ed:
Say, do thy waters mourning flow
Beside the mighty dead?

The river spake through the stilly hour,
In a voice like the deep wood's evening sigh:
"I am wand'ring on, 'mid shine and shower,
But that grave I pass not by."

I bade the winds their swift course hold,
As they swept in their strength the mountain's bre'st:
Ye have waved the dragon banner's fold,
Where does its chieftain rest?

There came from the winds a murmured note,
"Not ours that mystery of the world;
But the dragon banner yet shall float
On the mountain breeze unfurl'd."

Answer me then, thou ocean deep,
Insatiate gulf of things gone by,
In thy green halls does the hero sleep?
And the wild waves made reply:

"He sleeps not in our sounding cells,
Our coral beds with jewels pearl'd;
Not in our treasure depths it dwells,
That mystery of the world.

"Long must the island monarch roam,
The noble heart and the mighty hand;
But we shall bear him proudly home
To his father's mountain land."

THE VENGEANCE OF OWAIN. {96}

[Owain Gwynedd, the subject of the following poem was the eldest son of
Gruffydd ab Cynan, Prince of Gwynedd, or North Wales, and he succeeded
his father on his death in 1137. Father and son were illustrious
warriors and patriotic rulers. They were also celebrated for their
munificent protection of the Welsh Bards. The Saxons had established
themselves at the castle of Wyddgrug, now Mold, and thence committed
great ravages on the Welsh in that vicinity. Owain collected his forces,
and by a sudden and fierce attack he conquered the Saxons in their
stronghold, and afterwards razed it with the ground in 1144. This
celebrated Prince died in 1162, and was buried at Bangor, where a
monument to his memory still remains.]

"It may be bowed
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb
That weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom,
Heaven gives its favourites--early death."

CHILDE HAROLD.

"Oh Gwynedd, fast thy star declineth,
Thy name is gone, thy rights invaded,
And hopelessly the strong oak pineth,
Where the tall sapling faded;
The mountain eagle idly cowers
Beside his slaughtered young,
Our sons must bow to other powers,
Must learn a stranger tongue.
Pride, valour, freedom, treasures that have been,
Do they all slumber in the grave of Rhun?"

Thus sad and low