See the mighty host advancing,
Sunbeams on their helmets dancing!
On his gallant charger prancing
Glyndwr leads the way.

Now to battle they are going,
Every heart with courage glowing,
Pride and passion overflowing,
In the furious strife;

Lo, the din of war enrages,
Vengeance crowns the hate of ages,
Sternly foe with foe engages,

Feeding Death with Life!
Hear the trumpets braying,
And the horses neighing!
Hot the strife while fiery foes
Are one another slaying!

Arrows fly as swift as lightning,
Shout on shout the tumult height'ning,
Conquest's ruddy wing is bright'ning
Helmet, sword and shield;
With their lances flashing,
Warriors wild are crashing
Through the tyrant's serried ranks,

Whilst onwards they are dashing !
Now the enemy is flying,

Trampling on the dead and dying;

Victory aloft is crying

'Cambria wins the field!'

John Jones.

CXXIV

LLEWELYN AP GRUFFYDD

AFTER dead centuries,

Neglect, derision, scorn,

And secular miseries,

At last our Cymric race again is born,
Opens again its heavy sleep-worn eyes,
And fronts a brighter morn.

Shall then our souls forget,

Dazzled by visions of our Wales to Be,

The Wales that Was, the Wales undying yet,
The old heroic Cymric chivalry?

Nay! one we are, indeed,

With that dim Britain of our distant sires;
Still the same love the patriot's bosom fires;

With the same wounds our loyal spirits bleed;

The heroes of the past are living still

By each sequestered vale, and cloud-compelling hill.

Dear heart that wast so strong

To guide the storm of battle year by year,
Last of our Cymric Princes! dauntless King!
Whose brave soul knew not fear!

Thou from Eryri's summits, swooping down
Like some swift eagle, o'er the affrighted town
And frowning Norman castles hovering,
Onward didst bear the flag of Victory;
And oft the proud invader dravest back
In ruin from thy country's bounds, and far
Didst roll from her the refluent wave of war,
Till, 'neath the swelling flood,

The low fat Lloegrian plains were sunk in blood.

I see thee when thy lonely widowed heart
Grew weary of its pain,

In one last desperate onset vain

Hurl thyself on thy country's deadly foes;

From north to south the swift rebellion sped,
The castles fell, the land arose ;

Wales reared once more her weary war-worn head
Through triumph and defeat, a chequered sum,
Till the sure end should come,

The traitorous ambush, and the murderous spear; Still 'mid the cloistered glories of Cwmhir,

I hear the chants sung for the kingly dead,

While Cambria mourned thy dear dishonoured head.

Strong son of Wales! thy fate

Not without tears, our Cymric memories keep;
Our faithful, unforgetting natures weep

The ancestral fallen Great.

Not with the stalwart arm

After our age-long peace,

We serve her now, nor keen uplifted sword,
But with the written or the spoken word
Would fain her power increase;

The Light we strive to spread

Is Knowledge, and its power

Comes not from captured town or leaguered tower. A closer brotherhood

Unites the Cymric and the Anglian blood,

Yet separate, side by side they dwell, not one,
Distinct till Time be done.

But we who in that peaceful victory

Our faith, our hope repose,

With grateful hearts, Llewelyn, think of thee

Who fought'st our country's foes;

Whose generous hand was open to reward

The dauntless patriot bard,

Who loved'st the arts of peace, yet knew'st through

life

Only incessant strife;

Who ne'er like old Iorwerth's happier son,

Didst rest from battles won,

But strovest for us still, and not in vain;

Since from that ancient pain,

After six centuries, Wales of thy love

Feels through her veins new patriot currents move,

And from thy ashes, like the Phoenix springs

Skyward on soaring wings,

And fronts, grown stronger for the days that were,
Whatever Fortune, 'neath God's infinite air,
Fate and the Years prepare!

Sir Lewis Morris.

CXXV

RHUDDLAN MARSH

ARVON'S heights hide the bright sun from our gazing, Night's dark pall enshrouds all in its embracing; Still as death not a breath mars the deep silence, On mine ear waves roll near with soft hush'd cadence. O the start of my heart's quick palpitating,

Anger's thrill doth me fill when meditating

On the day when the fray crushed the brave Cambrian,

When, through guile, pile on pile heaped Morfa Rhuddlan !

See, at once Britain's sons' bosoms are swelling, Each face hot with fierce thought from each heart welling;

Strong arms bare through the air fierce blows are dealing,

Till the foes with the blows serried are reeling! Through the day Britons pray in their great anguish,

"Thou, on high, hear our cry-help us to vanquish ! Hedge around the dear ground of our lov'd Britain, Speed our host, or we're lost on Morfa Rhuddlan!'

Like a dart through my heart anguish is flowing, Hark, how loud, fierce, and proud is the foes' crowing!

But, O host, do not boast as of aught glorious,

'Twas thy swarms, not thine arms, made thee victorious!

See, yon scores at their doors watching in terrors,
Full of care for the fare of their lov'd warriors!
Up the rocks quickly flock sire, child, and woman,-
Each heart bleeds for the deeds on Morfa Rhuddlan.
Richard Bellis Jones.

CXXVI

LIBERTY

SEE, see where royal Snowdon rears
Her hoary head above her peers
To cry that Wales is free!
O hills which guard our liberties,
With outstretched arms to where you rise
In all your pride, I turn my eyes
And echo, 'Wales is free!'

O'er giant Idris' lofty seat,

O'er Berwyn and Plynlimon great
And hills which round them lower meet,
Blow winds of liberty.

And like the breezes high and strong,
Which through the cloudwrack sweep along,
Each dweller in this land of song
Is free, is free, is free!

Never, O Freedom, let sweet sleep

Over that wretch's eyelids creep

Who bears with wrong and shame.

Make him to feel thy spirit high,

And, like a hero, do or die,

And smite the arm of tyranny,

And lay its haunts aflame,

Rather than peace which makes thee slave, Rise, Europe, rise, and draw thy glaive, Lay foul oppression in its grave

No more the light to see!

Then heavenward turn thy grateful gaze,
And like the rolling thunder raise
Thy triumph-song of joy and praise

To God-that thou art free!

Edmund Osborne Jones.