AWEN CYMRU.

A'th rodd yw athrwydd Awen.-Edm. Prys.

Y CREDADYN AR VARW IDD EI ENAID*,

1.

Ti nevawl vywawl nyved,
Gadawa gorfyn gwael;
Gan ovni, gan ddamuned
Y goleu vyd o gael—i ti,

2,

Ehedav vi oddiyma

I lwysav le à yw:
Paid, anian, na ymlyna,
Gadawa varw i vyw—imi.
3.

Angelion, clywa! galwant-
"Cyvysbryd, brysia di,
"A deua i ogoniant

“Tragywydd gyda ni—nyni.”
4,

Pa yw mòr lwyr à letha

Ar bwyll, ar drèm, ar syn,

Ac ar anadliad? Gweda,

Ai angeu ydoedd hyn-i mi?

5.

Divlana byd! agorant

I mi drigvånau nev!

Eilwyon nwyvre canant

O vwyned ias eu llev-i mi!

6.

Hwnt cwnav i ymovyn

Am nodded gan ein Udd:

O Angeu! mae dy golyn?

Ti vedd! pa le dy vudd-i ti?

Gorph. 15ed 1820.

IDRISON.

This is a very happy translation of Pope's beautiful Ode, entitled "The dying Christian to his Soul," which, as classical readers know, is itself a paraphrase of the celebrated lines of the Emperor Hadrian. It may be necessary to observe, that Idrison has here very properly used f and v instead of ff and f, still so absurdly retained in the Welsh orthography: and it is much to be lamented, that the change has not been generally adopted. The ladies of Cymru should be apprised, that these lines are adapted to a beautiful air by Mozart :-and an attempt will be found in the following page to convey some idea of them in English.-ED.

It will be observed in this translation, that the three final syllables of each stanza in the orignal are not rendered into English. This, however, was done in the first instance; but, upon reconsideration, it was thought better to omit them.

A PARAPHRASE OF THE 137TH PSALM,

Alluding to the Captivity and Treatment of the WELSH BARDS* by KING EDWARD I.

BY THE REV. EVAN EVANS,

Author of "Specimens of the Bards, &c."

SAD near the willowy Thames we stood,
And curs'd the inhospitable flood;
Tears, such as patients weep †, 'gan flow,
The silent eloquence of woe +,

When Cambria rushed into our mind,
And pity with just vengeance joined ;
Vengeance to injured Cambria due,
And pity, O ye Bards, to you.
Silent, neglected, and unstrung,
Our harps upon the willows hung,

That, softly sweet in Cambrian measures §,
Used to soothe our souls to pleasures,
When, lo, the insulting foe appears,
And bids us dry our useless tears.

"Resume your harps, the Saxons cry,
"And change your griefs to songs of joy;
"Such strains as old Taliesin sang,
"What time your native mountains rang
"With his wild notes, and all around
"Seas, rivers, woods return'd the sound.

* It is not improbable, that the Bards, as well as the rest of the natives of Wales, may have experienced much of the ill-treatment natural to the circumstances, in which they were placed, on the conquest of their country by Edward. But the indiscriminate massacre, so often and so boldly asserted, seems, as observed on a former occasion (vol. i. p. 135.), not to rest on any authentic testimony. At least, it is certain, that the early Welsh poets, who would have been the first to notice such an occurrence, are wholly silent respecting it. Some judicious remarks on this subject may be seen in the Cambrian Register, vol. ii. p. 463.-Ed.

+ The reader of English poetry will discover a few imitations in this effusion. This line is borrowed from Milton :

"Tears, such as angels weep, &c."-ED. "The silent manliness of grief."—GOLDSMITH. § "Softly sweet in Lydian measures."-DRYDEN.

What,―shall the Saxons hear us sing,

Ör their dull vales with Cambrian music ring?
No-let old Conway cease to flow,
Back to her source Sabrina go:
Let huge Plinlimmon hide his head*,
Or let the tyrant strike me dead,
If I attempt to raise a song
Unmindful of my country's wrong.
What, shall a haughty king command
Cambrian's free strain on Saxon land?
May this right arm first wither'd be,
Ere I may touch one string for thee,
Proud monarch; nay, may instant death
Arrest my tongue and stop my breath,
If I attempt to weave a song,
Regardless of my country's wrong!

Thou God of vengeance, dost thou sleep,
When thy insulted Druids weep,
The Victor's jest, the Saxon's scorn,
Unheard, unpitied, and forlorn?
Bare thy red arm, thou God of ire,
And set their vaunted towers on fire.
Remember our inhuman foes,

When the first Edward furious rose,
And, like a whirlwind's rapid sway,
Swept armies, cities, Bards away.

"High on a rock o'er Conway's flood+"
The last surviving poet stood,
And curs'd the tyrant, as he pass'd
With cruel pomp and murderous haste.
What now avail our tuneful strains,
Midst savage taunts and galling chains?
Say, will the lark imprison'd sing
So sweet, as when, on towering wing,
He wakes the songsters of the sky,
And tunes his notes to liberty?
Ah no, the Cambrian lyre no more
Shall sweetly sound on Arvon's shore,

No more the silver harp be won,
Ye Muses, by your favourite son
Or I, even I, by glory fir'd,
Had to the honour'd prize aspir'd:
No more shall Mona's oaks be spar'd
Or Druid circle be rever'd.

On Conway's banks and Menai's streams
The solitary bittern screams;

And, where was erst Llywelyn's court,
Ill-omened birds and wolves resort.
There oft at midnight's silent hour,
Near yon ivy-mantled tower,
By the glow-worm's twinkling fire,
Tuning his romantic lyre,

Gray's pale spectre seems to sing,
"Ruin seize thee, ruthless King †."

P. B. W.

THE HEROES OF CYMRU.

IN early times how bright the fame
Of CYMRU's old and honoured name,
When, burning with the sacred flame,
That patriot bosoms know,

Her sons to battle crowding came

To snatch a wreath from Saxon shame,
As Glory shot her kindling ray

Through Vict'ry's bright and glorious day,
And matchless heroes led the way

To crush their country's foe!

But, though brave Arthur lives no more,
And famed Llywelyn's reign is o'er,
Yet glows their spirit, as of yore,

In CYMRU's noble race:

A brighter æra has dawned upon our native hills since the poet sang his mournful prediction; and, well may we say of it, Esto Perpetua!—ED. + Gray.

This was sung, during the late Eisteddfod at Wrexham, by Mr. Parry, to the Welsh air of "Meillionen."-ED.

VOL. II.

N