Bid them haste with those strains of the lofty and free, Which shall float down the waves of long ages to be. Sheath the sword which hath given them unperish

ing themes,

And pour the bright mead, let the wine-cup foam high,

That those may rejoice who have fear'd not to die!

THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA.

WHEN the last flush of eve is dying

On boundless lakes, afar that shine;

When winds amidst the palms are sighing,

And fragrance breathes from every pine:

*

When stars through cypress boughs are gleaming, And fire-flies wander bright and free,

Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming,

My thoughts, wild Cambria ! dwell with thee!

Alone o'er green savannahs roving,

When some broad stream in silence flows,

Or through th' eternal forests moving,

One only home my spirit knows!

*The aromatic odour of the pine has frequently been mentioned by travellers.

Sweet land, whence memory ne'er hath parted!
To thee on sleep's light wing I fly;
But happier, could the weary-hearted,
Look on his own blue hills, and die!

THE MONARCHY OF BRITAIN.

THE Bard of the Palace, under the ancient Welsh Princes, always accompanied the army when it marched into an enemy's country, and while it was preparing for battle, or dividing the spoils, he performed an ancient song, called Unbennaeth Prydain, the monarchy of Britain. It has been conjectured that this poem referred to the tradition of the Welsh, that the whole Island had once been possessed by their ancestors, who were driven into a corner of it by their Saxon invaders. When the prince had received his share of the spoils, the bard, for the performance of this song, was rewarded with the most valuable beast that remained.-See JONES's Historical Account of the Welsh Bards.

SONS of the Fair Isle !* forget not the time,

Ere spoilers had breath'd the free winds of your clime!

* Ynys Prydain, the ancient name of Britain, signifies the Fair, or Beautiful Island.

All that its eagles behold in their flight,

Was yours from the deep to each storm-mantled height!

Tho' from your race that proud birth-right be torn, Unquench'd is the spirit for monarchy born.

Darkly though clouds may hang o'er us awhile, The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle !

Ages may roll ere your children regain,

The land for which heroes have perish'd in vain.
Yet in the sound of your name shall be power,
Around her still gathering, till glory's full hour.
Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep,
Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep!
Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile,

Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle !