Oh, home of our fathers! the noble and brave
Can never lie down in the lair of the slave;
And thou art defiled by a barbarous horde
Who know not a will save the will of their lord ;
Who rise at his bidding the lands to oppress,
Who come at his calling the bless'd to unbless
Who, howling and wild from their deserts afar,
Bring famine and pestilence unto the war-
Gaunt famine subduing the soul and the breath,
Wan pestilence bending our heroes to death!
Who dar'd and endur'd, without murmur or sigh,
Though nations stood silent and motionless by!
Lost home of our fathers! we bid thee adieu-
To freedom and glory our hearts being true;
Nor yet we abandon the land we adore-
A battle is lost, but the war is not o'er.
When myriads surround and approach to devour,
Our combat we hurl from the fortress and tower;
And there from a thousand loud cannons we cry,
"Come die at the feet of the free, come and die!
Come on with your phalanx, wild horseman and spear,
The sons of Sarmatia are rallying here;
Your parley we scorn, and your wrath we defy,
Come die with the free and the brave, come and die!"
THE POET'S CONSOLEMENT OF HIS WIFE IN ADVERSITY.
Now to the wilderness away!
Belovéd, come with me;
Since base lord hath ta'en our home,
And we are bare and free:
For I have found a little nest
To shelter thee and me;
Love, I have found a place of rest,
And let us thither flee.
What, though our bed be not of down-
Though moss and fern it be,
Shorn by the steep of Tandle side,
Where the wind blows sweet and free;
The rest of peace, and healthful sleep,
Shall comfort thee and me:
Then stay not love, to gaze and weep,
But come and happy be.
What, though our pillow be not down-
Though heather flowers it be,
Shorn by the steep of Gerrard's side,
Where the rill glents bonnilie;
Thy dreams by night shall be as bright
As good wife dame doth see :
Love, take thy rest upon my breast,
Which beats so true for thee.
I'll bring thee sweet milk from the cow,
And butter from the churn,
And fuel from the dingle shaw,
And water from the burn;
And thou shalt be so happy there,
Thou never wilt return :
Love, thou shalt be so happy there,
Thou wilt forget to mourn.
We've seen the world, we've known the world,
Its frown, its promise fair
Its vanities of vanity,
Its pleasure and its care;
The strife for life, the death-woe rife,
The hope against despair,
The loss, the gain; oh! why remain ?
Our lost one is not there!
Then come, my wife, my only love,
Bright hours are yet unflown;
Come home unto the solitudes,
Afar from tower and town.
Like birds we have been wandering,
Where storms have rudely blown ;
Now let us rest our weary wing,
Before the sun goes down.
TUNE. "Y' Cadless;" "The Camp of the Palace;" or, "Of what a Noble Race was Shenkin!"
AWAKE the voice of Arfon's praise-
Penarfon, son of ancient days!
Descending from the depth of Time,
Behold Penarfon's race sublime!
Proclaim their deeds;-they come ! they come !
In glory o'er the clouded tomb ;
For though in death their ashes lie,
The fame of heroes cannot die.
Awake the voice of Arfon's praise,
And give his fame to other days!
When strangers came our land to spoil,
Penarfon, where was he the while?
Oh! where was he ?-where should he be ?
Amid his dying foes was he!
Penarfon's scythe the field did sweep,
Penarfon's sword the ground did keep.
Awake the voice of Arfon's praise,
And let his wisdom have our lays !
When the rude spoilers he had spoil'd,
Penarfon as a dove was mild;
And where he dwelt was safety felt,
And even justice forth he dealt.
Shall happy days like Arfon's reign,
To Cymru e'er return again?
Awake the voice of Arfou's praise,
And let his bounty have our lays!
To feast within his banquet hall,
His bards and warriors he would call;
And there they drank the honey wine,
And there was sung the lay divine.
AUTUMN blithe is come again,
With her brown and merry train ;
I caught a sweet glance of her face---
With a sickle in her hand,
She came o'er the gowden land,
And reapers came shearing apace.
Low they bend as they step, And they hook and they grip, Cut and carry with hook and with hand;
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