unfurled 
 
 Which since convulsed the cotton world 
 
 242
 
 But while he studied, neighbours mocked, 
 And poverty his purpose baulked. 
 Old Sam Twist, ever keen and shrewd, 
 Thus spake to Cuddy frank and rude 
 " My wish it is, I must confess 
 Thy new invention to possess. 
 Although inventions are as trash 
 Compared with hard and ready cash." 
 Poor Crane neglected long had pined. 
 And hence he struck a bargain blind. 
 Contented with the thought his name 
 Would in his sphere be known to fame ; 
 But when he found the patent list 
 Gave the inventor's name as Twist, 
 Then wild debauch, then want and need, 
 Made Cuddy's life prove short indeed. 
 But old Sam Twist a fortune made. 
 And — all was in the way of trade ! 
 Thus, then, by cunning-scheming tricks, 
 For ' self ' swayed Sam Twist's politics ; 
 He soon the high position reached 
 Whence traders rich have ever preached 
 ' Of Ministers, of Government, 
 Of agitating Parliament.' 
 When weighty questions did arise 
 In which old Sam Twist, worldly wise, 
 An interest direct possessed ; 
 He was for progress, and professed, 
 A patriot's heart beat in his breast. 
 Aye, he for one, would never rest, 
 Till Britons gained their rightful cause ; 
 And overthrew oppressive laws. 
 
 243
 
 A stem, unbending Radical, 
 
 For freedom he was, all in all ; 
 
 He hated those aristocrats, 
 
 The titled few, who with their brats, 
 
 Monopolized the Church and State, 
 
 And left the people to their fate. 
 
 Their acres broad, he did protest, 
 
 Had he the chance from them he'd wrest. 
 
 What right had they to them ? he said, 
 
 They never worked to earn their bread. 
 
 How then had they got vast estates ? 
 
 By force, and fraud, as history states ; 
 
 By pandering to princely fools. 
 
 By acting as their wretched tools. 
 
 " Sam Twist's our man," poor fools did shout 
 
 And Sam Twist blandly smiled about ; 
 
 And, hurrah ! Sam Twist gained his end, 
 
 Sam Twist the great — the poor man's friend. 
 
 As Sam Twist older, richer, grew, 
 
 His politics he learned anew. 
 
 The State's and his preservative, 
 
 In principles Conservative, 
 
 He saw, and then devoid of shame, 
 
 A sturdy Tory he became. 
 
 Ambition then soon filled his breast 
 
 To have a Coat-of-Arms and Crest. 
 
 And then to live in proper state 
 
 He bought old Foxhill Spring Estate. 
 
 For there he thought he could preserve 
 
 His precious health, restore his nerve ; 
 
 Moreover it was his desire 
 
 To hve a worthy Country Squire. 
 
 244 
 
 i 

 
 Then Foxhill Spring's time-honoured Halls, 
 
 Its gables and its timbered walls, 
 
 A cunning architect surveyed, 
 
 And loudly blustered and inveighed 
 
 The house was damp, he did insist. 
 
 And quite unfit for Squire Twist. 
 
 Then, to alarm the nerveless Squire, 
 
 He said the timbers might take fire. 
 
 Besides, the rafters were unsound. 
 
 So Samuel Twist cried, " pull 'em down." 
 
 So down they came from roof to floor. 
 
 And up was built a huge eyesore 
 
 Which witty country folk still call. 
 
 That ' starve-cat-building ' Cotton Hall ; 
 
 The rooks and daws refus'd to stay. 
 
 When Foxhill Spring was cleared away ; 
 
 A yokel told poor Squire Twist 
 
 They all departed in disgust. 
 
 And ploughmen still will blithely sing 
 
 The legends of fair Foxhill Spring. 
 
 And quiz with native mirth and wit. 
 
 The taste of this old wealthy cit. 
 
 Old Sam Twist had an only son. 
 
 Of sons enough though only one. 
 
 A wayward wight, and, when a child, 
 
 He headstrong prov'd, was rough and wild^ 
 
 And though his father spared no pains 
 
 To cultivate his sterile brains 
 
 Tom soon of learning had his fill 
 
 And begged admittance to the mill. 
 
 But all unmindful of his trade 
 
 A harem of the mill he made. 
 
 And when his father, growing old. 
 
 The mill and cotton business sold 
 
 Young Tom was to the army sent ; 
 
 And then his father, grew intent. 
 
 245
 
 To buy for him some rotcen borough, 
 
 In this he failed unto his sorrow, 
 
 And while tlie old man schemed and tried 
 
 He sickened suddenly and died. 
 
 Good angels wept ; his record bore 
 
 So few good actions gone before. 
 
 But Mammon's minions, kith and kind, 
 
 Worshipped the lucre left behind ! 
 
 Nay, some determined to excel, 
 
 Topp'd Sam Twist's hoard, and vanish'd. — Well, 
 
 Most people have a prejudice 
 
 In favor of a long loved vice. 
 
 At vices each may throw a stone, 
 
 But none at persons — no not one. 
 
 Tom Twist acquired a vast estate 
 
 And lived at an alarming rate. 
 
 Squire Baldwin at the Twists had sneered, 
 
 When first they came, because he feared 
 
 Vile Whiggish maxims they would bring 
 
 To spoil the votes of Foxhill Spring. 
 
 But when he found that Squire Twist 
 
 Would swell the Tory voting list, 
 
 He soon at Foxhill Spring made call 
 
 And ask'd the Twists to Baldwin Hall. 
 
 The reckless, dashing Captain Twist, 
 
 Squire Baldwin could not long resist. 
 
 Hence staunch companions they became 
 
 In every sport and kindred game. 
 
 And when at length he told the squire 
 
 To Ethel's hand he did aspire ; 
 
 The Squire, not doubting the result, 
 
 His daughter promised to consult, 
 
 But while the Squire and Captain schemed 
 
 Poor Ethel of young Hawthorn dreamed ; 
 
 Of Hawthorn down in Druids' Grove, 
 
 Of Hawthorn whom 'twere bhss to love ! 
 
 246
 
 Part VL 
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 The air is crisp, the morning cold, 
 Fierce hunger makes the robin bold, 
 Mute on the window-sill he stands, 
 To crave a crumb from pity's hands. 
 Amongst the ivy's glossy leaves. 
 The starving sparrow chirps and grieves, 
 The timid black-bird leaves the wood, 
 And seeks for food the flowing flood. 
 The field-fare and the redwing rush 
 To gorge the berries on the bush. 
 All gaze upon the frozen snow, 
 And yearn to see the soil below, 
 While in the woods a loud report 
 Betrays the sportsman's cruel sport, 
 As if starvation's deadly chill 
 Required his aid to wound or kill. 
 The sun his feeble rays doth cast 
 Upon the dreary snow-clad waste 
 Of Baldwin's woods, and park and lake ; 
 And melts the snow on bush and brake, 
 Till on each spray — a pleasing view. 
 Hang rows of beads like crystal dew. 
 Poor peasants toil on Baldwin pool 
 To clear the snow, for 'tis the rule 
 When winter's ice is thick and strong 
 To entertain a skating throng. 
 Meanwhile within old Baldwin Hall 
 Sweet Ethel puts on hat and shawl, 
 
 247
 
 Prepares to start to skate with glee, 
 
 When looking forth she starts to see 
 
 A youthful figure in the drive, 
 
 But ere the stranger could arrive 
 
 She reached the room wherein her sire 
 
 With Captaui Twist beside a fire 
 
 Discussed the latest sporting news, 
 
 Which horse might win and which might lose,. 
 
 When setting down his sporting list 
 
 The ever gallant Captain Twist, 
 
 With empty, fulsome compliment. 
 
 Sprang to her side, no doubt intent 
 
 To spy a chance to speak of love, 
 
 But with indifference she strove 
 
 And foiled the Captain with her lance 
 
 Of withering wit ; with chilling glance ; 
 
 He shrank beneath her gaze rebuked. 
 
 For in her face he never looked. 
 
 And something whispered in her ear 
 
 He has some secret cause to fear. 
 
 The old discourse the Squire resumed, 
 
 And Captain Twist respect assumed. 
 
 When suddenly the door bell's call 
 
 Announced a visit to the hall ; 
 
 And presently was brought a card 
 
 And placed upon the oaken board 
 
 Near which sweet Ethel did recline. 
 
 She saw and read " Hawthorn Woodbine '' ! 
 
 No wonder then that Ethel blushed. 
 
 No wonder that her face was flushed, 
 
 No wonder that the page's word 
 
 Fell on her listless ear unheard ; 
 
 248
 
 At length the Captain nearer drew 
 Said something of an interview. 
 Then Ethel fearful lest delay 
 Her dearest secret might betray, 
 Instructions gave, composure gained, 
 The youth an interview obtained. 
 As Hawthorn came inside the Hall 
 Sweet Ethel noticed he was tall, 
 That slight and slender was his form. 
 Which every manly grace did charm. 
 His glossy hair was rivalled by 
 The jetty lustre of his eye ; 
 And had his head and features chaste 
 In some pure classic mould been cast 
 More perfect they could not have been. 
 Such features she had seldom seen ; 
 Expressing high intelligence, 
 And beaming with benevolence ; 
 And then his lips, so finely cut. 
 His feet so small — his hands too — but, 
 Alas ! now fell poor Ethel's eye 
 Upon her satchel, and, O fie ! 
 All in a whirl was Ethel's brain, 
 For that same satchel did contain 
 Her latest sketch of Druids' Grove, 
 With lines confessing all her love ! 
 And Hawthorn's pallid face did burn. 
 In vain he strove his thoughts to turn 
 From those fond words the satchel held, 
 The sweetest words he e'er beheld. 
 For when upon the eve before 
 In haste he closed his study door, 
 He placed the satchel on his lap. 
 Putting aside its buckled strap. 
 When out there fell a half-used book. 
 Which for some school-boy's he mistook. 
 He raised the book, its leaves he turned, 
 And with astonishment he learned 
 
 249
 
 Of Druids' Grove it sketches held. 
 
