The secret postern aisle;
But though, alas! that fatal pass
He rashly did reveal,
He ne'er betray'd his maniac maid,--
My gallant Walter Sele!

PART III. THE PATRIOTIC.

MY FATHER-LAND.

Land of the Cymry! thou art still,
In rock and valley, stream and hill,
As wild and grand;
As thou hast been in days of yore,
As thou hast ever been before,
As thou shalt be for evermore,
My Father-land!

Where are the bards, like thine, who've sung
The warrior's praise? the harp hath strung,
With mighty hand?
Made chords of magic sound arise,
That flung their echoes through the skies,
And gained the fame that never dies,
My Father-land?

And where are warriors like thine own,
Who in the battle's front have shown
So firm a stand?
Who fought against the Romans' skill,
"The conquerors of the world," until
They found thou wert "invincible,"
My Father-land?

And where are hills like thine, or where
Are vales so sweet, or scenes so fair,
Such praise command?
There towering Snowdon, first in height,
Or Cader Idris, dreary sight,
And lonely Clwyd? Oh! how bright,
My Father-land!

Oh! how I love thee, though I mourn
That cold neglect should on thee turn,
Thy name to brand;
And oft the scalding tear will start
Raining its dew-drops from the heart,
To think how far we are apart,
My Father-land.

And when my days are almost done,
And, faltering on, I've nearly run
Life's dreary sand;
Still, still my fainting breath shall be
Bestowed upon thy memory,
My soul shall wing its way to thee,
My Father-land!

MY NATIVE LAND.

BY THE REV. D. EVANS, B.D.

TRANSLATED BY MISS LYDIA JONES.

My soul is sad, my spirit fails,
And sickness in my heart prevails,
Whilst chill'd with grief, it mourns and wails
For my old Native Land.

Gold and wine have power to please,
And Summer's pure and gentle breeze,--
But ye are dearer far than these,
Hills of my Native Land.

Lovely to see the sun arise,
Breaking forth from eastern skies;
But oh! far lovelier in my eyes
Would be my Native Land.

As pants the hart for valley dew,
As bleats the lambkin for the ewe,
Thus I lament and long to view
My ancient Native Land.

What, what are delicacies, say,
And large possessions, what are they?
What the wide world and all its sway
Out of my Native Land?

O should I king of India be,
Might Europe to me bend the knee,
Such honours should be nought to me