hout sigh, or tear or pains;
After anguish and privation,
Here at last his troubles cease,
Quiet refuge from oppression
Is the Poor Man's Grave of peace.

The tombstone rude with two initials,
Carved upon its smoother side,
By a helpmate of his trials,
Is now split and sunder'd wide;
And when comes the Easter Sunday,
There is neither friend nor kin
To bestow green leaves or nosegay
On the Poor Man's Grave within.

Nor doth the muse above his ashes
Sing a dirge or mourn his end,
And ere long time's wasting gashes
Will the mound in furrows rend:
Level with the earth all traces,
Hide him in oblivion deep;
Yet, for this, God's angel watches,
O'er the Poor Man's Grave doth weep.

THE BARD'S LONG-TRIED AFFECTION FOR MORFYDD.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

All my lifetime I have been
Bard to Morfydd, "golden mien!"
I have loved beyond belief,
Many a day to love and grief
For her sake have been a prey,
Who has on the moon's array!
Pledged my truth from youth will now
To the girl of glossy brow.
Oh, the light her features wear,
Like the tortured torrent's glare!
Oft by love bewildered quite,
Have my aching feet all night
Stag-like tracked the forest shade
For the foam-complexioned maid,
Whom with passion firm and gay
I adored 'mid leaves of May!
'Mid a thousand I could tell
One elastic footstep well!
I could speak to one sweet maid--
(Graceful figure!)--by her shade.
I could recognize till death,
One sweet maiden by her breath!
From the nightingale could learn
Where she tarries to discern;
There his noblest music swells
Through the portals of the dells!

When I am from her away,
I have neither laugh nor lay!
Neither soul nor sense is left,
I am half of mind bereft;
When she comes, with grief I part,
And am altogether heart!
Songs inspired, like flowing wine,
Rush into this mind of mine;
Sense enough again comes back
To direct me in my track!
Not one hour shall I be gay,
Whilst my Morfydd is away!

THE GROVE OF BROOM.

BY DAFYDD AP GWILYM.

The girl of nobler loveliness
Than countess decked in golden dress,
No longer dares to give her plight
To meet the bard at dawn or night!
To the blythe moon he may not bear
The maid, whose cheeks the daylight wear--
She fears to answer to his call
At midnight, underneath yon wall--
Nor can he find a birchen bower
To screen her in the morning hour;
And thus the summer days are fleeting
Away, without the lovers me