 Still more amaz'd he then beheld, 
 
 Lines breathing thoughts of peace and love, 
 
 Of love for him and Druids' Grove. 
 
 He timidly the verses read 
 
 And thus the writer wrote and said : — 
 
 ON DRUIDS" GROVE. 
 
 From Baldwin's frowning turrets high 
 
 I gaze on Druids' Grove 
 Reposing 'neath the moonlit sky, 
 
 Abode of peace and love. 
 
 Perplex'd and weary I would hie 
 
 With yonder timid dove. 
 Which tir'd for sweet repose doth fly 
 
 To peaceful Druids' Grove. 
 
 In Druids' Grove the early spring 
 Brings flowers of gayest hue. 
 
 And there the joyous birds first sing, 
 And vows of love renew. 
 
 There summer finds its coolest shade 
 When sylphs and fays do rove, 
 
 And choicest fairy rings are made 
 Round favor'd Druids' Grove. 
 
 ' Tis there that Autumn's golden charms 
 Do most transcendent prove. 
 
 And there stern w^inter least alarms 
 In shelter'd Druids' Grove. 
 
 And there doth Hawthorn pine alone 
 
 Some kindred heart to love, 
 And I in Baldwin's Towr's do mourn, 
 
 My heart's in Druids' Grove. 
 
 250
 
 Young Hawthorn bowed towards the Squire 
 And Captain Twist beside the fire. 
 The Squire poHtely bent his head, 
 The Captain bent, but coloured red. 
 At Ethel's side now Hawthorn stands, 
 Returns the satchel to her hands, 
 And tells her that he crossed the park, 
 The evening previous in the dark, 
 And how his dog the satchel found 
 Amongst the snow upon the ground ; 
 How he his faithful dog had check'd, 
 How " Zulu " bore the harsh neglect, 
 How "Zulu " quickly gained his door. 
 And dropped the satchel on the floor ; 
 And then he hastily explained 
 The means he took and ascsrtained 
 To whom he should the bag return. 
 And how much pained he was to learn 
 The satchel's loss to her might be 
 The cause of some anxiety ; 
 And how impatient he had been, 
 Because a night must intervene 
 Before he could her loss repair. 
 And ease her mind from further care. 
 " Thanks, Master Woodbine," she replied, 
 " My bag I thought I had mislaid, 
 Within my rooms, and did not know 
 That when retreating from the snow 
 In haste I dropped the bag and book, 
 Much less had dreamed that you might look 
 At their contents, or, be assured, 
 Embarassment I had endured, 
 
 251
 
 And yet," she added with a sigh, 
 
 " On you I feel I may rely." 
 
 Then smiling archly she exclaimed 
 
 " But Sir we ought to be asham'd, 
 
 How very naughty 'tis of you . 
 
 All thanks to take, when half are due 
 
 To your mute friend that stands without, 
 
 Most selfish deeming us no doubt.'' 
 
 Away she sprang, unloosed the door. 
 
 And in bounced " Zulu " on the floor. 
 
 Frisking and tumbling through the hall. 
 
 Caressing Captain, Squire and all 
 
 With friendly whine and social wag. 
 
 And then he scented out the bag ; 
 
 Then Ethel gave his head a pat. 
 
 And thank'd him much for finding that. 
 
 Now all this time the Captain gazed 
 
 Upon the scene like one amazed. 
 
 He whispered something to the Squire 
 
 Which suddenly aroused his ire. 
 
 Squire Baldwin then the silence brake. 
 
 And said " 'Twas liberty to take 
 
 To bring a dog through Baldwin Park 
 
 Especially after dark." 
 
 Of creeping things which mother earth 
 
 From Adam's time hath given birth, 
 
 Preserve us from the eye-glass'd fop, 
 
 That product of the tailor's shop, 
 
 Whose stony- stare outsiders get 
 
 Who dare look in at ' ovr set J 
 
 A Prairie Hunter meeting one 
 
 Cried " O, that I had brought my gun ! 
 
 252
 
 Whene'er I leave my gun behind 
 
 The strangest game I'm sure to find." 
 
 In vain for intellect you scan 
 
 This stuccoed semblance of a man. 
 
 On one side of his face, inane, 
 
 You search in vain for trace of brain ; 
 
 'Twould be indeed a bootless task, 
 
 'Tis fixed and stolid as a mask. 
 
 To penetrate beneath you try — 
 
 There's no expression in the eye. 
 
 The fixture side of this strange face 
 
 Is screwed up to a grim grimace, 
 
 And why contorted ? by the mass ! 
 
 To hold a pane of polished glass, 
 
 And gaze your utmost through this pane, 
 
 Within you find but little brain, 
 
 But oftentime you find this look 
 
 Is but for insolence a cloak. 
 
 Kind friend, forgive a wretched bard, 
 
 If you should find him somewhat hard 
 
 Upon our languid, lounging youths, 
 
 For records of historic truths 
 
 Tell that they oftentime become, 
 
 When roused by action's fife and drum, 
 
 Heroes, and '■'■ pluch''' as if 'twere boon, 
 
 " Bright honour from the pale-facd ynoony 
 
 But Captain Twist's half hidden sneer 
 
 Made Squire Baldwin's words appear. 
 
 Insult on insult rudely piled. 
 
 And still the Captain stared and smiled. 
 
 Young Hawthorn, keenly sensitive. 
 
 High spirited and impulsive, 
 
 253
 
 Unto the Squire then made reply, 
 
 Poor Ethel, startled, standing by — 
 
 " Through yonder park the public way 
 
 Is free to all by night and day." 
 
 This fully roused the irate Squire, 
 
 Whose angry eyes flashed raging fire. 
 
 But gentle Ethel came between 
 
 Her Sire and Hawthorn, when the scene 
 
 Took sudden change and neither spake, 
 
 And Ethel, wishing peace to make, 
 
 Begged Hawthorn in her father's name 
 
 The harsh expression not to blame ; 
 
 " He had," she said, " been much annoyed^ 
 
 Long years in vain he had employed 
 
 To close the road past Baldwin Hall 
 
 And turn it round the boundary wall ; 
 
 But enemies consent refused. 
 
 The ' Local Press,' too, also used 
 
 Whatever power it might possess. 
 
 To mar her father's happiness." 
 
 By this young Woodbine's anger turned 
 
 To pity, and with shame he burned, 
 
 Earnest and tenderly, he said, 
 
 " Too hastily he had been led 
 
 To utter words of petulance 
 
 Which caused her pain and gave oflFence, 
 
 If he had known what she explained 
 
 His quick retort had been restrained." 
 
 Squire Baldwin's wrath being now allayed. 
 
 Most patronizingly he prayed 
 
 " That Master Woodbine would but make 
 
 One of their party on the lake." 
 
 254
 
 Sweet Ethel also Hawthorn eyed, 
 
 And by persuasive glances tried 
 
 To lead him to bestow assent, 
 
 But she perceived, that though he bent 
 
 His feelings to appease her sire. 
 
 He seemed most anxious to retire. 
 
 " Perhaps," she to her father spake, 
 
 " He hath some other calls to make ; 
 
 If so it would be somewhat rude 
 
 On his engagements to intrude." 
 
 The Captain, staring through his glass, 
 
 Yawned out an intuitive " Ya-a-s." 
 
 Hawthorn the scene to quit was fain. 
 
 For burning thoughts consumed his brain ; 
 
 He took in hasty tones his leave, 
 
 His pent up feelings to relieve ; 
 
 But first he pressed sweet Ethel's hand — 
 
 And raptured ear gave her command, 
 
 " That he must never pass the Hall 
 
 Without first giving them a call." 
 
 Her lovely eyes he then did see 
 
 Were dimmed with tears of sympathy — 
 
 Those eyes of Heaven's cerulean hue, 
 
 Reflected in a bath of dew. 
 
 So Hawthorn thought ; sweet Ethel saw, 
 
 By that strange universal law, 
 
 Which regulates true lovers' mind, 
 
 That even Hawthorn tears might bhnd, 
 
 But that by superhuman force 
 
 He kept them down and checked their course. 
 
 The worthy Squire, like Captain Twist, 
 
 On Hawthorn's stay would not insist. 
 
 255
 
 He left the scene — away he went — 
 
 With his full soul on Ethel bent. 
 
 On Ethel, now to him more dear, 
 
 He quite forgot her father's sneer. 
 
 His gentle and forgiving heart 
 
 Forgot the wound ere ceased the smart. 
 
 Soon from the lake the merry shout 
 
 "With loud huzzas were halloo'd out, 
 
 As skaters skimmed upon the lake 
 
 Like lightning in each other's wake. 
 
 Till some unskilful hapless wretch 
 
 Mishap upon the ice would stretch. 
 
 And then the accident gave birth 
 
 To shouts of unrestrained mirth : 
 
 While skilful skaters scored the ice 
 
 With cunning mark or quaint device. 
 
 And Squire Baldwin joined the throng. 
 
 The Captain boldly sped along 
 
 And mingled with the jovial crowd, 
 
 Exchanging laughter wild and loud. 
 
 All pleased their strength and skill employed, 
 
 And all, save one, the sport enjoyed. 
 
 Poor Ethel a spectator, eyed 
 
 The joyous scene, and inward sighed, 
 
 Repining that an adverse fate 
 
 Two kindred hearts should separate. 
 
 Meantime young Hawthorn quits the park 
 
 Lighthearted — buoyant as a lark 
 
 When from the sky he cheers his mate, 
 
 Blessing in song his happy fate. 
 
 Enchanted with his new found love 
 
 He soars aloft like love sick Dove, 
 
 His world till now so bleak and drear, 
 
 Shines bright as a celestial sphere. 
 
 His fertile mind with rapid stride 
 
 Sweet Ethel pictures as his bride, 
 
 256
 
 And — but 'tis vain — no sluggish pen 
 
 Could e'er describe the thoughts which then 
 
 Young Hawthorn hurried far astray. 
 
 But still my muse would fain essay 
 
 To dwell upon the pleasing theme, 
 
 On which e'en age doth fondly dream, 
 
 Age ! doting age ! shall age forsooth, 
 
 Recall the daring dreams of youth ? 
 
