And sounds in every rushing blast

Of a conqueror's march were telling.

But his eagle's royal pinion,

Bowing earth beneath its glory, Could not shadow with dominion

Our wild seas and mountains hoary! Back from their cloudy realm it flies, To float in light through softer skies; Oh! chainless winds of Heaven arise! Bear a vanquish'd world the story!

Lords of earth! to Rome returning,
Tell, how Britain combat wages,
HOW CASWALLON's soul is burning
When the storm of battle rages!
And ye that shrine high deeds in song,
Oh holy and immortal throng!
The brightness of his name prolong,

As a torch to stream through ages!

HOWEL'S SONG.

HOWEL AB EINION LLYGLIW was a distinguished bard of the 14th century. A beautiful poem, addressed by him to Myfanwy Vychan, a celebrated beauty of those times, is still preserved amongst the remains of the Welsh bards. The ruins of Myfanwy's residence, Castle Dinas Brân, may yet be traced on a high hill near Llangollen.

PRESS on, my steed! I hear the swell *

Of Valle Crucis' vesper-bell,

Sweet floating from the holy dell

O'er woods and waters round.

"I have rode hard, mounted on a fine high-bred steed, upon thy account, O thou with the countenance of cherry-flower bloom. The speed was with eagerness, and the strong longham'd steed of Alban reached the summit of the highland of Brân."

Perchance the maid I love, e'en now,
From Dinas Brân's majestic brow,
Looks o'er the fairy world below,
And listens to the sound!

I feel her presence on the scene!
The summer-air is more serene,

The deep woods wave in richer green,
The wave more gently flows!

Oh! fair as Ocean's curling foam! *

Lo! with the balmy hour I come,

The hour that brings the wanderer home,
The weary to repose!

Haste! on each mountain's darkening crest,
The glow hath died, the shadows rest,

My loving heart sinks with grief without thy support, O thou that hast the whiteness of the curling waves!

I know that this pain will avail me nothing towards obtaining thy love, O thou whose countenance is bright as the flowers of the hawthorn!"-HowEL'S Ode to Myfanwy.

The twilight-star, on Deva's breast,

Gleams tremulously bright;

Speed for Myfanwy's bower on high !

Though scorn may wound me from her eye,

Oh! better by the sun to die,

Than live in rayless night!

THE MOUNTAIN-FIRES.

THE Custom retained in Wales of lighting fires (Coelcerthi) on November eve, is said to be a traditional memorial of the massacre of the British chiefs by Hengist, on Salisbury Plain. The practice is, however, of older date, and had reference originally to the Alban Elved, or new year.-See the CambroBriton.

When these fires are kindled on the mountains, and seen through the darkness of a stormy night, casting a red and fitful glare over heath and rock, their effect is strikingly picturesque.

LIGHT the hills! till Heaven is glowing

As with some red meteor's rays! Winds of night, though rudely blowing,

Shall but fan the beacon-blaze.