 The lofty schemes hatched in the soul 
 
 When love first took the heart in thrall. 
 
 The mighty thoughts— fantastic views, 
 
 Which in the lover's mind imbues 
 
 All round him with a halo bright; 
 
 In even misery's worst plight, 
 
 Makes all a dream, a glorious trance. 
 
 All life an extatic romance. 
 
 Oh ! that the dreams of early life. 
 
 Ere youth hath battled in the strife 
 
 For worldly honors, worldly gain. 
 
 Might for a longer time remain. 
 
 That youthful fancy's fond ideal 
 
 Might never merge into the real. 
 
 Aye, Hawthorn Woodbine, wend thy way ; 
 
 Cherish thy love with hope's warm ray ; 
 
 Foster the thoughts which make life sweet ; 
 
 Spurn the cold world beneath thy feet. 
 
 And in the fever of thy love 
 
 Be all thy thoughts on Baldwin's Dove ! 
 
 Yes ! be it so ; I see thee smile, 
 
 Gazing below on Baldwin's pile ; 
 
 Blessings ! quotha ? blest be ye both. 
 
 And shunned be he who blights such troth ! 
 
 2S7
 
 Parr X\\. 
 
 CLOU DS. 
 
 When Hawthorn reached his home at night 
 
 He found the household in a fright, 
 
 " A warrant signed by Captain Twist 
 
 Came Hke a bombshell in our midst." 
 
 So cried the Footman in a rage, 
 
 "And carried off the Master's Page." 
 
 For he, the Page, the Gardener's son, 
 
 By Baldwin's wood had fired a gun ; 
 
 The Gardener too had shook his fist 
 
 Right in the face of Captain Twist. 
 
 Poor Hawthorn ! this ludicrous news 
 
 Portends sad ending to thy views. 
 
 For Baldwin's Squire was never known 
 
 The slightest trespass to condone. 
 
 And people said, unto his shame. 
 
 He'd hang a man who touched his game. 
 
 The Page's subsequent success 
 
 Was published in the " Local Press," 
 
 Which in a leader terse and clear 
 
 Made Hawthorn's virtuous deeds appear. 
 
 And in a vein of keen satire 
 
 To madness goaded Baldwin's Squire. 
 
 Who in a fit of frantic rage 
 
 Against young Woodbine swore to wage 
 
 A ceaseless war of spleen and spite — 
 
 The Captain joined him with delight. 
 
 And to escape their projects vile 
 
 Poor Hawthorn left his native isle, 
 
 But with a sad and aching heart. 
 
 And Ethel keenly felt the smart. 
 
 Resolved whatever should ensue 
 
 Her love for him was firm and true. 
 
 258
 
 He went, nor sought an interview, 
 But penned in verse this fond adieu : — 
 
 HAWTHORN'S FAREWELL, 
 
 In Baldwin's lofty towers did sing 
 
 A pure and gentle dove, 
 Which longed to fly on outspread wing 
 
 To peaceful Druids' Grove. 
 
 A sweet and gentle southern gale 
 
 Did waft the song of love, 
 Which found an echo in the vale 
 
 In humble Druids' Grove. 
 
 In Druids' Grove a fretful dove 
 
 Did pine of grief and care, 
 And fain would he to Baldwin's Towers 
 
 Have flown his love to share. 
 
 And cruel fate he did lament 
 
 Adown in Druids' Grove, 
 And through the world to roam intent, 
 
 He leaves his home and love. 
 
 Wherever fate doth him convey. 
 He'll dream of Baldwin's Towers, 
 
 For Baldwin's gentle dove he'll pray, 
 And bless life's fleeting hours. 
 
 And if again to Druids' Grove 
 
 He never should return, 
 Till death be sure sweet Baldwin's Dove 
 
 His unquenched love will burn. 
 
 And Ethel knew full well the style, 
 She read and wept, resolved the while 
 That Hawthorn's image from her heart. 
 In weal, or woe, should never part. 
 
 259
 
 Parr VIIL 
 
 THE ALMA. 
 
 Young Hawthorn travelled far ami wide, 
 O'er mountains, plains ; o'er ocean's tide. 
 And now on Eupatoria's plain 
 His gaze 'tis joy to meet again. 
 Upon his sunburnt, careworn face, 
 A gloomy, melancholy trace 
 Of mental anguish seems to rest. 
 For love for Ethel in his breast 
 Still burns as true, though parted far, 
 Aye, constant as the morning star. 
 " O man, O man, dread is the power. 
 The Devil in that evil hour. 
 When passion holds thy heart in thrall 
 Exerteth on thy fallen soul. 
 Ambition, pride, and thirst for gain, 
 Three monsters dire direct thy brain, 
 Insidiously their power they sway, 
 Till brother will his brother slay. 
 Farewell, fair peace, and yet once more, 
 I cast a glance along the shore. 
 On lovely scenes that greet the gaze. 
 On fertile fields on which the maize, 
 The luscious orange, fig and vine, 
 Their foliage, fruit and flowers combine. 
 On olive, mulberry, trees and flowers, 
 Revived by mild, refreshing showers. 
 While on the gentle, soothing breeze. 
 Perfumes of flowers— the hum of bees, 
 
 260 

 
 In aerial streams are wafted by, 
 From fertile plains and mountains high, 
 Too soon, alas, to be the scene 
 Of valour, strife and anguish keen." 
 Thus Hawthorn with prophetic eye 
 Predicts the coming misery. 
 On Alma's height the Russians wait 
 Their foes approach — the battle's fate. 
 In confidence the Russians rest. 
 Nor coming of the foes molest. 
 Prince Menchikoff with haughty boast^ 
 Scornfully views the allied host, 
 With reclvless glee he doth rejoice 
 In strong positions of his choice. 
 The allied force must all succumb 
 Ere they his obstacles o'ercome ; 
 Each gulley ; gorge ; each little glen ; 
 Is full of guns ; is full of men, 
 All under cover — out of sight — 
 All well protected as they fight. 
 While over all a great redoubt 
 Grim at the foemen seems to fliout. 
 And every yard of ground in sight 
 Or reach of ball from Alma's height 
 By skilful marksmen hath been tried, 
 So nothing living may abide 
 The frightful storm of iron hail 
 That will attacking foes assail, 
 While passing o'er the space between 
 His earthworks and the Alma's stream. 
 Fair ladies' presence in his train 
 Proclaim the Russian proud and vain. 
 
 261
 
 He brought them there to see the fight, 
 
 To view the beaten allies' flight. 
 
 His lines he deems impregnable, 
 
 His earthworks inaccessible ; 
 
 A rock)' crag upon his flank, 
 
 A rugged, steep and lofty bank, 
 
 Which nothing human could ascend, 
 
 He left to nature to defend. 
 
 A signal tower upon the height 
 
 Frowns on the sea and field of fight. 
 
 At length the allied hosts appear. 
 
 The dread ordeal they draw near. 
 
 A gorgeous pageant to behold, 
 
 Composed of stout hearts brave and bold. 
 
 In steady order they advance, 
 
 Britain's bold sons, and they of France ; 
 
 By warmest emulation fired. 
 
 By zealous rivalry inspired. 
 
 Together with the sanguine Turk, 
 
 All thirsty for the bloody work. 
 
 None of them dreaming of defeat, 
 
 None of them meaning to retreat, 
 
 Full sixty thousand fighting men. 
 
 Whose tramp, like earthquake, shakes the plain. 
 
 Zouaves and Rifles, Grenadiers ; 
 
 Artillery ; bold Cavaliers ; 
 
 In varied uniforms grotesque, 
 
 Imposing — grandly-picturesque. 
 
 A gallant fleet clings to the coast, 
 
 Two mighty Empires' pride and boast, 
 
 Shewing the Russ a martial front, 
 
 Ready to brave war's direst brunt. 
 
 262
 
 Bravely the soldiers march away, 
 Hastening to the fierce affray, 
 Until they reach the fatal space, 
 Which Russia's skilful marksmen face. 
 Upon the Russian practice ground. 
 Where each knoll, hillock, tree and mound, 
 Afford their guns an oft-tried mark, 
 Which they can hit if light or dark. 
 Still they advance, nor do they shrink, 
 But rush up to the river's brink. 
 They dash through Alma's swollen flood 
 Which soon runs ruddy with their blood, 
 While screaming shells and cannons roar, 
 And sputtering musketry rolls o'er. 
 On— on they press, with shouts and cheers. 
 Concussions deafening stun their ears. 
 Bullets, like pattering hail, abound, 
 Dispensing death or dreadful wound. 
 Gunpowder charged, the sulphurous air 
 Is dark but for the fiery glare 
 That ushers as by lightning's flash 
 The cannon ball's appalling crash. 
 Sad slaughter revels in the ranks 
 Before they cross the Alma's banks. 
 The Frenchmen posted on the right 
 Dash at the undefended height. 
 The nimble Zouaves climb the rock 
 And give the enemy a shock. 
 Now Frenchmen drive the Russians back ; 
 The Russians then the French attack. 
 Fierce contests follow, bayonets cross : 
 And life seems valueless as dross. 
 
 263
 
 As numbers fall fresh warriors come, 
 
 Again attack : again succumb ; 
 
 While bursting shell and cannon ball 
 
 Pour thick and fast amongst them all. 
 
 Fierce oaths ; deep groans ; with mingling shout, 
 
 Attend each onset and each rout. 
 
 The Frank — the Kuss — sway to and fro, 
 
 Till none can tell which is the foe. 
 
 A cloud of smoke the foeman hides 
 
 Until the cannonade subsides. 
 
 Hushed is the crashing fiery shower, 
 
 And Frenchmen seize the signal tower 1 
 
 Then from the newly captured bank, 
 
 They strive to turn the Russian flank. 
 
 Meantime new comrades bring them aid. 
 
 And frightful is the slaughter made. 
 
 Now give the gallant French a cheer. 
 
 For they have won a victory dear ! 
 
 Aye, many a widow's bitter groans, 
 
 Aye, many heart-broke mothers' moans, 
 
 Their husbands', sons' sad fate will mourn. 
 
 When they of Alma's fight shall learn. 
 
 No time for moralizing now. 
 
 The fighting spreads up Alma's brow. 
 
 Through burning hamlet's sm.oke and flame, 
 
 The Britons — worthy of the name — 
 
 With French and Turk undaunted rush, 
 
 Fighting their way through brake and bush. 
 
 Through new-felled-trees ; o'er rugged banks, 
 
 While showers of bullets thin their ranks. 
 
 Through vineyards dense ; Abatis bold ; 
 
 Their blood-stained course they sternly hold ; 
 
 264
 
 Mowed down by shell, by cannon ball, 
 
 Of noble fellows hundreds fall. 
 
 Survivors crying for revenge, 
 
 Their fallen comrades to avenge. 
 
 Anxious to see the battle won, 
 
 Their dying comrades cheer them on. 
 
 Hurrah ! excited Britons shout ; 
 
 The Frenchman lustily calls out — 
 
 ' Vive-la-France ' — again — hurrah ! 
 
 Filling the Russian ranks with awe. 
 
 Ill-fated gallant Light Brigade, 
 
 What havoc in thy ranks is made ? 
 
 Still pressing onward to the foe, 
 
 Undauntedly survivors go. 
 
 And thus prolong the fearful fight, 
 
 Until they reach the utmost height. 
 
 Shoulder to shoulder — man to man — 
 
 Old Cambria's heroes lead the van, 
 
 Facing the cannons' withering fire. 
 
 Braving the Russians' fiercest ire. 
 
 Though stricken down like slaughtered sheep,. 
 
 Survivors charge up — up the steep, 
 
 They gain the earthwork's horrid banks — 
 
 But — death hath broken up their ranks 1 
 
 Clubbing their muskets in the strife. 
 
 They make the Russian run for life. 
 
 But now, alas ! the Russian host 
 
 By untold numbers reinforced. 
 
 Bear down these stragglers with their fire — 
 
 O'erwhelmed by masses they retire. 
 
 Poor broken, shattered Twenty-Third I 
 
 Thy deeds deserve a special word. 
 
 26;
 
 Thy strength is broken to a man ; 
 Thy colours taken and re-ta'en ; 
 Thy wounded heroes' bursting hearts 
 Would still fain play heroic parts. 
 And fight so long as one could stand, 
 But to retire is the command. 
 Meanwhile the British cannon bears, 
 And smashes up the Russian squares. 
 And now our Guards and Scotland's sons 
 Approach, though thinned by Russian guns. 
 Sir Colin leads Highlanders on, 
 (Since " Clyde " for India's Empire won), 
 Reminds them of their ancient fame. 
 Their glorious deeds — the minstrel's theme — 
 Commands them not to fire a shot. 
 Until they reach the " Great Redoubt." 
 The Guards attack upon the right. 
 While on the left Highlanders fight, 
 Upon the Great Redoubt they rush, 
 With muskets pointed at the Russ — 
 Aye, like an avalanche they run, 
 A point-blank fire from every gun ; 
 Then charging with the bayonet fixed, 
 The Russ in numbers die transfixed. 
 Now with a thrust ; now with a blow ; 
 Each brings to earth some stalwart foe. 
 The Russians, maddened, by the strife, 
 Fight well, and dearly sell their life. 
 They groan — they cheer — they shriek — they yell- 
 Striking like fiends let loose from Hell ! 
 As one is killed— so fortune wills — 
 A comrade strikes ; the killer kills. 
 
 266
 
 The blood red hand ; the scattered brain ; 
 
 Shew swift revenge — the slayer slain. 
 
 All smeared with blood — all smoke begrimed ; 
 
 All seemingly with murder primed ; 
 
 Gnashing their teeth they madly fight, 
 
 More savagely, cut, stab and smite ; 
 
 Sternly disputing every inch — 
 
 Britons advance — while Russians flinch. 
 
 Until with one resistless dash, 
 
 The Russian ranks they break and smash ! 
 
 And charging on with reckless force. 
 
 Shouting and cheering till they're hoarse, 
 
 They break the Russian's last defence — 
 
 And in a mass they drive them thence. 
 
 Then, as the beaten Russians yield. 
 
 Wild ringing cheers roll o'er the field — 
 
 Loud cheers of victory they shout. 
 
 And put the Russians to the rout. 
 
 By Heaven ! they run ! hurrah I they're off ! 
 
 And panic-stricken Menchikoff 
 
 Hath left his carriage on the hill — 
 
 Of fighting he has had his fill ! 
 
 The Frenchmen now again display 
 
 Their valour in the fearful fray : 
 
 The Russians from the heights they drive. 
 
 And gaining strength anew contrive 
 
 To harass them in their retreat, 
 
 To make the victory complete. 
 
 Complete ! it might have been for all. 
 
 Had they marched in Sebastopol. 
 
 But, ah ! the dread December man. 
 
 Must have more time to plot and plan — 
 
 At plotting ever in the van 
 
 Till ' Nemesis ' matured Sedan. 
 
 267
 
 Parr IX. 
 
 AFTER THE BATTLE. 
 
 To name the heroes of the fray, 
 "Whose valour drove the foe away, 
 Were task invidious to assume, 
 Hence let my rustic muse resume 
 Her artless, sympathetic, lay. 
 And nature's peaceful joys portray. 
 Stern feats of war T do not deem, 
 For rustic rhymes the fittest theme, 
 Yet would I seek the lowly mound. 
 Wherein the nameless dead are found. 
 And heave a sympathetic sigh — 
 Aye, with sad heart and tearful eye — 
 Lament that humble heroes' deeds, 
 Should be engulph'd by rankest weeds, 
 Which sycophantic lackeys heap 
 Upon the favor'd few, who reap 
 The fruits of feats of heroes slain. 
 While heroes nameless must remain — 
 Mute heroes — who inglorious lie 
 Upon the field of victory ! 
 Mute murdered victims — there they lie, 
 Pale faces upturned to the sky ; 
 In death in mute appeal they lie, 
 A protest against tyranny. 
 In time of peace if man be killed, 
 'Tis life for life, so man hath willed. 
 A tyrant may by needless war 
 Ten thousand victims kill, or mar ; 
 
 268
 
 In one case 'tis a murder done, 
 
 But if it be by battle won, 
 
 Then glory gives a Victor's wreath 
 
 To him, who consigns most to death : 
 
 Thus wholesale murder adds renown 
 
 To murderers that wear a crown. 
 
 If this be false, then what mischance. 
 
 Let Louis Napoleon rule France ? 
 
 To earthly crowns fame may be given. 
 
 But have the wearers hope of Heaven ? 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 Groans of friend and foe ascending, 
 Sighs from ocean surges blending. 
 Spirits of the brave are wending. 
 Shrieks of dying mortals rending, 
 
 The pathless way. 
 
 Spirits flying 
 
 O'er the dying. 
 Sighing, comrades, haste — away ! 
 
 Midnight's gloomy hour is ending. 
 Countless horrors seem impending ; 
 Eyeballs glaring and distending, 
 Seeking aid and succour pending — 
 Aid comes too late. 
 Shrinking— grasping — 
 Clutching — gasping — 
 Thus the dying soldiers' fate. 
 
 Thrilling airs from Heaven descending, 
 Sacred symphonies attending ; 
 To some favoured soldier sending 
 Dreams that life is sweetly ending. 
 His breath he yields. 
 Life's sad errors. 
 Death's grim terrors, 
 Scare not in the blissful fields ! 
 
 269
 
 While Briton, Turk, and Frenchman fought, 
 Young Hawthorn, a spectator, sought 
 
 The wounded soldiers to console. 
 
 And with the dying to condole ; 
 
 Until the sun had sunk to rest. 
 
 When thus he cried, with swelling breast :— 
 
 " Ye cruel tyrants, who delude 
 
 The nations unto deadly feud. 
 
 Whose hearts are never satisfied 
 
 Until ambition's gratified, 
 
 Who never value human pain 
 
 If ye your selfish ends can gain. 
 
 And you, with hearts of adamant, 
 
 Who laud the tyrant with your cant. 
 
 His heart to pity's pleadings bar. 
 
 Thus fostering hell-cradled war. 
 
 With shallow witted numskulls come— 
 
 Those that rejoice at sound of drum. 
 
 At streaming colours, screaming fife— 
 
 Those emblems fit of blood and strife. 
 Come with me over hill and plain ? 
 Behold the wounded and the slain ! 
 Now, ere the shades of evening fall. 
 Or night unfolds her gloomy pall— 
 While dusky twilight holds a ray 
 Of lustre from the dying day. 
 While sunset, like departing hope, 
 Deserts the rugged mountain top. 
 That pleasing hour in times of peace. 
 Which bids the rustic labour cease. 
 While children round the cottage homes 
 With wild dehght, shout, "Father comes" ! 
 
 270
 
 When rooks accelerate their flight 
 
 To reach a shelter for the night. 
 
 When half the busy world is still, 
 
 When gentle nature doth instil 
 
 A redolent and soothing balm 
 
 Into the twilight's tranquil calm. 
 
 Come then, and see the Alma's vales. 
 
 Its mountain-stream ; its wooded dales ; 
 
 Which horrible and cruel war 
 
 Hath made a human abattoir ? 
 
 See, where the crushing cannon-ball 
 
 Hath smashed that rustic cottage wall — 
 
 Mark where the shatter'd stones are spread, 
 
 Behold the wounded ; see the dead ; 
 
 Half buried lie, or half exhumed ; 
 
 Living and dying there entombed. 
 
 See from that fractured limb the bone 
 
 Protruding from that mass of stone ! 
 
 List ! hear the fainting soldier sigh, 
 
 " Help ! help ! oh, help," or I must die. 
 
 Die — die — oh, no ! I will not die— 
 
 I am not fit — I must not die ! 
 
 Great God ! if thou wilt but forgive 
 
 My many crimes, or let me live. 
 
 Forgive ! forgive ! oh, Lord, forgive ! 
 
 I die — I— am not fit to live." 
 
 Another — feebly — " Mother ! " cries : 
 
 Then droops his head, then groans and dies. 
 
 " Take from my breast these heavy stones ; " 
 
 Another gasps, in feeble tones : 
 
 " Oh, let me quit this dreadful place ! " 
 
 He adds, with pain-wrung, anguish'd face ; 
 
 271
 
 Then struggles, with despairing force, 
 
 Then shudders ; then becomes a corse. \ 
 
 Life's close appals in time of peace. 
 
 When death from pain gives blest release. ' 
 
 But, oh ! to see the strong man's eye 
 
 Break, glaring at the lurid sky ; 
 
 Without a friendly hand to shield, 
 
 Despairing, on the battle-field ! 
 
 Nay, go not hence ? still come with me, [ i 
 
 And more of war's grim glory see. 
 
 Into yon vineyard let us hie, 
 
 " What's that ? " say'st thou, that meets thine eye ? 
 
 So life-like I but- nay, do not start— j 
 
 Only a bullet through his heart. 
 
 Poor fellow ! clutching in his gripe 
 
 A luscious bunch of grapes, all ripe, 
 
 Which seeing, doubtless, ere he died. 
 
 The thirsty soldier gladly eyed 
 
 The bloom-clad-cluster, and in haste I 
 
 The tempting fruit he sought to taste. ' 
 
 But, ere he carried out the thought. 
 
 Death sent, too sure, the fatal shot. 
 
 Hush ! hear yon chaplain's solemn tones 
 
 Half stifled by a soldier's groans : — 
 
 " Pray ! pray ! " quoth he, " to Heaven pray, 
 
 And mercy ask, now, while you may." 
 
 Thus pleads the priest ; the soldier cries : — 
 
 " Mercy ! dost say ? Oh ! turn thine eyes, 
 
 Those bodies lying stiff and stark. 
 
 Look at them I see my bloody work 1 
 
 I, with my bayonet did transfix — 
 
 I killed them all, aye, all the six ! 
 
 272
 
 Before their Maker they were sent 
 
 Without one moment to repent. 
 
 How then can I for mercy crave ? 
 
 When I, myself, no mercy gave. 
 
 Can duty done, or battle won, 
 
 Absolve the soul for murder done ? " 
 
 The soldier, shuddering, shuts his eyes. 
 
 To soothe him, thus the Chaplain tries : — 
 
 " A soldier, at his country's call. 
 
 Must fight ; and if he chance to fall. 
 
 His duty done, he bleeds and dies, 
 
 A hoTie awaits him in the skies." 
 
 Upon the priest the soldier turns. 
 
 While anger in his bosom burns, 
 
 '' Do not," cries he, " presume to preach. 
 
 Or seek such sophistry to teach ; 
 
 But rather use thy eloquence 
 
 To teach poor rustic ignorance. 
 
 And in its simple mind instil 
 
 The law Divine, " Thou shalt not kill," 
 
 My life I count as less than naught. 
 
 But, oh ! the dreadful, guilty thought ; 
 
 Before my Maker's face to view. 
 
 The souls of those I madly slew. 
 
 Of those who never did me harm, 
 
 And I— I killed them — with this arm." 
 
 His face within his hands he hides, 
 
 And thus the Priest the soldier chides : — 
 
 " These bitter thoughts drive from thy soul, 
 
 Thy troubled conscience thus console. 
 
 Each subject at his country's need 
 
 Must fight, for so it is decreed, 
 
 273
 
 That to defend a righteous cause \i 
 
 Is justified by Heaven's laws." ^^ 
 
 *' Priest ! Hsten thou, and I will tell 
 
 What once I was, and how I fell. 
 
 An innocent and artless boy. 
 
 With heart, brim full of hope and joy ; 
 
 A home I had which was to me 
 
 All that a British home should be. 
 
 Fair Powysland ! within thy bounds. 
 
 Where sweet simplicity abounds. 
 
 Too vividly before mine eye 
 
 I see thy lovely scenes pass by. 
 
 There frowns old Breidden's rugged face ; 
 
 There pebbly Vyrnwy's track I trace ; 
 
 There by yon church my simple school 
 
 Stands prominently forth— oh fool ! -^ 
 
 Fool have I been to dream of fame, * 
 
 To hope to win a hero's name. 'A 
 
 Far better had I laboured there, 1 
 
 Aye, for the rustic's life and fare ; * 
 
 Whose history of fameless fate 
 
 Lies buried with his coffin plate. 
 
 Fallacious promises, all vain. 
 
 Instilled into my simple brain 
 
 Led me to think of naught but war, 
 
 Of medal, gaudy band and bar ; 
 
 My thoughts by day, my dreams at night, 
 
 Concentred all on fray and fight ; 
 
 Of war the pulpit even sought 
 
 To consecrate, and so I thought. 
 
 Hail then for me a soldier's life ! 
 
 And hence my presence in this strife. 
 
 274
 
 Oh ! 'tis a dreadful thing to hear 
 
 A priest of Jesus preaching war. 
 
 The Russian priests to Heaven prayed, 
 
 They asked of Heaven undismayed 
 
 To give their army victory. 
 
 Then, oh, how contradictory, 
 
 Some alHed chaplains uttered prayers 
 
 To let the victory be theirs. 
 
 Priests supplicated Heaven's will 
 
 To give each army grace to kill. 
 
 Each prayed the other to destroy ; 
 
 Begging of Heaven to employ 
 
 Its mighty power, immaculate, 
 
 Each other to annihilate." 
 
 The soldier's breath falls short — he sighs — 
 
 " Oh ! God, have mercy ? " — then he dies. 
 
 Ye dreadful scenes, adieu, farewell ; 
 
 On other themes my muse must dwell. 
 
 Of British soldiers ere the spring 
 
 The dreadful fate I may not sing. 
 
 Of battles fought in mire and mud ; 
 
 Of sufferings by land and flood ; 
 
 Of sorties in the trench repelled ; 
 Of Russian pride at length compelled 
 To tremble when the Lion roared, 
 To shudder as the Eagle soared. 
 Yet what a theme for epic lay 
 Were Balaklava's direful day ; 
 And Inkerman's blood-flooded ground ; 
 And stout Sebastopol renowned. 
 The sunken fleet — the tyrant's gloom ; 
 The City waste — the despot's doom ! 
 
 275
 
 Sebastopol ! ah, name of dread, 
 
 Piled up with holocausts of dead ; 
 
 The puddled ditch ; the mire ; the mud ; 
 
 Pounded with human flesh and blood ; 
 
 Ta'en after thousands fought and fell, 
 
 By fire and famine, shot and shell. 
 
 Our Courage ! — why the timid hen 
 
 Defends her nest and guards her pen — 
 
 From Fox and Weasel, Hawk and Stoat ; 
 
 Then why should man exultant gloat. 
 
 On his brute courage ; or, ere doubt. 
 
 When war needs victims 'twill crop out. 
 
 And 'twas a wicked — reckless — war. 
 
 For Britain, France, for Russ and Czar ; 
 
 Our Government ; our vaunted Press ; 
 
 All shared in its blood-guiltiness : 
 
 Waged mainly to impose — perchance — 
 
 Glory for Liberty in France. 
 
 One grand old Tribune fought for right, 
 
 His Queen his death-bed soothed : — John Bright ! 
 
 Attacked, abused and vilified, 
 
 His name will yet be glorified ; 
 
 As one who would make commerce free 
 
 As sun and air o'er land and sea. 
 
 And spread God's plenteous bounties o'er 
 
 The great wide world for rich and poor. 
 
 Where fools presumptuous would in vain 
 
 God's Providential Hand restrain. 
 
 276
 
 part X- 
 
 TREACHERY. 
 
 My wayward muse must now return 
 
 To home events of deep concern. 
 
 Prepare her flight from scenes of strife 
 
 To visit rural, rustic hfe. 
 
 By mental telegram recalled 
 
 She quits the horrors which appalled 
 
 Her fav'rite offspring, brave Woodbine, 
 
 And leaving him to toil and pine 
 
 Upon a wild and hostile shore, 
 
 Perchance to see his home no more. 
 
 Sweet Spring's bright sun in splendour sheds 
 
 His cheerful radiance o'er the heads 
 
 Of rocky, rugged hills in Wales, 
 
 And fertilizes Salop's vales ; 
 
 Where Wrekin, like a misty mound, 
 
 Commands the fruitful landscape round. 
 
 Old Breidden, ever fresh and new. 
 
 Assumes a rich deep-tinted blue. 
 
 Old Cyrn-y-bwch is living green ; 
 
 Sweet Llanymynech charms the scene. 
 
 Beyond, where Treflach's rocks are piled. 
 
 Loom forth Montgomery's mountains wild. 
 
 Bold Berwyn's sullen, barren range 
 
 Of lofty hills looks wild and strange. 
 
 For now reigns rosy May again, 
 
 When gentle Spring with sun and rain 
 
 With richest verdure clothes the field, 
 
 When mossy banks rich fragrance yield. 
 
 277
 
 When Flora's brightest gems are found 
 Sparkhng broadcast o'er the ground. 
 The feathered minstrels jo3'Ous sing 
 The cheering song-inspiring Spring. 
 The Cuckoo's voice wakes up the vale, 
 Echoing over dell and dale. 
 While in his wake a mournful train 
 Calls from the heart a sigh of pain. 
 In many a little warbler's breast 
 Grief reigns and mourns a rifled nest. 
 While in a sad and plaintive wail 
 They chirrup forth their mournful tale. 
 And he, the wretch, replies on high 
 With mocking, loud, derisive cry. 
 Alas ! sweet Ethel Baldwin's hand. 
 And Baldwin's Hall and Baldwin's land, 
 Are gained, by fraud, by Captain Twist, 
 Whose artfulness few could resist. 
 Poor Ethel, harassed and perplexed, 
 Heart-broken, sad, and sorely vexed ; 
 Perused her Hawthorn's sad adieu. 
 While scalding tears — affliction's dew — 
 She shed in vain, and then she sighed — 
 ' On earth all solace is denied.' 
 Long weeks elapsed— such weary weeks — 
 They stole the bloom from Ethel's cheeks. 
 In vain her father soothed and cheered, 
 Her health soon went, and it was feared 
 She faded slowly in decline — 
 The Captain knew why she did pine — 
 Nor outdoor sport, nor change of scene. 
 Nor any means which man could scheme 
 
 278
 
 Did Baldwin's Sire omit to try 
 To bring the fire to Ethel's eye, 
 To raise the smile upon her face — 
 That joyous smile he loved to trace. 
 And Captain Twist with specious smile, 
 With honied words, would strive to wile 
 Sweet Ethel's thoughts from carking care, 
 Then, by a foul, deceitful snare. 
 Contrived with fiendish artfulness. 
 To pubhsh in the ' Local Press,' 
 A fearful shipwreck's sad details. 
 The roaring sea — the dying wails, 
 The sinking ship ; the drunken crew ; 
 And then a startling scene he drew — 
 A lady kneeling on the deck, 
 In death-like terror 'midst the wreck, 
 Her husband, child, were in a boat. 
 The last that from the ship did float ; 
 None, none, her Hfe to save would try, 
 Her frightened husband heard her cry ; 
 And even he refused to brave 
 The chances of a watery grave. 
 All vainly the affrighted wife 
 Appealed to him to save her life. 
 She shrieked aloud, with terror wild. 
 For one last chance to clasp her child. 
 And then a slender, graceful, form. 
 Was seen, amidst the wreck and storm. 
 Clasping her with his hfe-belt round, 
 And in that belt she safety found. 
 The ship then plunged beneath the brine. 
 And with it sank— Hawthorn Woodbine I 
 
 279
 
 Poor Ethel in her chamber lay, 
 
 One morning of a wintry day. 
 
 November's chill breath serged and moaned^ 
 
 The rusty dog- vane creaked and groaned. 
 
 Thick mists o'erspread the lake and park, 
 
 The daylight glimmered drear and dark. 
 
 A dismal sight ; and Ethel felt 
 
 Depressed in mind and down she knelt — 
 
 In fervent prayer sweet solace sought. 
 
 Until composed in heart and thought. 
 
 She, listless, donned a morning dress, 
 
 And saw by chance the ' Local Press,' 
 
 And under a sensation head 
 
 The death of Hawthorn Woodbme read. 
 
 Aghast she sat ; nor could she speak ; 
 
 Nor yet the painful silence break. 
 
 She tried, in vain, to gain her feet — 
 
 Her throbbing heart had ceased to beat. 
 
 And when her maiden came at noon, 
 
 She found her in a deadly swoon. 
 
 For aid the maiden cried aloud. 
 
 And in the room an anxious crowd, 
 
 All tried sweet Ethel to restore. 
 
 Alas ! they cried ' she breathes no more.' 
 
 Prostrate she lay, like one in death, 
 
 While all in anguish held their breath. 
 
 Squire Baldwin's grief was so intense 
 
 He left the scene, on some pretence. 
 
 And in his closet gave full vent. 
 
 Unto the feelings he had pent ; 
 
 He thought disease had done its worst. 
 
 And then he felt like one accurst, — 
 
 280
 
 With none to love, deserted, lone, 
 
 Now all who loved him — all had gone ! 
 
 He loudly wailed his woes and cares, 
 
 Away he tore his snow-white hairs. 
 
 Like one insane he wildly raved 
 
 For death — aye, death ! he madly craved. 
 
 At length kind nature life reprieved. 
 
 And welcome tears his grief relieved. 
 
 The first time then for many a year, 
 
 He knelt in trembling— abject fear ; 
 
 And prayed not to be left alone, 
 
 Without his child — his only one ! 
 
 Entreated God that He would spare. 
 
 His darling child his love to share. 
 
 " Or if" — he cried, " Thou takest her home, 
 
 Take me, with her, unto the tomb ; 
 
 Myself, with Ethel bear away 
 
 To my dear wife in endless day." 
 
 Then smothered sounds, without, were heard, 
 
 Breathless he tried to catch a word ; 
 
 Hopeless, in hope, he long did list, 
 
 When to his room came Captain Twist, 
 
 Whose handsome face bore smiles and tears— 
 
 The smiles dispelled the Father's fears. 
 
 They sprang — they met — and firmly clasped, 
 
 Each other's hand and closely grasped. 
 
 A hearty shake the Captain gives. 
 
 And whispers to the Squire — " she lives." 
 
 " For this thank God ! " the Squire exclaimed, 
 
 When briefly Captain Twist explained, 
 
 How he was riding to the Hall, 
 
 To make the usual morning call, 
 
 281
 
 And how he met at Oswald's gate, 
 A groom who told of Ethel's state. 
 Then how he for a surgeon rode — 
 How short his mare had made the road — 
 How soon the surgeon had arrived : 
 How dear Miss Baldwin had revived. 
 Full well he knew, but nothing said, 
 That she the ' Local Press ' had read ; 
 And that her sufferings began 
 With what his villany had done. 
 Poor Ethel slowly did revive. 
 Although she wished not to survive ; 
 The shock unhinged her intellect, 
 She seemed like one of reason wrecked. 
 Her action often tears did move 
 When brooding o'er her boundless love. 
 Sometimes she would not be denied. 
 She would have Hawthorn by her side. 
 And then her prattling tongue did prove 
 That he alone possessed her love. 
 Naught else her fancy could control, 
 He was her life— her heart— her soul ! 
 But Captain Twist became so kind, 
 So fondly tried to soothe her mind. 
 He treasured every wish and word 
 He of or from poor Ethel heard. 
 Her father, too, would oft dilate 
 On Captain Twist's immense estate ; 
 And how when Ethel nearly died 
 The Captain flew unto her side, 
 Then what devotion he had shewn 
 When she lay on her sick bed lone. 
 
 282
 
 The Squire then added— how content, 
 
 How proud he'd be if she'd consent 
 
 To be the wife of Captain Twist. 
 
 And then the Captain would persist, 
 
 By means experience taught him well, 
 
 Upon a woman's heart must tell. 
 
 And Spring is come : oh ! dreadful thought, 
 
 And May, the fatal day hath brought. 
 
 When Captain Twist will claim as bride 
 
 Squire Baldwin's daughter — Shropshire's pride ! 
 
 One da}^, to Twist's astonishment, 
 
 To marry him she gave consent. 
 
 But she — alas ! to reason blind. 
 
 Her Hawthorn's form was in her mind ; 
 
 She saw none other but her love. 
 
 Her Hawthorn true — her wandering dove ! 
 
 And then she wept, and then she smiled ; 
 
 And fondled with him like a child. 
 
 For this the Captain did not care, 
 
 The Squire, he fell into the snare ; 
 
 And so the ripening plot progressed, 
 
 And Captain Twist a constant guest, 
 
 Had everything beneath his eye, 
 
 And thus the fleeting time passed by. 
 
 And 'twas a day in early spring. 
 
 Her maid thus heard poor Ethel sing — 
 
 It sounded like some Angel fair — 
 
 So sweet — so mournful— was the air : — 
 
 MY LOVE. 
 
 My love came here to-day, 
 My own fond love — my life. 
 
 They scared my dove away, 
 Yet I shall be his wife. 
 
 283
 
 He lived in Druids' Grove, 
 I sought him all in vain ; 
 
 My darling — my sweet love ! 
 But now he comes again. 
 
 I cannot live, my love. 
 To me thou art as life. 
 
 Come hither, truant dove ? 
 And I will be thy wife. 
 
 And will my love be true ? 
 
 And shall I be his bride ? 
 And trip the morning dew 
 
 With thou, love, at my side ? 
 
 My love, without thy love 
 
 I cannot cling to life. 
 My fond heart's gentle dove 
 
 And I will be thy wife ! 
 
 "^2XKS) 
 
 / "^ 
 
 284
 
 Parr Xh 
 
 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 The morn is clear, the air is chill, 
 
 The rising sun peeps o'er the hill. 
 
 Casting a wakeful, cheering beam — 
 
 A smiling soul-awakening gleam. 
 
 While chanticleer's shrill morning shout 
 
 Awakes the sleepers round about. 
 
 Then from the village cottage roofs 
 
 Blue smoke ascends in graceful puffs ; 
 
 Which, curling up amongst the trees, 
 
 Soon mingles with the morning breeze. 
 
 The cottage doors are open flung. 
 
 And out the merr}' children throng. 
 
 All prattling, joyous, o'er their play, 
 
 For this is to be holiday. 
 
 The smiling peasants gather round : 
 
 The village meantime doth resound 
 
 With preparations for the f^te. 
 
 While cotters' wives discuss the fate 
 
 Of Baldwin's sweet and bonny bride. 
 
 Whose love hath charmed the country side. 
 
 Around the village pump they stand 
 
 With pail on head, or pan in hand. 
 
 One ancient grand-dam would insist, 
 
 " She did not like that Captain Twist." 
 
 Another said, in confidence, 
 
 " 'Twas shame Miss Baldwin's innocence, 
 
 With Baldwin's bonny Hall and lands. 
 
 Should fall into such paltry hands. 
 
 28;
 
 And-well-a-day, but time would tell 
 
 If Baldwin's Squire was acting well 
 
 In forcing Ethel to this match 
 
 With that young selfish, heartless wretch." 
 
 And Captain Twist — they all agreed — 
 
 Did in that village, favour need. 
 
 As they disperse unto their homes 
 
 Unto the village proudly conies 
 
 A personage in Sunday dress — 
 
 Reporter to the ' Local Press ' ! 
 
 Who ' puts up ' at the ' Baldwin Arms,' 
 
 And compliments the barmaid's charms. 
 
 He's come on purpose to report 
 
 The day's proceedings and the sport. 
 
 The Captain stigmatized the Press 
 
 A tool which Englishmen should bless. 
 
 As anyone who sought a prize 
 
 An Editor could subsidize. 
 
 For principles were now a trade 
 
 And many by them fortunes made. 
 
 Mendacity, thus oft 'tis clear, 
 
 Unmasks its visage with a sneer. 
 
 Veracit}^, then thou digress. 
 
 And laud thy well-tried friend, " The Press." 
 
 When nightly shades o'er light prevail ; 
 
 When darkness covers hill and dale, 
 
 Hiding fair nature's smiling face ; 
 
 Then prowleth forth a loathsome race. 
 
 On earth the toad ; with noisome newt ; 
 
 Possession of the ditch dispute. 
 
 The venom-snake the frog pursues, 
 
 And with his blood the dew imbrues. 
 
 286
 
 The sneaking weasel and the stoat 
 
 On unsuspecting victims gloat. 
 
 The hedgehog smooths his prickly mail, 
 
 And sucks the kine and robs the pail. 
 
 The prowling fox, in roost and pen, 
 
 Preys on the goose and sleeping hen. 
 
 The savage otter and the rat 
 
 Upon the finny tribes wax fat. 
 
 While high above from midnight air 
 
 The owl selects his bill of fare. 
 
 The night-hawk darts with fiendish screams, 
 
 And kills his victim while he dreams. 
 
 All goblin-like the mystic bat, 
 
 A mouse-on-wings, defies the cat. 
 
 Yokels assert, in fear, that then 
 
 Appear the ghosts of murdered men. 
 
 Such are the horrors which the night 
 
 Nurtures by hiding from the sight. 
 
 But when a sunbeam streaks the sky, 
 
 Toad, newt and snake, and weasel fly ; 
 
 The hedgehog, fox ; the otter, rat ; 
 
 Owl, night-hawk, ghost and goblin-bat, 
 
 Fly, crawl and hide, and leave their prey ; 
 
 They dare not face the God of Day ! 
 
 When moral night obscured the mind, 
 
 When bigotry, obtusely blind, 
 
 Held in the land despotic sway. 
 
 And, vermin-like, destroyed its prey, 
 
 A cruel, crafty, fiendlike train, 
 
 Preyed in the darkness on the brain. 
 
 But God in mercy sent a light. 
 
 Which put the vermin-crew to flight — 
 
 287
 
 I 
 
 A beaming light of happiness, 
 
 A searching, permeating Press ! 
 
 Through which, though error may find vent, 
 
 Truth soon provides the punishment. 
 
 Gibbets the vermin on the wall, 
 
 A warning terrible to all. 
 
 What though the blinking bigot- owl 
 
 From forth the Press may hoot and scowl ? 
 
 One gleam of light ; one truthful ray ; 
 
 Frightens the would-be-sage away. 
 
 Poor poverty in its distress 
 
 Appeals to pity through the Press. 
 
 The tyrant's victim seeks redress 
 
 And shames the tyrant through the Press. 
 
 War's awful figure, face and dress, ^ 
 
 Are seen most dreadful in the Press. 
 
 And vice, in all its hideousness, 
 
 A fitting foe finds in the Press. 
 
 Benevolence, which Heaven bless ! 
 
 Is cherished by its friend the Press. 
 
 And narrow-minded selfishness 
 
 Shrinks from its deadly foe — the Press. 
 
 Long flourish then a glorious Press, 
 
 Best friend of human happiness ! 
 
 The Captain the Reporter primed 
 
 With golden compliments well timed. 
 
 And dearly the Reporter prized 
 
 This chance to be immortalized. 
 
 He read of Pageants, Squires and Knights 
 
 Through many days and weary nights. 
 
 Odd scraps from Authors he had got 
 
 From Chaucer to Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 288
 
 Parnassus seems within his view, 
 May he surmount it, and — adieu ! 
 A boy for notoriety 
 His name carved on a Beechen Tree, 
 And schoolboy hke he vainly thought 
 A lasting monument he'd got. 
 Yes, proud was he of this poor deed 
 As patriot of country freed. 
 A passing butterfly he chased 
 And swiftly left the tree defaced. 
 In manhood's prime he sought the tree 
 But nothing of his name could see. 
 Hence, thus he thought when thirst for fame 
 Would urge him on to win a name, 
 " Submit to fate, and murmur not. 
 Nor strive to shun the common lot ; 
 The brightest names but transciently. 
 Appear upon time's beechen tree. 
 Then soar thou not above thy mark- 
 Perchance thou'lt only mar the bark." 
 But dreams and wild illusions nursed 
 Proved quenchless as the drunkard's thirst. 
 And now gay visitors arrive 
 Through Baldwin Park and wooded drive. 
 The busy birds, the merry morn, 
 The perfume of the sweet hawthorn 
 In white and scarlet bloom distilled. 
 The air with balmy odours filled. 
 Laburnum trees all gold and green 
 Enliven the bright sunny scene. 
 The homely Lilac grouped around. 
 Its blossom scatters o'er the ground. 
 
 289
 
 And all seem happy, lightsome, free ; 
 
 And all is laughter-loving glee. 
 
 Not all ! alas ! poor Ethel sighs. 
 
 While with an anxious gaze she eyes 
 
 The preparations for the day, 
 
 And wishes she could fly away 
 
 Upon yon cloud of fleecy white, 
 
 Now upward sailing in her sight. 
 
 Her wounded heart— her jangled brain — 
 
 One object only can retain. 
 
 Her Hawthorn comes not, and her tears 
 
 Proclaim her broken-hearted fears. 
 
 " If Hawthorn come not " — so she sighed, 
 
 " How can I this day be his bride ? '' 
 
 " Perchance he loves me not" — she cried, 
 
 " If so, T would that I had died." 
 
 From forth the ancient pile at last 
 
 A gorgeous cavalcade glides past. 
 
 The sun shines on the merry throng, 
 
 The birds excel themselves in song ; 
 
 Neath arches gay with flowers entwined, 
 
 Midst banners streaming on the wind. 
 
 Amongst exultant, hearty cheers. 
 
 And blessings mixed with peasants' tears. 
 
 The bridal train attains the porch 
 
 Of Baldwin's ancient, gloomy church. 
 
 The stately aisle-walls sombre ground 
 
 Is hung with gloomy tablets round. 
 
 Through stained glass windows glances light. 
 
 Which radiates their colours bright. 
 
 The sun through shady yew-trees gleams 
 
 Upon the blackened oaken beams, 
 
 290
 
 And on the bridal party plays 
 
 Grotesquely wild, fantastic rays. 
 
 The dense damp air is close and still, 
 
 And Ethel feels its icy chill. 
 
 Attracted by a waving yew. 
 
 She gazes on the Squire's pew, 
 
 In which from girlhood she had sat. 
 
 To her a venerated spot. 
 
 A sculptured marble scroll above, 
 
 A token of Squire Baldwin's love, 
 
 Told that her mother slept in death 
 
 Within the gloomy vault beneath. 
 
 Associations here were rife 
 
 To wean a weary mind from life. 
 
 Squire Baldwin seems robust and hale, 
 
 The Captain looks careworn and pale. 
 
 Poor Ethel hardly sees, or breathes, 
 
 Her cheeks are hke the snowy wreathes. 
 
 That deck her alabaster brow, 
 
 Appalled she views the altar now, 
 
 Just like some votaress of yore, 
 
 That mystic Druids often bore 
 
 From home and friends to immolate, 
 
 And their strange Gods propitiate. 
 
 Sweet Ethel, gentle, good and pure, 
 
 Doth feelings worse than death endure. 
 
 " Where can be Hawthorn ? " she exclaims — 
 
 The Captain tells the Squire — " She dreams." 
 
 Before the altar now they stand, 
 
 The Captain takes her by the hand ; 
 
 The Priest the solemn service reads. 
 
 And then he solemnly proceeds 
 
 291
 
 To put the question to the Bride — 
 
 When— dashing— forcing all aside, 
 
 A woman with dishevelled hair 
 
 Approaches with a savage glare. 
 
 She gazes scornfully and wild, 
 
 And, lifting up a little child, 
 
 She boldly warns them to beware, | 
 
 And challenges them not to dare 
 
 To brave an outraged woman's ire. 
 
 " Thou Captain Twist, my baby's sire ! 
 
 False-hearted wretch, thou thus would'st wed— 
 
 Thy sins fall on thy guilty head ! 
 
 My father wealth thy father gave — 
 
 Thy father sent him to his grave— 
 
 And thou, no bastard, would'st for gain 
 
 Desert thy wife— poor Clara Crane. 
 
 And, for the sake of land and wealth, 
 
 Would'st win another heart by stealth." 
 
 In vain the Captain did essay 
 
 To justify himself — " Away ! " 
 
 Shrieks Clara—" Quit this place, 
 And hide from all thy serpent trace ; 
 Begone ! Away ! "—she screamed aloud. 
 And then he vanished through the crowd. 
 With passion boiling, fierce and wild. 
 The Squire gazed upon his child ; 
 And then he stagger'd forth and groaned. 
 And on the altar steps he swooned. 
 The Priest raised up Squire Baldwin's head, 
 And Ethel mourned a father— dead ! 
 Oh ! dire event ; oh ! dread mishap ; 
 Oblivion haste— fill up the gap. 
 The grim and gloomy gulf of time, 
 That followed on the dastard crime. 
 Haste ! from the darkness into day. 
 Haste ! anywhere— but haste— away ! 
 
 292
 
 Part \\l 
 
 SCUTARI and BLISS. 
 
 'Tis midnight, and a nurse keeps guard 
 
 In Scutari's famed fever ward, 
 
 Upon a mass of skin and bone, 
 
 A living — breathing— skeleton. 
 
 This Angel nurse — so wan — so pale. 
 
 Is Britain's Florence Nightingale ! 
 
 Whose matchless deeds and spotless fame 
 
 Shall live when war's revolting name 
 
 Shall be a theme of musty lore, 
 
 A frightful plague of days of yore. 
 
 When avarice and luxury, 
 
 Made social life a living lie. 
 
 When man moved in a moral mist. 
 
 And blood-shed he could not resist. 
 
 Dishonesty preferred before 
 
 The sin of being considered poor. 
 
 Ill-gotten gains that cost a soul 
 
 Oft swept beyond that soul's control — 
 
 A life's bad living's product gone, 
 
 By bosom friend's rare cunning won. 
 
 Leaving the robber, robbed, so poor 
 
 He dared not mix with neighbours more. 
 
 Then, fearful of the social strife. 
 
 He, murderer-like, destroyed his life ! 
 
 Just as it was in ancient times 
 
 When for insanitary crimes, 
 
 Foul life-devouring plagues were sent 
 
 By Nature as a punishment. 
 
 293
 
 So wars were sent to punish man, 
 For moral crimes which Hke a ban 
 SuUied the purest springs of hfe 
 By making heroes out of strife ! 
 Whenever difference occurred, 
 Which ought to friends to be referred, 
 'Twas ahvays found in those dark times 
 That wars, hke other murderous crimes, 
 Were rushed to by the felon type ; 
 Whose earliest butcher-prototype, 
 Was Cain, who shed a brother's blood 
 Because he envied Abel's good. 
 But if a felon with a crown 
 In times to come would win renown ; 
 Aye, if a tyrant dare propose. 
 To massacre, or friends, or foes, 
 His name a world shall execrate. 
 Remorse shall all his thoughts await. 
 And if he perish none will care 
 For he would wage hell-cradled war ! 
 The antidote to war and strife 
 Lies in the sacredness of life. 
 With peoples resolute for good 
 Kings dare not dream of shedding blood. 
 That life which comes from God, alone, 
 No mortal power would dare dethrone, 
 Or dare, like at the present time. 
 Commit a crime to punish crime. 
 But I must cease my verbose verse 
 Return unto my Angel Nurse 
 Who gazes on the stricken form, 
 Which like a tortured, writhing worm, 
 
 294
 
 Now turns convulsively — now starts — 
 
 Then shrinks as if it felt death's darts, 
 
 She laves tlie lips now parched with heat, 
 
 Then chafes the cold and icy feet. 
 
 Most patiently she doth await 
 
 The crisis of her patient's fate. 
 
 Ye gentle dames ! who fret and fume, 
 
 And all life's blessed hours consume 
 
 In search of bliss in pleasure's haunts. 
 
 Thinking of naught but selfish wants, 
 
 Look in this solitary ward, 
 
 And, with remorseful souls, regard 
 
 This earthly angel's anxious face. 
 
 Then rack your memory to trace 
 
 One pleasure felt which gave such bliss 
 
 As she must reap from deeds like this. 
 
 God bless thee ! Florence Nightingale, 
 
 May thy example never fail 
 
 To inculcate philanthropy, 
 
 To teach the selfish sympathy. 
 
 With anxious face she still surveys 
 
 The sufferer's wild, unmeaning gaze. 
 
 She from his forehead wipes the drops. 
 
 And then he speaks — she starts and stops. 
 
 " 'Tis Ethel, mother ! " — so he shrieks — 
 
 Then joyous smiles light up his cheeks — 
 
 " Bring her, my mother ? both come here ? 
 
 I knew she'd come ! there —bring her near, 
 
 Dear Ethel, bless you — darling child ! 
 
 Why ! why thus look — so strange — so wild ! 
 
 She's gone ! " — he screams — " Ethel, remain,'' 
 
 And then he writhes and groans in pain. 
 
 295
 
 The swollen veins, like twisted wire, 
 
 Show that his brain is as on fire ; 
 
 He shrinks exhausted on the bed, 
 
 The gentle nurse then bathes his head ; 
 
 And plies her most experienced art 
 
 To ward away grim death's fell dart. 
 
 And then she prays, and sits, and sighs, 
 
 Till daylight greets her weary eyes. 
 
 At length steps in a nurse by stealth — 
 
 Reminds the watcher of her health, 
 
 Her life, so useful and so dear, 
 
 Imperill'd by long watching here ; 
 
 And in a sweet and winsome tone 
 
 She urges Florence to begone. 
 
 " Alas ! " — quoth Florence, -' my poor child, 
 
 Thou art too gentle, weak and mild." 
 
 As thus they speak, to their surprise. 
 
 The fevered patient's lustrous eyes 
 
 Gaze on the young girl's modest face 
 
 As if he there would strive to trace 
 
 Some well-known friend — while wild delight 
 
 Beams in his face — with mingled fright ; 
 
 He struggles — but in vain — to rise. 
 
 And Hawthorn's gaze greets Ethel's eyes. 
 
 He faints : she shrieks, with wild alarms, 
 
 And clasps his form within her arms ! 
 
 Then gasping, feebly, for her breath, 
 
 She sinks — they lie like two in death ! 
 
 Full soon restored to love and life 
 
 Hawthorn claims Ethel as his wife. 
 
 Fate thus at length in golden showers 
 
 Sends days of bliss and joyful hours, 
 
 296
 
 Nothing their happiness to curb — 
 Their pleasures nothing to disturb ! 
 Happy as Angels, eve and morn, 
 They roam beside the Golden Horn. 
 One day a ship discharging freight 
 Attracts from an adjoining height. 
 A boat from this ship's landward side 
 Approaches shore and cleaves the tide. 
 Stout seamen land their charge with care- 
 All gently in their arms they bear — 
 A hero, wounded in the field, 
 To famed Scutari to be healed. 
 The wounded soldier, stained with gore, 
 Two seamen on a stretcher bore. 
 Sweet Ethel sees his dreadful state. 
 And feels an interest in his fate. 
 She whispers. Hawthorn, they draw nigh, 
 And hear a seaman say — " He 11 die ! " 
 And, ere his lips the words have flown. 
 The soldier gives a dying groan. 
 The seamen lift the stretcher down. 
 And place it gently on the ground. 
 Convulsively the sufFrer clasps 
 His trembling hands, and feebly gasps. 
 Oh ! wildly roll his bloodshot eyes — 
 As " Water ! water — pray " — he sighs. 
 "Just Heaven have mercy," Ethel cries, 
 ''Hawthorn ! that voice I recognize." 
 Then rushing to the dying man, 
 His features hastily to scan, 
 Then clutching Hawthorn by the wrist — 
 " Tis he," cries she, "Tis Captain Twist ! " 
 
 297
 
 All Ethel's wrongs are buried now, 
 
 She strives to soothe the anguished brow ; 
 
 Aye, tenderly both seek and strive 
 
 The swooning soldier to revive. 
 
 The Captain heaves a heavy sigh, 
 
 Restoratives they both apply 
 
 Successfully until at length 
 
 The sufferer regains some strength. 
 
 " Thank God ! " he mutters anxiously, 
 
 " For this last chance before I die 
 
 To crave forgiveness for my sin — 
 
 The crime by which I sought to win 
 
 Ethel as mine, despite my wife. 
 
 Wrongs lightly paid for with my life." 
 
 " Full freely we thy acts forgive, 
 
 Speak not of death ; thou may'st still live," 
 
 Sweet Ethel anxiously replies — 
 
 But, while she speaks, the Captain dies. 
 
 Salopia ! so sweet, so fair 1 
 
 Long may thy fertile bosom bear 
 
 Children as pure, as free from wrong. 
 
 As these whose loves inspired my song. 
 
 Salopia ! thy rivers glide, 
 
 Enchantingly as fabled tide. 
 
 Thy rugged hills — each mountain height — 
 
 My bosom swell with wild delight. 
 
 Amongst thy glens and valleys fair, 
 
 I banish every grief and care. 
 
 Away from towns — from toil and strife. 
 
 To thee I flew for health and life. 
 
 Thy balmy breezes, sweet and pure, kl 
 
 On soul and body worked a cure. 
 
 298 
 
 «*■;
 
 With fond regrets of no avail, 
 My rustic la}' I must curtail, 
 And though it to an end must come, 
 I fain would linger near that home 
 Where Baldwin's turrets frown above. 
 Where sunbeams kiss sweet Druids' Grove. 
 Wherein my lovers, like a waif 
 From angry ocean, landed safe ; 
 To brave the stormy seas no more, 
 Find rest upon a friendly shore. 
 By hoary Baldwin's rugged towers, 
 In Druids' Grove's enchanting bowers, 
 In cosy glen, in wooded dale. 
 Sometimes the tuneful Nightingale 
 With trilling notes enchants the ears, 
 Sweet as those tones of by -gone 3'ears 
 With which in tender heart-felt strain 
 A mother soothed her infant's pain. 
 The dove, in seeming bliss, forlorn ; 
 Still coos his love at early morn. 
 The blackbird pipes his mellow note, 
 While music swells the throstle's throat. 
 From dewy morn to evening dark. 
 Up— upward, singing, soars the lark. 
 The meek hedge-sparrow, on the bush, 
 Still emulates the lark and thrush. 
 High up, in yonder sycamore. 
 The gold-finch twitters his encore. 
 The robin, on the topmost spray. 
 In doleful song strives to be gay. 
 Like turtle-doves in Druids' Grove, 
 Hawthorn and Ethel live and love. 
 
 299
 
 Forgotten is tliat dreadful morn 
 
 When Ethel, orphan'd and forlorn, 
 
 Escaped the Captain's tiger fangs> 
 
 But felt a heart break's bitter pangs ; 
 
 When Ethel felt of shocks that shock 
 
 Which gave to her, her reason back. 
 
 And blest to them is that bright day, 
 
 When fortune pointed out the way 
 
 For Ethel, dear, to quit that spot 
 
 Where she so hard had found her lot. 
 
 Resolved to leave her native vale. 
 
 To follow Florence Nightingale. 
 
 Her youthful fervour to devote 
 
 To soothing pain in climes remote. 
 
 Happy as birds on bush and spray. 
 
 They now employ their sunny day, 
 
 And charity as rivals yield 
 
 No longer singly in the field. 
 
 In sympathy their sweets combine 
 
 Like two fair flowers at Nature's shrine. 
 
 No day doth pass but is received 
 
 Blessings from misery relieved. 
 
 Oh ! may they thrive and long possess 
 
 Good health, sweet peace — pure happiness ! 
 
 Thus — thus it is — we always see 
 
 Good always comes from charity. 
 
 All hail ! then, pure philanthropy. 
 
 And perish foul misanthropy. 
 
 300
 
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